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Chapter Three

Even six months after his father's death, Alex could sense the old duke's presence everywhere in Harcastle House.

Though grand with its graceful renaissance symmetry, stone facing, and tall windows overlooking the Thames, the sight of the building lurking on the riverbank, a monster lying in wait, always filled him with anxiety.

He was the Duke of Harcastle now, yet his sire's twisted soul lingered in every room, as though the flesh-and-blood man might shamble in at any moment to abuse and terrify.

Alex found the study particularly oppressive. He couldn't bring himself to sit at the immense ducal desk, which was why he was sitting in an armchair by the fire. As to why he had removed his shoe and sock from his right foot, the reason was more complicated.

On the floor by his chair, he'd placed a slate similar to the one he'd taken to last night's séance. With a small piece of chalk clamped between his first and second toe, he scratched at the surface. He'd been practicing for almost an hour. The scrape of the chalk sounded about right, but he couldn't make the words stop wasting time small enough to fit on a single line, let alone legible. Of course Evangeline Jones had been practicing her arts for years, so he couldn't expect to duplicate her abilities in a single morning.

"Blast!" he muttered, as the chalk slipped from between his toes. He slumped back in his chair, momentarily defeated.

Without his intending it, his gaze wandered to the small side table to his right, where he'd leaned the Sally Harper photograph upright against a vase. Her rouged nipples peeped enticingly, but what really got to him was her eyes and their piercing gaze.

"Don't give me that look, you saucy minx," he said fondly. Though he hadn't entirely forgiven her for last night's dirty work, a few hours' sleep had placed events in their proper perspective and cooled his temper significantly. His love of the chase had reasserted itself, any desire he'd had for vengeance converted into a sharpening of his determination to strip her lies bare. "I'll find you out soon enough, just you wait."

Sally Harper regarded him coolly. Nothing moved her, would ever move her. No doubt the real woman would watch him with the same detachment if she were here. Last night, she'd met his gaze only when necessary, but she hadn't appeared shy or cowed by his social standing. I am too great a professional , her manner said, to permit the presence of a mere duke to affect my composure . Whereas her tricks had kept him awake for hours before he finally achieved those few hours of rest. In fact, he'd lost far too many nights of sleep to Miss Jones, first to her provoking nipples and then to her even more provoking eyes.

"What are you doing?"

Alex jolted upright in his seat at the sound of Jude Ellis's voice. How long had his cousin been standing in the doorway? The man moved like a pickpocket.

"Research," Alex said, and flipped the photograph facedown on the table.

"I see." Ellis observed him gravely. "I won't ask what sort of research requires one shoe on and one shoe off.

Clearly, it's none of my business."

Alex bent to put his sock and shoe back on.

Ellis went to the desk. Under his arm, he carried several sheaves of paper, each tied with string. Alex couldn't remember the last time he'd seen him without paperwork of some sort. Despite the fact that, as cousins many times removed, they were distant blood relations, they'd only known each other a few years. The old duke had summoned Ellis from Jamaica to learn about the dukedom. His sire had made clear his hope that Alex would relapse into old habits and drink himself to death, leaving Ellis to inherit everything.

Though he and Ellis had developed a friendship of sorts, there was a reserve to the other man that prevented him developing close ties with anyone. Even with his wife, he was stiff and formal. Alex was grateful for him. The financial mess the old duke had left was beyond his power to disentangle, let alone rectify, on his own.

"Does that bundle of papers you're carrying mean you've unraveled my affairs enough to explain them to me?"

Ellis nodded. "Do you have time to go over some things?"

Alex indicated a chair on the other side of the fire.

The monstrous desk with its green leather surface loomed large in the room. A more imposing piece of furniture he couldn't imagine. A quartet of carved mahogany deities—Apollo, Ares, Hades, and Poseidon— formed its legs. How like his father to choose a desk held up by gods. The servants carefully dusted around everything as if they feared he might return and demand to know why the inkwell had been moved two inches to the left. No doubt the leather chair still bore the imprint of the ducal backside.

