Chapter 5

Killian recovered quickly despite the strength of her shove. Dark satisfaction in unnerving the indomitable Miss Simmons eased his bruised pride at almost landing arse over teakettle on Lady Winterbourne's patterned rug. Her impressive shields hid a vulnerable core. What possible forces created such a contradictory woman? Killian was determined to find the answer.

But perhaps distance was advisable. Something about the woman made him want to lunge forward when he should hold back. If he was going to win a battle of wills against Miss Simmons, he needed to keep a cool head and let logic, not lust, lead the way.

Killian loathed manipulation and despised blackmail. But at least he could be honest with Hannah about his motivations. And for reasons he did not wish to examine, he didn't want to lie to her. He tugged down his vest and sat on the overstuffed chair opposite the couch. ‘You are correct, Miss Simmons. Courting you is not my primary goal. Finding a killer is. But you know that because you are seeking the same man, aren't you?'

The confounding woman pursed her lips and shrugged her shoulders.

‘You refuse to answer?'

‘You don't seem particularly amenable to my answers, Your Grace.' Miss Simmons curled her lips in the imitation of a sweet smile. She had a dimple in her right cheek, just below the scar.

Killian had noticed the pearl-coloured crescent marking her otherwise smooth cheek the night before. Questions burned about how she sustained the injury. And if the person responsible for hurting her had suffered, or if Killian could still exact punishment on him. But his thoughts were getting off track.

‘Fine.' Killian wished he could remove his gloves and loosen his cravat. The room was insufferably warm. ‘Your admission is irrelevant. I know we are focused on finding the same culprit. What is less clear is who you are working for and why.' He raised his eyebrows in a question.

Miss Simmons remained stubbornly silent.

‘You won't tell me. But I will find out, Miss Simmons. According to a certain young master Bright, while I seek justice for the crimes this gentleman committed, you plan to kill him. Murdering a murderer? Hardly honourable.'

‘That depends entirely on your definitions of justice and honour, Lord Killian.' Miss Simmons walked around the couch and sat on the edge of the cushion. Deep pink flowers were stitched into the material and her agile fingers worried at the pattern, the only betrayal of her nerves.

Killian wondered how many blades were hidden underneath her skirts. A man could spend hours scouring every inch of her body to discover her weapons. He shifted in his seat, willing his libido to behave.

Force wasn't working. He would try logic. ‘Accepting my offer could be as beneficial to you as it is to me. If we work together, there's a far greater chance we'll find this man.'

Miss Simmons sighed and glanced out the window behind him. ‘I don't need your help.'

‘But you do need my silence. If I expose your actions from last night, you will gain notoriety amongst the very group of nobles you hope to infiltrate. Hardly beneficial to your mission.' It was a powerful argument. She could not dispute his reasoning.

She narrowed her eyes in undisguised loathing, pinning him with her glare. ‘You haven't answered my question. How does pretending to court me bring you any closer to finding this man?'

Killian smiled and leaned back in the chair. ‘What's that delightful saying? "Keep your friends close and your enemies closer."'

‘Sun Tzu. You've read The Art of War?'

Killian's eyebrows winged up, and he inhaled sharply. ‘You've read The Art of War?'

Miss Simmons shrugged once more. ‘Don't look so surprised.'

‘The only copies I've found are written in French.'

‘Oui.' Miss Simmons was a multilingual little minx with violent taste in literature.

‘So, you shoot men in the street, carry blades in your pockets, and are versed in The Art of War? Truly, Miss Simmons, you are a fascinating woman.' He rose from his seat. ‘But are you brave enough to accept my offer?'

‘I'm far from fascinating, Your Grace. Let me see if I understand your motivation. You wish us to pretend a romantic interest to keep an eye on me. Presumably, I will reciprocate by keeping my own eyes on you.'

‘Precisely.' Killian held his breath, waiting for her answer.

She rose from her seat. Killian's breeding forced him to stand with her.

‘I don't think it requires courage to accept your offer, just an acute sense of confidence. Because despite what you think or how closely you watch me, I will find Sarah Bright's killer first.' Miss Simmons walked to the door and paused. Killian joined her, stopping a few feet away. Distance. Distance and decorum were key.

‘I accept your proposal on one condition.' Miss Simmons eyes were the colour of amber garnet when they caught the light.

Killian's tongue must be broken, for he couldn't form words. Instead, he gave a curt nod for her to continue.

‘In public, we will conduct ourselves as any courting couple might, but privately, there will be no such flirtation. No false charm. This is a business deal between two opposing forces. Let's not pretend otherwise. Do you agree to my terms?' She stuck her hand out to shake.

Killian grasped her small hand in his larger one, wishing again he could remove his gloves and feel her skin against his. She had the firm grip of an equal. When he squeezed her hand and shook, her shoulders relaxed. Until he brought her fingers to his mouth and pressed a kiss against her knuckles. While he wore gloves, she did not. Her bare skin brushed against his lips. He relished her gasp. ‘I don't believe it possible to pretend charm with you, Miss Simmons.'

