Chapter 6

Kit’s fingersdanced across the strings as her soul reveled in the playful joy of the notes. Bach was a privilege to play, and she couldn’t help comparing it favorably to the operatic scores with which she was more familiar.

Mother had always encouraged her to choose the music which spoke to her, but when it came to practicality, Kit had spent many hours learning Verdi and Rossini to help her mother rehearse. Tonight she’d be seeing the Adelina Patti, and she couldn’t wait.

If she was honest with herself, her anticipation had very little to do with the opera La Traviata, and everything to do with the man sitting at his desk across his study.

But being able to play Thorne’s favorites, the music he’d lent to her… Unbidden, Kit’s gaze darted to him and back to the score on the stand in front of her before she could lose her place.

He’d been smiling.

He’d been smiling, watching her.

A lazy sort of smile, the kind which said he was enjoying the view, and saw no reason to go back to the stack of correspondence or ledgers or whatever that was in front of him on the desk.

Perhaps your playing is distracting him.

But that smile!

When Thorne—because it was impossible to think of him as The Duke of Stroken after that carriage kiss—smiled, he had a dimple on one cheek that made him absolutely, positively scrumptious.

Another darted glance; he hadn’t moved.

He seemed content to just sit and listen, his gaze slightly unfocused. Well, if that was him being moved by the music, she was delighted to see him enjoying it.

Something had changed between them, it was impossible to deny.

Yesterday afternoon, she’d kissed him. And he’d kissed her right back.

It had been the single most remarkable kiss in her life, and it had been over far too soon, ended by a man who’d looked horrified. Because he thought her a man? Or because he thought her too young?

Or because he wanted someone else?

She’d kissed him, then followed him into his ducal residence, trying to pretend her whole world hadn’t changed as she had prepared him for the ball that evening.

Thorne had done a remarkable job of pretending he hadn’t been affected by that kiss. Or perhaps he really hadn’t been affected at all.

When he had been ready to depart for the Stallings ball, he hesitated at the door and turned back to her. She’d been stooped to pick up the boots he’d worn, replaced by his formal shoes, and glanced up to see him frowning.

“Thorne?” she’d asked softly, slowly straightening.

Something had changed in his expression. It was as if the worry eased away.

“Ye dinnae have to wait up for me,” he finally said. With his hand on the doorjamb, he turned halfway, then paused. Without looking at her, he said, “But I willnae be too late. I dinnae plan on dancing. No’ tonight.”

It wasn’t until he was gone that Kit had understood what he was saying.

He claimed to love to dance, but he hadn’t danced that night with Lady Emma, or anyone. But tonight…tonight he’d dance with Kit.

The violin concerto came to an end, and she drew out the last note long enough to look up again to catch Thorne’s reaction.

He blinked, shook his head as if coming out of a trance, then sat up straighter in his chair. Another smile curled his lips—this one looked grateful, and he reached for his pen at the same moment there was a knock on the door.

After clearing his throat, he called, “Come in.”

“Your Grace,” intoned Titsworth. “A lewd ruffian has requested—”

“Oh, for fook’s sake,” a nattily attired young man snapped, pushing past the butler. “How many lewd ruffians do ye ken who dress like this? Morning, Thorne.”

If Kit hadn’t been looking at Thorne, she might’ve missed the joy that flickered in his blue eyes at seeing the newcomer, which quickly was overshadowed by irritation. “What are ye doing here, Bull?” he growled.

Titsworth stepped forward, body held rigid but something in his posture suggesting eagerness. “Shall I have him unceremoniously thrown out, Your Grace? It would be an honor—I have several burly footmen standing by, and Pastorino can help.”

Kit pressed her lips together—partly to keep from laughing and partly so she wouldn’t shout I’m busy!—and began to play from memory a soft Paganini piece her mother had always loved.

But Thorne was already shaking his head. “I’m no’ throwing him out.”

“Are ye certain?” Bull asked now, crossing the room in what could only be called a saunter. “I’ve always wondered what it would be like. Although I’d request we did it ceremoniously.”

Thorne nodded to the butler. “Make a note, Titsworth. If we ever have to toss Bull out on his arse, we do it with all the bells and whistles we can find.”

Titsworth bowed regally, a hint of disappointment in his expression. “I shall have the staff begin the search for such accoutrements. Trumpets, too? Perhaps a cannon?”

“Why no’?” Thorne scowled at the young man making himself at home in the leather chair opposite his desk. “Tambourines. Kit can bring the fiddle.”

None of them looked at her, but Bull twisted in his chair to smirk at the butler. “See if ye can find an elephant or two, Titsworth. I expect the very best.”

Rolling his eyes, Thorne waved the butler from the room as he said to the lad, “Ye’re supposed to be keeping an eye on yer family, that was the arrangement.”

