Chapter 4

‘She took down four men? Are you sure?' Drake furrowed his blonde brows and sipped carefully at his scalding coffee.

They sat at a favourite coffee house, popular amongst Killian's set even at such ungodly hours as nine in the morning. Sturdy wooden tables were pushed close together to allow more patronage as boys scurried back and forth with brimming cups of hot, black liquid.

Killian's laughter held no mirth. ‘Am I sure I watched her shoot one man in the bollocks, attack another with the skill of a trained assassin, throw a dagger into a third man's eye as easily as one might apply jam to toast, then send the fourth away with a shiny new shilling? Yes. I'm quite sure.'

Drake shook his head. His closely cropped hair was so light, it glinted silver in the sun streaming through the window to their left. The scar running diagonally across his face from temple to jaw, bisecting his eyebrow and cutting over his nose, made him look dangerous. Because he was. ‘It makes no sense.'

‘That a woman could be trained to fight as well as a man? I think it makes tremendous sense. Men never look at women beyond their own interests. They are beautiful decorations appreciated as periphery distractions. We assume they are harmless. Which is exactly what she wants us to believe. But she's more dangerous than most men I know.'

Drake raised a judgmental eyebrow. ‘I know women are far from harmless, but are you seriously proposing Miss Simmons, a lady's companion, is actually some highly trained, deadly agent?'

Killian knew it sounded preposterous. But he'd seen her skill with his own eyes. ‘I am not proposing anything. I'm stating facts. She knew the address of Sarah Bright's family. She took down four men with a pistol and a blade. And the only time I saw her hesitate was when I offered to escort her home.'

Drake nodded his head and tapped his fingers on the table. ‘Well, then. Our way is clear.'

Killian waved over a serving boy to order another cup of coffee. ‘I don't follow.'

‘Well, isn't it obvious?' Drake leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms over his barrel chest. ‘You must court the wicked Miss Simmons.'

All the air was sucked from the room. Killian took a large gulp of his fresh coffee and scalded a layer of skin from his tongue. ‘Pardon?'

‘Didn't you say the only time she seemed flummoxed was when you offered your arm? She is unnerved by you. The best course of action is to keep this devious detective close at hand, where you can monitor her every move. How better than by courting her?'

‘Now, that is a ludicrous plan.' But the idea was more appealing than Killian wanted to admit. Which was alarming in the extreme. Marriage was an expected reality for him, but not an immediate one, and not something he anticipated with anything close to pleasure.

His parents had an uncommonly happy union with a tragic end. They died together in a carriage accident when Killian was in Afghanistan. Killian didn't find out about their deaths until his return. As years dulled the pain of his loss, he appreciated they died together. Neither would have done well without the other. But he held no such illusions of a love match for himself.

War stripped him of his honour. The man remaining had nothing but a head full of nightmares and a chest full of regret. Allowing a woman into the hidden places where his shame lived, where the horrors of war echoed in emptiness, would only end in her revulsion and his inevitable undoing.

He would marry a lady with the right pedigree and age to produce heirs. He owed his father the continuance of the dukedom, and he would not shirk that final duty. But while Killian hoped for cordiality with his wife, he would not allow intimacy. To grant someone access to his inner self, as his parents had done for each other, was impossible. She would only find ash and shadows amongst the echoes of what had once been a decent man.

‘I can't court Miss Simmons. I am obligated to carry on the dukedom with a lady from an established family.'

Drake shrugged. ‘I'm not suggesting you actually marry her. God, man. No. I'm just saying you woo her.'

Killian shook his head. ‘That wouldn't be fair to her. If I publicly pursue her only to break the relationship, her reputation wouldn't survive the backlash.'

‘And this matters how?' Drake sipped his coffee.

‘The beau monde loves scandal. They would tear Miss Simmons's reputation to shreds.'

Drake swept Killian's argument away like a rotten odour. ‘If she truly is working against us, your actions will be justified. And if she is just an innocent woman, another scandal will emerge soon enough, and they'll forget the whole affair. The peerage is nothing if not fickle. Besides, Miss Simmons is protected by her connection with Lady Winterbourne, and that's not about to change because you jilt her. You may actually fall in love with the chit and make her your duchess.' Drake's loud laughter filled the rowdy room. ‘Can you imagine?'