Worse even than the desk itself was his father's picture looming on the wall behind. Winterhalter had painted it in the sixties during what turned out to be the famous artist's final visit to London. Despite Winterhalter's romantic, almost wistful style, the duke managed to look nearly as sinister and forbidding as he had in life.

"If it bothers you that much," Ellis said, apparently reading his mind, "throw it all out. Move your own things in. You're the duke now, after all."

Alex wasn't so sure. He hadn't assumed the full mantle yet. The idea of doing so—of finally, irrevocably, becoming Harcastle and all that entailed—made him sick inside. He'd always known he'd rather die than turn into his father.

A shame that he looked so like him.

The portrait had been painted before the duke grew frail. Like Alex, he'd been tall and dark, with an olive complexion. Both men had dark brown eyes, which Alex's half sister Helen had also inherited, and the same ferocious scowl. Looking at the painting was like looking at his doppelg?nger.

"Fine." Alex stood and rounded the desk. Gingerly, he lowered himself into the chair but it felt wrong. Like sitting on his father's ghost.

While Ellis busied himself arranging the papers in the right order across the desktop, Alex put on gold-rimmed spectacles. "So," he said, "how bad is it?"

As it turned out, very.

Alex listened to Ellis explain the figures and the knock-on effects of agricultural decline. As the piles of paper began to make sense, one fact fought its way past the morass of information until it eclipsed all else. Alex had always known his father was a cruel, bloody-minded despot, but until this moment he hadn't understood how negligent he'd been. The debt he'd accrued was staggering. And for a man who hadn't gambled, who'd had no public vices, the accumulation of debt looked almost deliberate.

"Your father must have suspected how bad things had got, yet he did nothing," Ellis said, echoing Alex's thoughts.

In the last few years of his life, the duke had been unwell both in body and mind, but the problems were of much longer standing. This neglect had been going on for decades and had slowly escalated. Had he deliberately run the estates into the ground? He'd certainly resented Alex's attempts to learn more about the dukedom, as if he believed his son longed for dead men's shoes.

Eventually, Alex had learned to show less interest, and then none. He didn't remember precisely when he'd ceased to care for the dukedom and the duke himself. He only knew that he had. And, if he were honest, didn't he feel a healthy contempt for both to this day?

"Your personal fortune, everything that was yours before you inherited, is a drop in the ocean," Ellis continued. "In real terms, you're worse off than you were because the estates cost far more to maintain than they bring in."

"I don't suppose you have any bright ideas as to how we might fix things?"

Generations of dukes had gone before Alex. Despite his scorn for the role he must now inhabit, he had no wish to go down in history as the man who lost it all.

"I have three." Ellis took a deep breath. "More or less."

"Frankly, more or less is better than I'd hoped for."

Ellis ignored him. "First, you could sell off some antiques."

Alex felt himself begin to smile. "Like the desk."

"For a start. But it's only a short-term solution. The deficit isn't going anywhere and eventually you'll run out of things to sell. We'd have to be discreet because nothing alerts a creditor to the fact that you're struggling like a sudden selling-off of assets."

"That's something to consider." His poor relationship with his father was widely known, so perhaps if they concentrated on the old duke's furniture, the creditors wouldn't take fright. Selling his dead father's things? At long last, a ducal task Alex was happy to contemplate. "What else?"

"You could marry." Ellis rushed on before Alex could interject. "I've looked into it and there are some eligible ladies. In particular, there are some American girls with enormous fortunes. I'm sure one of them would be honored by an offer from the Duke of Harcastle."

Alex shuddered theatrically. He wasn't a romantic—far from it—but the idea of a marriage on purely mercenary terms chilled him. It was something his father would have done.