“Flick’s brother is in town, she’s hosting him for tea today, and I’d rather wear brown than sit through that.”

The older man snorted at the apparent travesty which was brown. “I wear brown.”

“Nay, ye wear bronze,” the lad corrected. “With all that golden hair, bronze works for ye.” He nodded to Thorne’s waistcoat. “But ye should no’ pair it with such a boring neckcloth. I’ll have a word with yer valet.”

“We cannae all afford to look like colorblind peacocks, Bull.” Ignoring the young man’s outraged gasp, Thorne jerked his chin across the room. “Some of us have reputations. But since ye’re interested, that’s my man, playing for me.”

Bull twisted again in his chair, surprise evident on his face. Surprise that Thorne’s valet was playing violin in his study? Surprise that his valet appeared to be a young man his own age? Or surprise that Kit was paying close attention to their conversation, rather than the sheet music?

“Bull,” Thorne announced, “This is Kit Pastorino. He used to be a footman until I promoted him, and I didnae expect him to ken much about men’s fashion. Kit, this is Bull Lindsay, the lad I was telling ye about. Bull, Kit. Kit, Bull. Christ, ye’re both named after animals.”

As Bull gaped, clearly disconcerted to hear Thorne had been speaking of him to his valet, Kit nodded gracefully.

Without halting the notes, she called, “Nice to meet you, Mister Lindsay. And for the record, Your Grace, I know purple and green are all the fashion in some circles.” Like the theater. “Peacocks are popular.”

Bull’s shock had turned to smugness and he sat back in his chair, turning his back to Kit once more. “There. Clearly yer man kens more than ye do.”

Kit’s fingers stumbled just slightly; she didn’t think anyone noticed. Yer man. The way Bull had said it made her wonder if he’d seen through her disguise…

“So, Thorne, what news of the investigation?” Bull was reaching for a box on the desk.

But Thorne slapped the lid down, and the lad barely had time to pull his hand out. “Ye cannae steal my cigars, lad!”

Bull lifted his other hand, holding a pair of cigars. “I already have.”

Kit’s snort of laughter drew Thorne’s gaze, and his irritation softened.

Before he could respond, however, the door opened again. “Titsworth only just got around to—who the shite is this?” the auburn-haired man blurted as he slammed the door behind him.

“Ah, good morning, Fawkes,” Thorne said, slowly standing. “Ye’re just in time for cigars and updates.”

Bull had also stood, apparently understanding how civility was supposed to work. Idly fingering notes she’d long ago memorized, Kit watched him eye the newcomer warily.

“Why does he get to walk in,” the lad asked, “and I have to wait to be introduced by that sartorially challenged butler of yers?”

The other man was stalking across the room. “I walk in because I’m staying upstairs. I’m his cousin. Who are ye, laddie?”

Kit had been watching Thorne at this announcement, and thus didn’t miss the way the blond man’s expression lit up at the casual way the other man announced himself as Thorne’s cousin.

Not for the first time, she wondered at his lack of family. He appeared to hold dear the few he did have. This duke of hers had a large heart, she was coming to learn, and was quite sentimental, although he did his best to hide it.

But now Thorne had come around from behind his desk and offered the newcomer his hand. “Ye’ve disappeared the last evenings. I thought ye’d visited yer auld haunts.”

“I did,” his cousin growled. “I heard ye hinting about that opera ye wanted to attend, and opted to make myself scarce. Besides, I had to check on some auld…clients.”

Chuckling, Thorne dropped his hand and turned to include the younger man. “I found someone who enjoys music, thank God. Fawkes, this is Bull Lindsay, Peasgoode’s stepson and Exingham’s younger brother.”

“Bastard brother,” Bull corrected cheerfully, offering his hand.

But Thorne grabbed his wrist before Fawkes could shake the lad’s hand, and said over his shoulder to Fawkes, “Dinnae let him near ye if ye value yer wallet, watch, or anything in yer pockets.”

“Thorne, I’m hurt.” With a clearly faux pout, the younger man sank back into his chair. “I dinnae do that sort of thing anymore. To anyone but ye.” With that, he flourished the two cigars he’d light-fingered from Thorne’s stash toward his host’s cousin. “Cigar?”

Thorne snorted. “Bull, this is Fawkes MacMillan, who owns Hangcok Hill near Stroken. His father was my uncle, the old duke.”

“Also a bastard?” Bull exclaimed happily.

“Also the Duke of Death,” Thorne continued, as if he hadn’t been interrupted. “The poisoner who unwillingly did Blackrose’s dirty work for him all those years.”

It was almost comical, the way Bull’s face drained of color at that announcement.

Perhaps Kit made a noise, because Thorne’s gaze darted to her, then to his cousin, who was scowling at him.

Fawkes’s glare was impressive. “Ye’re just announcing it to everyone now?”