The most infuriating thing was, he could. A woman steeped in her own darkness might understand his. But it was madness.

‘No, my fancy doesn't run so wild as to believe I could fall in love with any lady, least of all Miss Simmons. But I won't underestimate her either.'

Drake nodded his head. ‘That almost sounds like admiration.'

‘Hardly. And your plan is fatally flawed. You forget that to court her, she must first accept my affections. That will never happen with Miss Simmons.'

‘You saw the woman attack four men on the streets of London.' Drake shrugged. ‘Imagine if that information got out. I sincerely doubt Miss Simmons wants to see her name splashed about in the papers. Blackmail her.'

‘I'm looking better and better in this scenario. First an inconstant rogue, then a blackmailer. How could she possibly refuse me?'

Drake's humour evaporated like mist. His broken lips pulled down in a scowl. ‘It doesn't matter, Killian. This whole conversation is farcical. Miss Simmons is not a rogue detective, and under no circumstances should you court her. I only said that to highlight how ridiculous your theory is about her.' He stood, wiped his mouth with a napkin and threw it on the table. ‘I'll take my leave. We still have a real murder to investigate.'

‘What is your next course of action?' Killian raised an eyebrow at his friend.

‘Resolutely endeavouring to avoid any more social functions with you.'

Killian smiled. ‘Well, don't try too hard. The Somersets are hosting their annual ball Thursday next. Several esteemed members of society will be in attendance, all of whom could be our potential killer. I expect to see you there.'

Drake rolled his eyes. ‘Being your friend is a thankless task, Killian.' He turned and strode out of the crowded coffee house, his limp almost imperceptible as he wound through the tables.

Killian knew he was right. Miss Simmons moved with the same lethal grace displayed by all trained killers. Which meant someone taught her. Someone directed her. But who?

Courting her was a novel way to draw her closer and discover her secrets. Drake may have been joking, but Killian was deadly serious. Still, could he force Miss Simmons's hand in such a despicable way? For Queen and country, he must.

Killian sipped the last of his coffee, the bitter taste lingering on his tongue.

Tea was a soothing drink, but whiskey was better. Unfortunately for Hannah, Philippa had strict rules about when to imbibe. No spirits before noon. One mustn't become a sloppy Poppy. And so, Hannah contented herself with an overlarge measure of cream and three sugar cubes for their morning tea.

She and Philippa were in the main sitting room on the ground level. It was a tasteful space decorated in dramatic shades of pomegranate and chocolate. The dark colours would overwhelm if not for the massive windows letting in buttery summer sunshine along with views of the street. Crystal vases filled with white and magenta chrysanthemums sweetened the air.

Hannah rested her teacup on its saucer and took a bracing breath. ‘I must speak with you about last night.' Once again, she must confess to Philippa her extravagant behaviour. But more importantly, she needed to share the evidence garnered from Sarah Bright's family.

Philippa was wearing a deep-purple day dress with black lace frothing at her neck and sleeves. Since her husband's death, Philippa only wore colours varying a few shades lighter than black. The beau monde believed it a mark of true devotion to Lady Winterbourne's departed husband. Hannah knew it was because Philippa's pale skin, black hair, and cobalt eyes were set off by dark hues. But there was no point in muddying public opinion with something silly like facts.

Her patroness was the perfect picture of beauty and refinement. By contrast, Hannah's grey dress was the essence of a dreary wallflower. A strategic choice. Hannah liked fading into the background. Which is why her behaviour the night prior was so inexcusable. And baffling. And not to be repeated. Ever.

‘Don't keep me in suspense. What did you learn from Sarah Bright's parents?'

Hannah took a moment to organise her thoughts. ‘Several things. Sarah visited them shortly before her death. Apparently, she wanted to tell them about an exciting job prospect. She had an interview for a new position in a different house.'

‘Whose house?'

Hannah scrunched her nose and shook her head.

‘She didn't say.' Philippa homed in on the biggest problem.

‘No. She didn't. But she was excited about the opportunity.'

Philippa sat forward, her teacup halfway to her crimson lips. ‘So perhaps Lord Bradford is not our most likely candidate for the killer. Drat. I was hoping he was guilty of something more nefarious than an obnoxiously large moustache.'