"It might not be so bad," Ellis said. "I'm sure many of the heiresses are pretty and even-tempered. As long as you and whoever you choose like each other, I'm sure marriage wouldn't be so terrible." He didn't sound certain and, not for the first time, Alex wondered about his relationship with Mrs. Ellis. The old duke had arranged the match shortly after Ellis's arrival in England and thus far the couple had spent most of their married life apart. On the few occasions Alex had seen them together, they'd seemed like acquaintances rather than intimates.

"Not tempting," Alex muttered. "And the third option?"

Ellis shifted in his seat. "Well, that's where the more or less part comes in. Your father didn't believe in life insurance, but if we insure you—"

"I think I see where this is going. We insure me, I die, and the duchy is saved, is that right?"

"I admit, the plan has its faults."

For the first time since they'd sat down, Alex felt an urge to laugh. "You cheeky bastard. Still, at least you stand to benefit from it."

He had meant the remark as a joke but he immediately regretted it when Ellis's face turned ashen.

"I will never inherit," Ellis said, a muscle ticking at his jaw. "Because you're going to marry and have sons. Lots of them."

If any other man had spoken those words, they might have sounded resentful. When Ellis said them, they sounded like an order. When he'd arrived in England, Alex and another cousin had stood between him and the position of heir apparent. He'd been content with that state of affairs. Then the duke had died and, a few months later, the cousin had been carried off by a bilious attack. The word appalled didn't do adequate justice to Ellis's reaction. He was terrified by the idea of inheriting. Alex had learned not to refer to such a possibility. Not even in jest.

He opened his mouth, intending to change the subject, when an idea came like a thunderbolt. "My God, I've got it!"

Ellis blinked. "Really?"

"How can I have been so stupid?" Alex leaped up and lunged for the discarded slate and chalk where they still lay on the floor by the fire. "Do you have any string?"

"What—?"

"String, man, string!" Alex cried, snapping his fingers six times in rapid succession.

"Oh, for the love of…" Ellis tore the string from one of the bundles of paper on the desk, then handed it over.

Alex tied the slate to his left leg. "Hand me another piece."

Ellis grumbled but did as requested.

Alex secured the chalk to his right leg at roughly the same height as the slate. "Now listen."

With tiny, barely perceptible movements of his legs, he rubbed the chalk against the slate.

"It sounds like someone writing," Ellis said, unimpressed.

"Exactly!" In the space of a minute, Alex had gone from frustrated and depressed to exultant. Solving a problem always lifted his spirits.

"Is this about the séance you attended last night?"

Alex barely heard the question. Untying the strings, he let the slate and chalk fall to the floor. "Now all that remains is to ascertain how she got the message onto my slate." He picked up Miss Jones from the end table and tucked her away in his pocket where she belonged. "I'll see you later, Ellis."

"Where are you going?"

Alex kept moving. "The Nimble Rabbit."

"And our discussion?"

"Sell some antiques. Buy us some time. Start with that painting," he said, jabbing a finger at the old duke. "I'm sick of him breathing over my shoulder."

Maybe he'd commission a painting of Miss Jones exactly as she looked in the photograph and hang her in the vacant spot. Her glare boring into him from the wall of the study seemed a curiously appealing prospect.

∞∞∞

The Nimble Rabbit appeared even more dilapidated by the light of day.

Mud and hay fouled the yard. Once-cheerful blue paint peeled from rotting window frames. Even the sign, with the eponymous rabbit leaping to avoid the snapping jaws of a sinister fox, had seen better days and creaked alarmingly as Alex passed beneath. The next good wind might well bring the thing crashing down.

Inside, someone pounded the keys of an out-of-tune piano while rough male voices roared out a barely intelligible version of "Where Did You Get That Hat?" Alex strode past the afternoon revelers to where the innkeeper sat by the fire, poring over a heavy-looking ledger. He rose the moment he saw Alex approaching, his eyes wide. A duke turning up once in his humble establishment was shock enough to last him a lifetime. This unlooked-for second visitation rendered him speechless.

