Chapter 13

Thorne pacedacross the carpet in the Stroken House study. His study.

His study, where he’d worked for the last six months, trying to simultaneously understand his new responsibilities and figure out how in the everloving fook he was supposed to free himself and his friends from the threat of Blackrose.

Was it any wonder he felt like a failure?

Blackrose was still roaming free.

Thorne was still floundering under the weight of the dukedom.

And the one thing he thought he’d done right—propose marriage to a woman he loved—had failed as well.

Unconsciously, he glanced toward the cold hearth, where Kit stood with her violin tucked beneath her chin, eyes focused on one of his pieces of sheet music. Thorne slowed, hands curling into fists at his side.

He’d given her that piece of himself—so many pieces of himself. And she’d taken it, taken them, into herself and returned them a hundred times better. He’d always loved reading the neat little notes, hearing the music in his mind…but listening to her play it was far, far better.

Her notes wrapped around him, putting his mind at rest, making everything smooth again.

With her, he wasn’t a failure. When Kit played, he was able to understand the business of the dukedom, able to focus on what needed to be done. And she made it easier, not just through her music.

Having her at his side, encouraging him, telling him he could do it, and could lean on her…well, shite. It just made everything easier.

If that wasn’t what a marriage was supposed to be—a partnership—then he wasn’t sure he wanted one.

Ye’re supposed to be focusing on Bull’s plan. The lad will be here soon and ye still dinnae ken what to tell him.

Scowling, Thorne shoved his hands into his pockets and resumed his pacing.

“It’s a terrible idea,” he muttered, then sighed. “Nay, actually, it’s no’ a bad idea, no’ really. It’s just a terrible idea because ye dinnae want Bull in danger.”

Arguing with himself was easier when he did it out loud, honestly, and he’d always been careful to do it under his breath so no one could accuse him of being mad.

“Bull’s the only one who can do it. Blackrose kens yer face.”

Och, aye, but that was a shite reason to put the lad in danger.

“We can hire someone.”

Someone whom he trusted as much as he trusted Bull?

“Fook,” he muttered, stopping before one of the windows that looked out over the gardens. “Fook. If Blackrose suspects the lad…”

Why would he? Bull looked nothing like his stepfather, or even his brother, Rourke. His relationship to the Duke of Exingham wasn’t well-known.

“Perhaps if with a good enough disguise it would work.”

If there was anyone who knew how clothing could change a man’s appearance, it was Bull. And the lad was brilliant when it came to acquiring things, although best not to ask how or where.

Nay. Ye ken someone even better, when it comes to disguises.

Thorne’s gaze dragged back to Kit.

Christ, but she was beautiful when she played, was she not?

Kit’s pale eyes were half-closed, booted feet firmly planted, and she swayed in time with the music. How had he never noticed how thoroughly feminine those hips were? How had he ever thought her a man?

Och, ye noticed her arse back then.

His lips twitched. True.

But now he was so intimately familiar with her body. He knew the way she hummed with pleasure when he licked her wet cunny, knew the spot on her neck which made her squirm. Knew the way she liked her nipples rolled, knew the way she was ticklish behind her knees.

Twice now she’d punched him, laughing, in response to his tickling, and God help him, he loved that about her too. Loved that she wasn’t a lady, wasn’t a debutante, wasn’t trying to be the perfect duchess.

Kit Pastorino was just completely, unapologetically herself.

And she was perfect.

Perfect. She’d turned him down perfectly, as well.

That had hurt, the realization that not only had she rejected his offer of marriage, but she’d been right. And she’d done it in the most beautiful way, saying words he’d only learned to cherish later.

You’re a special person, and deserve all the best things in life.

She’d said those words because she didn’t believe she was the right person for him.

She was the right person for him…just not for the dukedom. That’s what had been so galling to realize, late that night while holding her. Kit Pastorino was the perfect companion for Thorne Cumming…but she’d never be accepted as the Duchess of Stroken.

As the Duke of Stroken, he needed an heir, eventually. But Society would never accept the bastard daughter of an opera singer as his duchess. Did it matter? Society didn’t accept Demon and Georgia as the Duke and Duchess of Lickwick.

Aye, but they’re sympathetic at least. They ken Demon shuns them because of his scars, and Georgia was disowned by her own father.