Hannah frowned. ‘This is serious, Philippa.'

‘Yes, and so is that moustache. A serious disaster.'

Hannah rolled her eyes, but Philippa only shrugged, brushing off Hannah's attempt to criticise her.

‘You said you learned several things. What else?' Philippa asked.

Hannah sighed. ‘Sarah always wore a necklace her mother gave her. It would have been worth a significant sum. She said Sarah was never without it. A gold chain with a flower pendant. A lily. But when they found her body, there was no necklace recovered.'

‘Mm. Well. I suppose if we find some nobleman wandering around wearing a lady's necklace, we'll have our man.'

Philippa was right. It was damn little to go on. Hannah controlled her frustration. ‘I was thinking the killer may have sold it. We could look at the pawnbrokers near Bethnal Green. I know it isn't very helpful, but sometimes even the smallest piece of evidence is important.'

Philippa rolled her eyes. ‘I suppose.'

Hannah's tea cooled on the table. She couldn't avoid her poor behaviour from the previous night any longer. ‘Philippa, I have more to share. I don't think it will improve your mood.'

Philippa raised an eyebrow. ‘Does this have something to do with a certain duke?'

Hannah squirmed.

Philippa snorted. ‘I'm intrigued. Do continue.'

There was a knock on the door, and Stokes entered. His posture was so rigid Hannah wondered if he was physically capable of bending over. ‘Your Grace, there is a guest at the door.'

Hannah sat up straight. Philippa sipped her tea. The clock ticked away several seconds. Sometimes, Philippa liked to make Stokes wait for her reply.

Stokes hated this particular game. He lifted his chin a fraction higher.

‘Who is the guest, Stokes?' Philippa finally asked.

‘Lieutenant General Killian, Duke of Covington, madam.'

‘Speak of the Devil.' Philippa smiled.

Panic surged through Hannah. She stood up, then abruptly sat back down. ‘Dear God. What is he doing here? Philippa, what is he doing here?'

Philippa pursed her perfectly pigmented lips and carefully placed her tea on the table. ‘I've no idea. But there is one way to find out. Show him in, Stokes. And have Cook send up more tea and some refreshments.'

Stokes stood frozen. This was his retaliation. If she made him wait, he would do the same for her. It was all rather petty, but Hannah guessed they both enjoyed themselves on some level, or one of them would have quit the game by now.

‘Show him in, Stokes.' Philippa shouted across the room, then continued in a normal tone to Hannah, ‘Poor old dear must be going deaf. It's common in one so decrepit. Such a shame.'

‘It's just, shrill tones are often difficult to discern, Your Grace.' Stokes nodded once before slowly turning and walking out of the sitting room.

‘God! That man! One day, I shall give him the sack. I really will.' Philippa scowled at the door before smoothing her face into an impassive expression.

‘Philippa, please focus. Lord Killian is here. In our house. Your house. Whatever. What on earth—' Hannah was interrupted by Lord Killian's arrival.

He wore a morning coat of dark green that brought out the same colour in his eyes. His unfashionably long hair curled at the high white collar of his shirt. He was obscenely masculine and distractingly out of place in a room full of fresh blooms and delicate furniture.

Hannah's heart beat so loudly, she was sure they all heard it.

‘Lieutenant General Killian. What a pleasant surprise. It is early for social calls. To what do we owe such an unexpected visit?' Philippa rose and extended her hand to Lord Killian. He strode across the room and took her fingers in his gloved hand, bowing cordially.

‘I apologise for the abruptness. There is a matter of great urgency about which I must speak with you. Privately.' Lord Killian glanced briefly at Hannah before returning his gaze to Philippa.

This is not good!

Hannah pressed her lips together and focused on Lord Killian's cravat. The knot was simple and severe, just like the man.

‘There's nothing you can say to me that Hannah can't hear, and I wager there's quite a lot you're planning to say that directly impacts her. Or have I missed my mark?'

Lord Killian's mouth quirked at the corner. ‘You are as perceptive as you are beautiful, Lady Winterbourne.'

Philippa's smile flashed harder than the diamond pendant sparkling at her throat. ‘Flattery will get you nowhere, Lieutenant General Killian. But don't let me stop you from the attempt.'