"I need to see the room from last night," Alex said.

The man frowned and glanced around to see who might be observing, but Alex had spoken quietly and the clientele had clearly been drinking for some time, despite the hour. No one but the keeper knew who Alex was, so no one much cared what he was doing there.

The man found his tongue. "This…this way, sir."

Upstairs, outside the now-vacant room, Alex impatiently tapped his cane on the floor as the man fumbled with the key. "Does Miss Jones always use the same room when she holds meetings here?"

A quick nod was the only response.

"Often?"

The key turned in the lock with a loud clunk. "At least once a month, sometimes more. No regular date."

The interior appeared larger with the curtains open and daylight struggling through the grimy window.

"What condition was the room left in after the séance?"

"Miss Jones always leaves things the way she found 'em."

And yet something bothered Alex. What was it?

The small, circular table stood in almost the same spot near the fire. Someone had shoved it half a foot to the left, clearing a path to a door which led into a small sleeping chamber. Alex hadn't noticed the opening last night because of a screen that had been positioned in front of it.

None of that was what troubled him, but the presence of an adjoining room certainly provided additional opportunities for trickery.

"Was Miss Jones alone up here? No one in there , for instance?"

"So far as I know, she was on 'er own. A gentleman waited downstairs and the little lad, 'is servant, cleared up for 'em, same as always, but neither one of 'em was up 'ere when you was."

"What gentleman?"

"I don't know 'is name." There was something about the way the man said the words. They were the truth but not entirely.

"Young, old, fat, thin?"

The innkeeper stroked his whiskers, apparently deep in thought. "About my age or a little older. Forty maybe. Flash suit. Always has lots of cash to splash about. Likes the best table in the taproom."

So Miss Jones had accomplices. He wasn't surprised— most mediums did—but he couldn't help feeling irritated. He enjoyed chasing her . Whoever these helpers were, he had no interest in them.

"Were they downstairs the entire time?"

"Well, no, the boy weren't. He made the odd appearance but mostly he was elsewhere."

"Where did he go?"

The man shook his head. "I don't know, sir."

"Is this the only room Miss Jones rented last night?"

"Yes, sir."

When people lied, Alex could usually tell. Liars made too much eye contact or not enough. They fidgeted. Their stories sounded rehearsed. The innkeeper betrayed none of these symptoms. Either he was a virtuoso of deceit, or he was telling the truth.

"Very well. Wait downstairs." The man bowed and withdrew.

As soon as he was alone, Alex set to work. First, he walked the room, including the tiny bedroom annex, trailing his fingertips over everything, examining every nook and cranny by touch as well as sight. Then, even though it belonged to the inn, he inspected the table in minute detail. Miss Jones was unusual in not insisting on the use of her own furniture. The table was unlikely to be the key to understanding her technique, unless she carried out modifications in every venue in which she performed —a risky proposition if she didn't remove the alterations again afterward. Was that what the boy did when he cleaned up?

When his scrutiny produced no clues, he sat down in her place at the table, identified as such because it was opposite his where there had been a small Y -shaped chip in the surface.

"How did you do it?" he asked her.

He didn't normally talk to the mediums he investigated when they weren't even in the room but it was becoming something of a habit with Miss Jones. The photograph in his pocket created a strange sense of intimacy. He knew her. He'd seen a glimpse of Miss Evangeline Jones no one else had seen.

Except for the photographer.

And the print seller.

And whoever else had managed to get a copy of the print.

He laughed softly under his breath and nudged the rug with the toe of his shoe. It needed pulling up. Once he'd shoved the table out of the way, it took him only a few moments to roll the carpet back.

Was it his imagination or did one of those floorboards look a touch newer than the others? If the rest of the floor hadn't been so uniformly grubby, he wouldn't have noticed. It mightn't mean anything, yet…was this even the same rug? He had no idea because he hadn't noted the pattern last night. An irritating oversight.