Society wouldn’t be sympathetic to Kit, not once it became known she’d lived as a man and as Thorne’s valet—his lover. Hell, she’d have to be a princess for Society to forgive that!

Shaking his head, Thorne turned back to the window, although he wasn’t really seeing the view, and braced one hand on the frame.

Society will think ye’re just using her.

Well? Isn’t that what he was doing?

He was using Kit because she made him feel good—not just his body, but his heart. She was the person he wanted to wake up holding for the rest of his life. She was the person he wanted at his side, helping him focus, rubbing his shoulders, telling him he was worth the best things in the world.

She was the person whose love he wanted most.

Ye sound like a child. Me me me. I want I need give me give me. Not a thought to what she wants.

Groaning, Thorne dropped his forehead to his forearm, braced against the window. Fook. He’d been so selfish in asking Kit to marry him, and her response had shown that.

She’d only come to London to find out more about her father, and Thorne had forced her to turn all of her attention to him. He’d offered to help her observe her father, and hadn’t done shite in furthering her goal.

Damnation.

Behind him, the concerto reached its crescendo, and Thorne forced himself to inhale deeply.

She’s made her feelings clear. She doesnae want to be married to ye. Think about what she wants for a change, ye dumb shite.

Aye.

Aye, he could do this.

If Kit viewed this—this—whatever this was between them as only a bit of fun, then Thorne could as well.

He chuckled dryly.

How often had he been the one to gently explain to a lover that he had no interest in taking things further than a bit of bedsport? He’d always broken off the affair after that, so he supposed he should be grateful Kit still took joy in his company, aye?

Ye can do this.

Aye, he could. He would. The alternative would be losing her, and he would not lose her.

With another deep breath, Thorne pushed himself upright and headed for the drinks cart. Focus on the problem at hand. How to trap Blackrose without putting Bull in harm’s way?

Right. Focus.

“He doesnae have to go alone,” Thorne muttered, pouring himself a small measure of whisky. “The lad would have backup. Nay, we’d be recognized.” He scowled at the liquid. “Then outside the house. Bull could let us in. Danielle and Georgia can give us floorplans. If Blackrose hasnae rearranged, they can tell us where the safe is likely to be.”

He glanced over at Kit, who was now holding his gaze, a small smile on her lips. She was no longer following the sheet music, and he didn’t recognize the melody.

Without prompting, his feet moved him toward her, and it wasn’t until he stepped off the rug that he realized he was ready to taste her again. Focus. Grimacing at his own self-centeredness, Thorne threw himself into one of the two armchairs bracketing the hearth and her playing area.

“Fook,” he muttered yet again, this time not sure exactly why.

A noise at the door pulled his chin off his chest, and he frowned when he saw Bull slip into the study. The lad turned to softly close the door and press his cheek to the crack.

“What are ye doing?” barked Thorne, gratified to see Bull startle.

The lad looked toward the desk, and when he realized Thorne wasn’t there, scanned the room. His brows softened into his typical smirk when he jerked his head toward the hall. “Practicing my ninja-sneaking.”

“Ninja-sneaking,” Thorne repeated in a deadpan tone.

“Spy creeping? Cat burglarying? Nay, that’s not the word.” Bull pursed his lips in thought. “Burglularing? Cat barglaring?”

“Cat burgling,” Kit offered, without pausing in her soft playing.

Bull nodded in satisfaction. “Aye, that’s it. I was tired of Titsworth’s snooty attitude—”

“Your Grace!” The door swung open, smacking Bull in the back, causing him to stumble forward as a stone-faced Titsworth stepped through. “Danger! Danger! We appear to have an intruder. A miscreant has made it into my domain!”

“Egads!” Bull blurted, glancing about theatrically as if looking for the interloper. “Fetch the constatablary. The constabulary? Damnation, English is hard.”

Kit snorted.

Thorne fought a smile. “Dinnae worry the law, Titsworth, let us skip straight to the mob.”

“Verra good, Your Grace,” the not-yet-middle-aged man intoned, managing to stand even straighter. “Standard pitchforks and torches, yelling anarchist slogans? I have them waiting without.”

“Without what?” Bull quipped.

“Without their torches, I hope,” Thorne shot right back. “We only just got the curtains hung the way I like.”

“Curtains are hanged sir,” Titsworth informed him blandly.