Heat rose from Hannah's chest, over her neck, and into her cheeks. She would bet her favourite pistol he was here to tattle on her. Beastly man.

‘I would like permission to court Miss Simmons.'

Well. That was unexpected.

What could he possibly be thinking?

Lord Killian kept his gaze focused on Philippa as if Hannah's opinion meant nothing in the matter. Which gave Hannah a moment to collect herself before letting the anger build.

The sheer arrogance!

‘I have no wish to be courted by anyone. Least of all you.' Hannah's voice was strong, even if her stomach was full of bees buzzing in a frenzy.

Lord Killian clenched his jaw, the only indication he'd heard her. ‘Lady Winterbourne, are you sure you wouldn't prefer to discuss this privately?'

Oh, that just beats all.

Hannah rose from the couch and walked to Killian's side. ‘Are you a complete imbecile? I'm the one you should be asking, and I already gave my answer.' She was tempted to shove him just to force his attention toward her. But she didn't trust herself not to punch him in his pompous (gorgeous) face.

‘I think Lord Killian has a point. This is a private conversation.'

Hannah turned to Philippa, her mouth parted on a shocked inhalation. ‘Excuse me?'

Philippa softened her smile when she faced Hannah. ‘A private conversation between the two of you. I shall take my leave.'

Hannah put her hand out to stop Philippa. ‘Wait, please stay. Neither of us needs to leave. It's Lord Killian who should be excusing himself. I have nothing to say to him.' Panic clawed at her throat. She couldn't breathe. What could he be plotting? Certainly not a marriage proposal.

‘I'll see you at luncheon.' Philippa leaned closer and lowered her voice to a whisper. ‘If you end up killing him, please try not to get blood on the couch. We just had it reupholstered.' She squeezed Hannah's hand.

‘This is completely untoward.' Lord Killian's eyes widened, and lines bracketed his mouth. Hannah took perverse pleasure in knowing he was equally uncomfortable. ‘I have come here to seek your permission to court Miss Simmons, Lady Winterbourne. Surely, after such a declaration, you don't mean to leave us together alone, unchaperoned?' Lord Killian stepped away from Hannah, moving to block Philippa's exit.

Philippa smiled. ‘Why not? I have no doubt Hannah will conduct herself as a proper lady. And as an honourable gentleman, you wouldn't dare press an advantage.' Philippa swept around him to the door. ‘If you do, Hannah will remind you of your manners. She can be quite convincing.'

Killian stretched his neck and took a deep breath. ‘This is not how things are done, Lady Winterbourne. If she had a father, I would discuss this with him. As you are her patroness, I have come to you. A young lady does not choose who will or will not court her.'

Hannah ground her teeth together and tried not to scream.

Philippa laughed. ‘This is why men's opinions should be confined to cigars and card games. Hannah is the only person capable of choosing her future happiness. As such, she is the one you must appeal to. Good day, sir.' Philippa turned and walked out, closing the door behind her.

Insufferable man!

The very idea that he would swan into Philippa's morning room and arrange Hannah's entire life without her permission or input was infuriating enough to have her hand itching for the hilt of a dagger.

It was so much easier to fight men than converse with them. But needs must.

In any conflict, a direct path was usually best. Shut him down quickly and efficiently without unnecessary fuss. Hannah smoothed her skirts and tried to keep her voice calm. ‘Lord Killian, while I am flattered by your proposal, I must decline.'

There. That was clear, precise, and polite. She should win a prize for decorum.

‘I do not accept your answer.'

Bastard!

The man was impossible.

‘You must. It is the only answer I will give.' Hannah walked to the wall where the bell pull hung. She would get Stokes to come with his ramrod-straight spine and escort Lord Killian out of the sitting room and out of her life.

Lord Killian beat her to the decorative rope and grasped her arm, turning her towards him. ‘Perhaps I can convince you otherwise.'

This close, his eyes were not fully green but rather an intriguing hazel. Striations of brown and blue intermingled with deep jade. The scent of starch from his shirt tickled her nose. She looked away from his eyes only to stare at his mouth. His bottom lip was fuller than the top, and he pressed them together in a firm line. He had a freckle just to the upper left corner of his mouth. It was a delicate mark on such a masculine face.