The innkeeper was hovering in the vicinity of the stairs when Alex descended. How interesting. Was this nervous attention because he had a duke in his inn or did it originate from some other cause?

"Who booked the room underneath Miss Jones's last night?"

"A lady." The man's gaze flicked to Alex's left. Looking for an escape? "She's one of my regulars."

"Is she still here?"

"No, sir."

"But she was inside the room while the séance was going on?"

When the innkeeper hesitated, Alex took a step forward; a deliberate, yet he hoped subtle, intimidation tactic.

"Well, no. She's an actress, see? At that hour, she was performing."

"I'd like to see that room as well."

The room had a new occupant but, once given a small financial incentive, the man was easily persuaded to step out for a moment. Alex only needed one look at the ceiling beneath the séance table.

The paint looked…convincing. Not too white. Tinged with yellow as if exposed to tobacco smoke over the years. Yet the small patch of newly applied paint didn't quite match the rest of the ceiling. Miss Jones might not insist on her own table, but she'd apparently brought her own rug. Under the cover of all that hymn singing, the slate had been removed, through the floor, to this room via a ready-made opening in both rug and ceiling.

"Got you," he whispered.

"Sir?" The keeper stood waiting on the threshold.

"Who is this actress?" Alex asked, without taking his eyes from the discolored patch above him.

"Miss Margaret Carmichael. She's on at the Dovecote."

Alex nodded. It was high time he and Miss Carmichael became acquainted.

∞∞∞

Evie experienced no presentiment as she rose to answer the door. There was nothing remarkable about the soft tap, tap, tap. Which was a shame. A warning might have been nice because, when she saw the Duke of Harcastle standing in the hallway, arms folded, leaning one shoulder against the flimsy partition wall, her heart lurched in her chest.

A man of his exalted status really ought to employ a more portentous knock.

If her mouth hung open, the aberration lasted a moment at most before she schooled her features into their usual emotionless mask. She knew very well how convincing her mask was. Captain had made her practice in front of her looking-glass over and over again, until bland inscrutability came as naturally as breathing.

"Miss Jones," Harcastle said, and she could have sworn he sounded surprised.

"Your Grace." To her irritation, her voice sounded breathy, like one of the prostitutes at Miss Rose's after a particularly energetic encounter.

"Won't you invite me in?" His voice shook with suppressed laughter. Had she amused him or did he amuse himself?

"I'm not sure." His eyebrows rose but she pressed on. "I'm a woman alone. You might do anything to me. You seemed fit to wring my neck last night."

Added to which, she didn't even own a chair on which to offer him a seat. This room was by far the best lodging she'd had since she ceased sharing with Captain, but she couldn't help seeing the place as Harcastle would probably see it; bed taking up most of the space, faded curtains, rag rug, chipped plaster, and peeling paint. Even the colorful scarves Mags had hung to brighten up the place would seem quaint and shabby to him.

She smothered the spark of shame. After all, why should she care what he thought? Who was he to her? A threat, that was all. And he demonstrated how much of a threat he was by stepping past her into the room. For a duke, it was simple. He wanted to enter and so he did.

Apparently, he also wanted to sit on her bed.

A duke on her saggy, second-hand mattress, the superfine wool of his black coat, the silk and velvet of his waistcoat, and the impossible whiteness of his shirt all a stark contrast to the faded cotton of her poor bedspread. The incongruity of the sight almost startled a laugh from her. Good Lord, had this room always been so small? With him inside, the walls seemed to close in.

Oh, she'd known she would see him again soon, but not here. Never here.

"Do sit down," he said. "I'm not going to devour you."

She left the door wide open and stood on the threshold, as far as possible from her unwanted guest.

"You left precipitously last night, sir. Did you wish to discuss the messages we received from the spirits?"

"No, Miss Jones, we can't begin that way. There must be no lies between us. You are a fraud, a fact we both know to be true. I must insist, at least when we are alone together, you refrain from speaking to me as if this weren't so."