Bull nodded graciously to the butler. “I’m hung, curtains are hanged.”

This time Kit’s snort was more of a snicker.

Thorne cleared his throat, deciding he didn’t need to hear anything else about Bull’s cock. “Och, I’ve changed my mind, Titsworth. I’ll deal with the little shite, disband the mob.”

Did the butler look almost disappointed? “Very well, Your Grace. But I’ll have to give them severance.”

He didn’t really have a mob standing by to tear intruders limb from limb, did he? Thorne shifted in the chair and cleared his throat. “Verra good. Then go have a sit-down, aye? It isnae good for a man of yer age to be running hither and yon after rabble like this arsehole.”

Bull beamed at the insult, and Titsworth…well, his eyes lit up when Thorne called him a man of yer age, and inclined his head a fraction of an inch.

“My sciatica has been acting up, Your Grace.”

“Ye’re a credit to yer profession, Titsworth, soldiering through the difficulties,” Thorne intoned seriously as the man bowed and fake-hobbled out of the room. “Remind me to grant ye one extra half-farthing and a pudding at Yuletide to show my appreciation.”

As the door closed behind him, Kit’s fingers skipped across the strings in a little combination that managed to sound like laughter, and Bull swaggered across the room.

“Perhaps my ninjaing needs some improvement.” He threw himself into the chair opposite Thorne, a gold coin appearing in one hand, rolling across his knuckles. “What are we doing?”

“Mulling,” barked Thorne with a scowl.

“Mulling?” Bull repeated.

Kit surprised them both by pulling the violin away from her chin and answering for Thorne while still playing softly. “It’s a good plan, laddie, and you’re the only one who can pull it off, but he hates the thought of you in danger, and wonders if a really really good disguise might be enough to keep you safe from Blackrose.”

Bull nodded right along, as if it was normal to include a violin-playing valet in planning sessions. “And what are ye doing, Kit my lad?”

“Eavesdropping, you little shite,” she shot right back with a cheeky grin. “You’d know that if you were a better spy-ninja-cat-burglar.”

Bull burst into laughter and even Thorne felt his shoulders relax. He finally allowed himself to sip from the whisky he’d poured.

Kit might not be a princess, but her American half meant she didn’t bow to anyone.

A traitorous little voice in his mind whispered A good quality in a duchess.

Nay. She’d made her preference known. He owed her the respect of listening. If Kit didn’t want to marry him, he wouldn’t push her.

“Speaking of disguises, eh?” Bull quipped, inclining his head toward Kit as he shot a teasing glance Thorne’s way. “Finally got yer head out of yer arse?”

“What?” Thorne exploded, thrusting himself upright. “Ye saw through her— Ye kenned—?”

As Bull chuckled, Kit finally finished her piece and lowered her bow. “I’m not sure if I should be flattered or concerned.”

The lad winked cheekily as he tossed the coin into the air and caught it. “I keep telling Thorne, I ken clothing, and how it fits.” He held out his empty palm invitingly. “Now, since I was rude enough to take the last chair, ye’ll have to sit with me.”

“The hell she will,” Thorne snapped, reaching for her hand.

Kit smiled and squeezed his hand, but pulled away so she could step over to her violin case. “I suppose if you needed someone who’s good at disguises, Thorne, you found him.”

“I ken,” he grumbled, sinking back into the chair. “That’s what I’m afraid of.”

She closed the lid on the case, then stepped back to Thorne’s side. He tried not to preen as she nudged his knee out of the way and settled into his lap—he hadn’t really thought Bull’s flirting was honest—but he still smiled and wrapped his free hand around her waist.

As he balanced the half-dram on her knee, Kit threw her arm around his shoulders in a thoroughly intimate, completely improper, totally unduchessy way.

Bull beamed. “I’m happy for ye two.”

Thorne fought the pleased flush rising up his throat as Kit dragged her fingernails down the back of his neck.

“I’m quite pleased as well,” Kit offered with a small grin, reminding Thorne that aye, this casualness was all she wanted. All she would take from him. “Now, since I didn’t interrupt your mulling earlier, why not explain what the hell you were muttering about?”

Thorne nodded. “Bull has come up with a scheme to get us into Blackrose’s house. The man is, understandably, obsessed with security since his return to Britain. His guests are carefully screened, and we cannae gain access to his house through his servants.”