“Bull is a nosy little arse who’d find out anyhow.”

“And yer musician?” Fawkes scowled.

“Och, aye.” Thorne waved at her. “Fawkes, this is Kit Pastorino, my valet. Kit, Fawkes. Fawkes, Bull. Bull, Kit; Kit, Bull. Bull, Fawkes, Jesus ye’re all named after animals.”

“A kit is a baby fox,” Bull offered cheekily, clearly recovered. “Ye even look alike, with that auburn hair.”

Shaking his head, Fawkes plopped himself in the opposite chair without looking back at Kit again. “Too pretty. He looks more like Ellie than me. So why’d ye call me?”

“Ye invited him, but no’ me?” Bull pretended outrage, then sniffed haughtily. “Well, I suppose I’ll have to thank myself for my remarkable timing at inviting myself.”

This time, Kit did snort, hiding her laughter. And Bull turned in his seat just far enough to send a wink her way.

Thorne, meanwhile, had leaned his hip against the desk. “Fawkes and Danielle had the idea to use the code in the paper to set a trap for Blackrose.”

This was all too much—was this the danger Thorne had spoken of? Who was Blackrose, and why would Thorne want to trap him?

Bull, who was making a show of pulling out a penknife to prepare the cigar, hummed. “Aye, that’s the plan. But what specifically?”

“We tell Blackrose his brother had an agent, someone who kens the code. Look, Thorne,” Fawkes barked, glaring at the blond man, “can we really trust them?”

Thorne held his gaze. “Aye,” he said quietly. “I trust Bull with my life. Ye can too.”

The auburn-haired man turned in his chair to glare at Kit, who held his gaze, making sure her expression gave nothing away. “And yer valet?”

“I’ve given Kit nae details, but I…I trust him.”

I trust him.

It was humbling, considering she’d known this man for such a short time, and then only as his employee. It was also a good reminder who he thought she was. What he thought she was.

After a long moment, Fawkes sighed and turned back to his cousin. Kit watched him study Thorne’s expression, then sigh and flop back in his chair. “Ye trust him, fine, I trust him. Continue.”

Thorne turned to lean across the desk, scooping up a pile of correspondence, but Kit had seen the relief in his expression at his cousin’s profession of trust.

“So Blackrose’s brother had an agent,” Bull announced, head tipped back, watching a smoke ring drift away. “At least, that’s what we tell him, with the code. The bastard will assume the agent kens everything of their dealings, and will want to stop the man.”

“A trap,” Fawkes growled.

Kit realized she was playing the same four notes over and over again at the same moment Thorne realized it too.

He was frowning when he glanced across the room at her. “Kit, what are ye doing?”

Well, never let it be said she shirked the truth. “Eavesdropping, Your Grace!”

Thorne’s lips twitched at her cheerfulness as the other two twisted to look at her. “And? Do ye have any insight or suggestions?”

The same four notes played again. “No sir. I’m still trying to figure out what the hell is going on.”

Thorne’s laugh caught them all by surprise, judging from the way Fawkes’s brows rose.

“Is there any chance I could convince ye no’ to eavesdrop, Kit?” Thorne asked, grinning as he tapped the stack of envelopes against the desktop beside his hip.

She smiled right back at him, still picking out those same four notes. “No sir. I suspect you’ll have to tell me to—what is it you chaps say? Fook right off.”

This time Bull was the one to laugh, as Thorne’s grin grew.

Fawkes, however, turned in his chair to glare. “Kit?”

“Yes sir?”

“Fook right off.”

Still grinning, Kit made a show of packing away her violin. She didn’t know what Thorne and his friends—his family?—were talking about, but also knew it was none of her business. She’d been hired to make Thorne’s life easier, to take care of him, not understand what exactly it was that caused him stress.

But if this was the business he’d been speaking of that evening he’d had too much to drink and allowed her to guide him to release…well, then this was dangerous. Traps, and agents, and codes. While she was curious, she’d leave him to what he understood…and hope that one day, he’d let her in.

You’re his valet, not his confidante.

Well, he’d confided in her before.

That was about his personal life, not…not whatever this is.

She wasn’t smiling by the time she finished tidying her space, setting the violin case beside the music stand and snapping to attention beside it.

All three of the men were watching her. Waiting. Fawkes was still scowling, Bull was looking incredibly thoughtful, and Thorne… There was something in his expression she didn’t want to study too hard.

It wasn’t exactly tenderness. Yearning, perhaps?

She swallowed, then murmured, “Your Grace.” Her bow was a little stiff.

“Thank ye, Kit,” he said quietly. “Why no’ rest this afternoon? We have a late evening.”

As if she’d be able to rest with a chest full of roiling emotions. But she bowed again, as if she was merely a footman, and he merely her employer.

And not the man she could afford to fall in love with.