A fine speech and spoken in the masterful tone of a man accustomed to obedience from the likes of her. It woke a devil within her.

"Your skepticism is notorious," she said sweetly.

"Does Miss Carmichael often aid and abet you?" he asked. "I came here looking for her, not you." Then he smiled, if such a knowing smirk could rightly be called a smile. I'm here to play , it said.

Evie couldn't afford to indulge him. The stakes were too high.

"Leave her alone." She spoke from pure instinct, the urge to protect Mags momentarily overriding her common sense. He smiled again. Why not? She had revealed a weakness. "Miss Carmichael only booked the room. She has nothing whatever to do with my…business. If you harm her—"

"Harm her? Come, Miss Jones, I don't harm people. That's your talent, not mine."

Oh, she didn't believe that for a minute. He was enjoying himself too much, like a cat playing with a canary. Except that she resembled a crow more than a canary and he was something more like a tiger. Was all this because she'd raised his father's ghost? Or did he toy with all the mediums he investigated?

"I don't hurt people," she said. At least she tried not to.

With his head on one side, he considered her words. "Are you really so deluded?"

"Who have you seen me hurt? Not the Lennoxes, that's for certain. My spirits float tables and bring people flowers. When someone comes to me looking for a lost loved one, I talk about eternal rest. What harm is there in that?"

"Lies are always harmful."

The words stung, perhaps because there was truth in them. "Such integrity. You're fortunate your wealth and privilege shield you from ever needing to compromise your scruples."

"Wealth and privilege have nothing to do with this."

Now it was her turn to smile. For an intelligent man, he was being remarkably obtuse. How very typical of his class. Sudden anger revived her flagging courage. "Let's cut to the heart of things, shall we? You've made serious allegations against me, but do you have any evidence to support them?"

A shrug. "None whatsoever."

"I see." With effort, she managed to suppress a sigh of relief. "Well, you're welcome to search for it." Just not at one

of my séances. "Now, if you'll excuse me…"

She stood aside and gestured to the open door.

He didn't move. "Am I?"

"Are you what?"

"Welcome to look." He rose and stepped closer. "You seemed so confident a moment ago. Do you really think I won't succeed?"

His dark-eyed gaze burned into her and too late she realized her mistake. As she'd noted, he was used to people complying with his demands. Paltry though her resistance today had been, to him it held all the appeal of novelty.

He took another step forward. "A week. That's all I'd need."

Too close . His breath ghosted across her cheek, and she shivered in response. Stupid body. Didn't it realize the threat he posed? Wait, wait, she wanted to protest, you've got it all wrong. I don't feel confident in the least . If she said the words aloud, would he lose interest?

"One week in your company," he went on, "and I'll have unearthed all your secrets."

Slow and deliberate, his gaze traveled the length of her body, lingering at her breasts. Such a crude perusal would appall the God-fearing spiritualist she pretended to be, so she tried to manufacture a modicum of disgust, but something in him called to her. The haughty stare, the icy contempt, even the way he challenged and threatened her. In short, the attributes that should have sent her running stirred her deeply. Perhaps her years at Miss Rose's had turned her depraved.

"What are you thinking?" he asked. "Why can't I read your expression? What are you hiding? Who are you really?"

"Why are you so interested?"

"One week," he repeated. "For one week, I go where you go. If I haven't obtained any evidence by then, I'll leave you be."

His expression, so intent in its scrutiny a moment ago, cleared abruptly. Had he realized how mad he sounded? But perhaps not mad at all. He must guess she'd never willingly perform another séance in his presence, unless he offered inducement. And she was tempted. One week and she'd never have to see him again. It might be safer in the short-term to refuse to sit with him, but what about her public displays? She could hardly bar him from those. At least this put a time limit on his investigation.

"Why would you do that?" she asked.