“You talked about floorplans and a safe?” she prompted.

“In order to set the trap via the code in the newspaper, we need information Blackrose kens only his brother had. We think if there’s going to be any private information or correspondence between Blackrose and his brother, and if the bastard hadn’t destroyed it, then it’d be in his safe, which presumably is still in his study.”

“Danielle would be able to confirm that,” Bull offered, frowning thoughtfully at the coin. “Perhaps Georgia.”

Thorne’s chin dropped. “Aye. And once someone is in the study, they could open the window and let me in.”

Kit’s fingers paused. “You don’t think you can be the one in his house, because he’ll recognize you?”

“Exactly. The same goes for any of us who were his agents.”

“But no’ me,” quipped Bull in excitement. “He doesnae ken me.”

Kit hummed. “And you hate that, don’t you?” she asked Thorne softly, stroking his scalp again. “You don’t want to trust anyone else with the mission, and you don’t want to put Bull in harm’s way.”

“I willnae be in harm’s way,” the lad snorted, but Thorne held Kit’s gaze. She could see the truth.

It was uncanny how well she could read him.

She accepted his agreement without him having to actually give it, and nodded as she turned back to Bull. “So how did you propose to get into Blackrose’s lair without him being suspicious? I assume you can’t just knock on the door and push your way in?”

Thorne snorted softly. “This isn’t America.”

“I’ve been practicing ninja—”

“And you’re shite at it,” Kit interrupted with a cheeky smile.

Bull chuckled, looking more thrilled than offended. “I like ye, Kit.”

“I’m flattered, of course.”

Thorne rolled his eyes. “Blackrose is holding a ball this week. He’s never held one, but Society demands it now he is betrothed.”

Bull sat forward in excitement, the gold coin flipping over his knuckles now. “Aye. The guest list is extensive, and he’ll only ken half the people there, if that. Ye cannae get invitations for the cost of a gold nugget the size of my ballocks, but I managed to get my hands on a pair.”

Thorne blinked, working his way through that sentence. “Of gold nuggets?”

Kit tugged his hair. “Of ballocks, darling, pay attention.”

Bull burst into laughter again. “Of invitations, ye degenerates!”

Shaking his head, Thorne sighed. “I’m no’ going to ask ye how ye managed that. Deniability, ye ken, when yer father shows up.”

Bull straightened. “Griffin’s supposed to be here the day after the ball, did Flick tell ye? And Rourke has promised to arrive next week when we’re ready to set the trap.”

Having Bull’s stepfather and older brother on hand meant Thorne could cease mothering the lad. “Thank Christ.”

Kit was still considering the plan. “Why would Blackrose have to host a ball and only know half the people attending?”

Thorne hummed, distracted. “What? Och, he’s betrothed now. Lady Emma is the daughter of the Earl of Stallings, and her mother has insisted on extravagance. I’ll wager the lass has issued invitations to anyone she’s ever met.”

Kit had stiffened at his announcement, her fingers curling tightly through his hair.

Bull tossed the coin from one hand to the other in excitement. “Aye, and I managed to buy a pair off—”

“Dinnae tell me!” Thorne interrupted, holding up his whisky as a shield to fend off the explanation. He didn’t want to know. “It’s bad enough kenning ye’ve got them. I assume ye want to use them to sneak into the bastard’s house?”

“No’ sneak!” Bull announced. “We waltz in the front door, and if we meet Blackrose, we tell him we’re guests of his betrothed. If we meet her or her family, we claim we’re his guests.”

Sighing, Thorne placed the whisky glass on the table at his elbow, and tried not to list all of the reasons this was a terrible idea.

Because the absolute fook of it was…it could work.

It was a terrible idea, and it just might work.

Christ.

Bull was right. The house would be full of people Blackrose wouldn’t know. Thorne pinched the bridge of his nose, and Kit’s fingers slowly resumed their caress. “And when ye say we?”

“Well, I’ll need an escort, aye?”

Thorne opened his eyes to glare at the cheeky little bastard across the way. “An escort?” he repeated flatly.

“Ye wanted me in disguise, aye? And I have two tickets.”

“Bull,” growled Thorne, but the lad tossed the coin into the air to interrupt him.