‘If you value the use of your fingers, I suggest you release me, immediately.' Hannah pulled back and was disappointed when his hand loosened and slipped from her arm. It would have been lovely if he gave her a reason to slam the heel of her hand into his solar plexus.

‘I am quite invested in my fingers, Miss Simmons.' Killian's gravelled voice stroked along her senses. She almost shivered.

‘Then use them to open that door and walk away. You cannot convince me of anything, Your Grace. You are wasting your time.'

Killian smiled, but it didn't warm his eyes. ‘I could always try charm. But I think blackmail is more expedient, don't you?'

Hannah swallowed. Of course, he would use her bravado against her. ‘You disappoint me, sir. I can only assume you are speaking of last night.'

‘A lady under the protection of the Duchess of Dorset shooting one man in the street, cutting another down with a dagger, and a third with a throwing knife? Pretty salacious stuff, wouldn't you say?'

‘I'm hardly a lady.'

‘That's not what you keep telling me. If you're not a lady, then what are you?'

Just a woman.

Hannah pressed her lips together. Such honesty might damn her. A woman garnered no respect in a man's world and often became an easy target.

She gathered her thoughts before responding. ‘I'm not the kind of lady you're accustomed to encountering. You plan on splashing last night's events throughout the beau monde? Please. No one will believe some drab old lady's companion capable of squashing a spider, let alone attacking four men.'

‘You are neither old nor drab, Miss Simmons. But you raise a valid point.'

‘Precisely.'

‘When I tell the prime minister about your impressive deeds, it will only be one man that you vanquish. I will have managed to take down the other ruffians with my expert skills.'

The prime minister? Blasted hell!

Prime Minister Russell would surely tell the Queen. Her Majesty would take a decidedly dim view of Hannah's carelessness in being seen, especially by one of the prime minister's men. Hannah didn't make mistakes. At least, she hadn't made them until she met the blockheaded Duke of blasted Covington.

Lieutenant General Killian would not ruin her reputation with the Queen.

Hannah laughed, hoping he didn't notice her panicked notes of hysteria. ‘The prime minister will never believe you.'

‘The prime minster has utmost faith in me.' Killian leaned infinitesimally closer. Her heart rate and the temperature of the room simultaneously increased. ‘I will sing your praises as a modern-day heroine. Will that garner you favour amongst the peerage? Probably. Will questions be asked about why a young lady was alone and unchaperoned in an area as dangerous as Bethnal Green? Presumably. Will it bring you enormous attention and make it impossible to disappear? Most assuredly.'

‘Bastard.'

He backed her against the papered wall. ‘Careful. Words like that could get you into trouble. A man would be called out to duel for such an accusation against a duke.'

‘But I'm not a man.'

Lord Killian's pupils dilated. ‘No. You certainly aren't.'

‘Besides, I would best you in a duel of pistols or swords. You can't intimidate me, sir.' Her voice was husky, and a drip of perspiration trickled between her breasts. Breasts that had become unaccountably heavy. And when did her nipples decide to develop extra nerve endings as they tightened and chafed against her corset?

He startled her, reaching up and tracing an escaped curl from her chignon with his gloved finger. The whisper of soft leather danced along her skin. ‘Is that a challenge?'

‘That's a fact.' Hannah's breathing was too fast. Bergamot and leather invaded her senses. Heat from his body engulfed her, and something electric crackled in the air between them. She was in the eye of a terrible lightning storm, both dangerous and exciting.

‘Perhaps I can't intimidate you with threats. But charm? That's another story.' He leaned closer, his body not quite touching hers. Their breaths mingled as his fingers explored her cheek, pausing at the scar. She hated that it made her self-conscious. ‘You feel safe with violence, but softer emotions terrify you, don't they, Miss Simmons?'

Yes.

‘No.' When faced with danger, Hannah always attacked. And this moment was laced with peril.

She put her hands flat on his chest and shoved him hard. He stumbled backward, almost catapulting over the back of the couch before regaining his balance. Hannah squared her shoulders and tucked the traitorous curl behind her ear. ‘You do not terrify me, sir. You don't know me, and you certainly don't wish to court me. What is your game?'