"Perhaps I enjoy a wager."

"And what if you win? What then?"

"You must agree to explain the tricks of your trade before the Society for Psychical Research."

The SPR was an organization of believers and skeptics all devoted to the scientific investigation of spiritualism. Some of her existing clients were members. If she confessed to fraud, naturally she would lose all of them.

"The risk is all on one side."

"Yes," he admitted. Clearly, to his mind, the wager didn't require balance.

She wanted to take a step back but that would take her out into the hall. Instead, she forced her shoulders to relax. Her appraisal last night had been accurate. His was a handsome face devoid of warmth, his lips set in a grim line which his beard did nothing to disguise. She couldn't imagine that mouth softening in tenderness. Couldn't imagine him kissing anyone.

"Let's speak hypothetically. If I were to lose this wager and carry out the forfeit, what would I do then? Have you ever stopped to consider what would become of me if you remove my only source of income?"

"I suppose," he said, with a bored sigh, "you'd have to find honest employment."

"As a shop girl?"

He shrugged negligently. "Or a seamstress, perhaps."

"And what do you know of the lives of shop girls and seamstresses, Your Grace?" Before he could respond, she went on. "Let me tell you a few things about life for ordinary women in this great metropolis of ours. Most of them don't make enough money to afford both food and lodgings. How do you suppose they survive? Wait, don't tell me," she said, when he opened his mouth to respond. "You suppose their husbands make up the shortfall, or their fathers, or their brothers or sons. And perhaps in some cases that's true. But what of those women unfortunate enough to be all alone in the world? How do you think they supplement their earnings?"

His sudden frown sent triumph flooding through her. Finally he was catching on, but just in case, she decided to make things explicit. "They prostitute themselves, Your Grace. Thousands of them. Every day."

He might as well have been made of stone for all the emotion her words produced. Inexplicably, she was disappointed, and she gestured again at the door. "So forgive me if I choose not to take the risk."

"Very well," he said, remaining where he was. "I'll compensate you."

"Excuse me? Did you offer me money if I lose? Because that's not how wagers usually work."

"The wager can work any way we choose. When you deliver your confession to the SPR, I'll give you…shall we say five hundred pounds? You have the wit to make good use of it. If you have to resort to prostitution after that, it won't be my doing."

So close.

She'd been so close to getting rid of him, but he offered a way to end his interest in her once and for all, and if she failed, she had a five-hundred-pound safety net. Quite frankly, if it weren't for Captain, she'd aim for the money. This wasn't a life she'd choose for herself if she saw other opportunities.

"And if you lose, you'll leave me to carry on as I am?"

He nodded. "On one condition. You continue your present policy with regard to the bereaved." He seized her arm, his fingers encircling her wrist like a manacle. She waited for terror—the only sensible response—and instead experienced a rush of heat, a tingling excitement as if her entire body had been poised for this moment. The first touch . "If I hear of you fleecing some poor, grieving widow, I'll bring you down so fast you won't have time to blink."

That's when she knew.

Win or lose this wager, she would never be free of him. As she went about her work, his eyes would always be on her, and she would know. It didn't matter that she had no intention of breaking her self-imposed rule. She would always be aware of his gaze.

These were not helpful thoughts, so she pushed them away. All he meant was that he would keep track of her career. In all probability, when she didn't step out of line, he would get bored and she would be free.

It never occurred to her that he might not fulfill his end of the bargain. Despite her prejudice against his class, she'd imbibed the general belief in aristocratic honor and assumed such behavior beneath him. She assumed this despite the fact he clearly didn't think consorting with thieves and charlatans beneath him.

In spite of this small blind spot, she understood the expression in his eyes when he looked at her. She recognized lust when she saw it. "Do we have a bargain?" he asked, and she could even hear it in his voice.

Reckless now, she offered her hand. "Why not?"

He didn't take it. Instead he smiled. "Now, Miss Jones, let's talk terms."

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