“Blackrose will never ken it’s me, I swear. We get someone to act as my escort—I can find someone to hire, if ye dinnae want to.” The faster he spoke, the faster the coin moved. “We get in, we make our curtseys, and we go find the study. Once we’re in, I unlock the window and let ye come in and do yer cat buggering thing.”

“Burglary,” muttered Thorne in correction. Then, louder, “curtseys?”

“Ye ken I can pick locks,” Bull hurried to explain. “So even if Blackrose has his study locked down, that willnae be a concern. In fact, if it is locked, that’s even better, since nae one will suspect we’re in there. We pop in, lock the door behind us, drag you through the window—we’ll get the floorplans for that—and I’ll no’ even stand over yer shoulder while ye decided what to take from the safe.”

Well, shite. Thorne sighed. It was a good plan, a decent one. He just didn’t want to admit it.

“Ye cannae go alone,” he finally growled.

“Nay, of course no’.” The coin disappeared as Bull mimed holding a fan in front of his face and blinking in what he likely thought was a come-hithery look. “Ye no’ listening? I’ll need an escort.”

Thorne was beginning to have a sinking suspicion what the lad had meant by curtsey and disguise. “And no’ just anyone.”

On his lap, Kit suddenly took a deep breath. “I’ll do it.”

Thorne’s denial was immediate. “Absolutely no’.”

Bull, on the other hand, was eyeing her speculatively. “That…aye, that would work.”

“Nay,” Thorne bit out, closing his hand around her knee. “I’ll no’ have ye put in danger. It’s bad enough Bull’s going, but I cannae allow—”

Kit straightened, her pale eyes narrowing. “You’re my employer, Your Grace, not my father or my husband.”

Thorne winced at her icy tone. Husband. “Kit, be reasonable. Ye think ye ken what this bastard is capable of, but I havenae told ye everything. Bull might be a smarmy little shite—”

“Thank ye!” said little shite quipped.

“—but he kens how to handle himself in a fight.”

Kit slid her arm from around his shoulders, pulling herself apart from Thorne, and he hated it. “There won’t be a fight. We’re just there to sneak into the study, right? Then we let you in to do the actual investigating. You just need us to let you in.”

“Right,” agreed Bull. “We dinnae even have to meet Blackrose.”

“No,” she disagreed grimly, her mouth set stubbornly. “I believe we need to.”

Bull shrugged. “Well, our disguises will be good enough.” He nodded to her be-trousered legs, still thrown across Thorne’s lap. “I will, of course, be dressing ye. Kit Pastorino, ye shall go to the ball!” He waved his hand as if he held a magic wand. “Bibbity-bobbity—”

“What are ye going on about?” Thorne interrupted.

Bull shrugged and smiled at Kit. “I’m just saying ye cannae go to a ball in broadcloth. Ye’ll look smashing in teal silk.”

“Something subdued,” Kit cautioned him. “Not brown, but something quieter. We can’t be memorable. I just want to meet the man without him knowing me.”

As Bull pretended to pout, Thorne cleared his throat. “Are the two of ye going to pay any attention to me? Or should I just list the reasons this cannae happen—”

“You can list them,” Kit interrupted, turning pale eyes glittering with determination his way. “But I’m going to ignore them. I’m attending that ball as Bull’s escort, and if you don’t want to meet us—”

“Fook, Kit, that’s no’ the issue.” His hold on her tightened unconsciously before he forced himself to exhale and not push her. Ye’re trying to be less self-centered, ye dobber, remember? He tried again. “The thought of ye in danger…”

“I’m not going to be in danger. We’re just going to observe the man.”

It was the way she said observe. That determined, angry way.

Thorne stilled, focusing on what she meant. “And why does it have to be ye, love?” he asked quietly.

Kit swallowed, no longer meeting his eyes, and leaned forward. She snagged the whisky from the table and downed it in one gulp.

The heat of the alcohol caused her to gasp, and tears came to her eyes as she held the glass in one hand and stared down at it.

“Because, don’t you know? I came to London to learn what kind of man my father is.” She lifted her gaze to her violin case, sitting beside the cold hearth. Her tone was equally cold as she confessed, “I never told you his name. He’s William Stoughton, the current Earl of Bonkinbone.”

Across the way, Bull sucked in a breath. “Blackrose.”

And Kit finally turned her gaze to Thorne, her pale eyes tortured. “Blackrose, apparently. My father is Blackrose.”