She pulled her hand away, her lips hardened in a tight frown as she opened the door. ‘Finding Sarah Bright's murderer first and killing him before you can save him from his fate will be the greatest of pleasures, Lord Killian.'

‘The satisfaction of finding Sarah Bright's murderer first and delivering him to the House of Lords where he will experience true justice shall only be eclipsed by the pleasure of your company, Miss Simmons.'

‘Bastard.'

‘I'm beginning to appreciate your expansive vocabulary. You say the sweetest things when you're angry.'

‘You haven't glimpsed the spectrum of my rage, sir.'

‘Something for me to look forward to, then. The Somerset's annual ball is Thursday next. I shall come for you at six. One can only hope you own a ball gown in shades other than brown or grey.'

He felt the heat of Miss Simmons's gaze and it warmed him as he walked away.

Buggering bloody bollocks!

Eight days had passed since his invitation. The Duke of Covington was arriving within the hour to escort Hannah to the Somerset Ball. A firing squad would be preferable.

‘Hannah, if you keep frowning so fiercely at poor Betty, she'll think you don't like her handiwork.' Philippa smacked Hannah with her fan.

‘Ow!' Hannah put down the blade she had been polishing and rubbed her arm. ‘Sorry, Betty. You are doing a wonderful job.'

Betty was new to the household and studying to be a lady's maid. Hannah liked her immensely, though the fifteen-year-old was as na?ve as a lamb and hopelessly lacking in confidence.

Hannah tried to force her freshly reddened lips into a smile as she spun the blade on the table.

‘You really are becoming quite the lady's maid, Betty.' Philippa nodded approvingly at the young woman, who blushed so fiercely, the tips of her ears turned crimson.

‘It's me who should be thanking Your Grace for this opportunity. It's ever so kind of you.' Betty's clever fingers twisted another curl into Hannah's complicated coiffure. ‘Miss Delacroix's recipe for lip salve is wonderful. I never would have thought to tint it with beet juice, but Miss Simmons's lips look ever so natural.'

Her mouth was lusciously red. No less than a million pins held Hannah's hair together. Each one dug into her scalp like angry daggers, but the effect was rather magnificent. Her shining, copper hair was piled high, decorative jewels glittering throughout the mixture of braids and curls. Delicate tendrils spiralled around her face. She felt both vulnerable and elegant.

Every time she imagined Lord Killian seeing her like this, her belly dissolved into a thousand butterflies. It shouldn't matter what he thought. This whole courting business was a load of tripe. He knew it. She knew it. But how did she get her stomach to understand and stop flipping around like an eel caught in a bucket?

Hannah returned her attention to Philippa. ‘I wasn't frowning at Betty. It's this evening. And the expense you went to on my dress. Silver is such an incredibly dear colour, Philippa.'

‘Yes, so very close to grey, which I know you prefer.' Philippa smiled.

Hannah rolled her eyes, though she couldn't help noting how the material sparkled in the candlelight. ‘I will enjoy knowing I didn't follow Lord Killian's order. But this gown has far too much material in the skirt and not nearly enough anywhere else. I mean, look at these.' She gestured to her chest. The dress was cut in a low scoop neck, exposing Hannah's shoulders and a generous amount of her modest cleavage. ‘Not to mention these sleeves. I can't lift my arms higher than my shoulders.' She picked up the knife and tried to swipe it in a diagonal slash. The sleeves of her gown cut into her limbs, constricting her movement. ‘What am I supposed to do if someone attacks me? I might as well tie myself up and save them some time. I mean, really.'

Philippa's rich laugh was low and melodic. ‘You aren't usually prone to such histrionics. What's the matter, Hannah? Nervous about spending an evening on the arm of Lieutenant General Killian?'

Huffing out a breath, Hannah reached into the specially designed pocket to deposit her weapon with one hand, while she fingered one of the jewels dangling from her ear with the other. ‘Please. I'm worried about losing one of these earrings. They are actual diamonds, Philippa.'

‘I know. They're mine.'

She must sound like a petulant child to the duchess. ‘I'm sorry. Thank you for lending them to me. They are stunning. I'm just not used to…'

‘Showing your beauty? No. You've always been more comfortable hiding behind your dowdy disguise.'

‘By fading into the background I'm free to go anywhere, hear everything.' And no one noticed her. She didn't have to worry about anyone looking beneath the surface at what lurked in her depths. Nothing good lived in those dark waters. There were no boundaries she wouldn't cross to protect those she loved, even if her efforts failed to save them. She was almost as monstrous as the men she hunted.

‘Are you sure that's the only reason you like to be invisible?'

Hannah caught Philippa's piercing gaze in the mirror. Hannah swallowed the words that almost escaped. Words of fear. Words of shame. Ten years wasn't long enough to forget what happened the night the baron had noticed Hannah. That evening ended in bloodshed and death. Hannah had failed her mother. She was supposed to be her mother's champion, but she hadn't stopped the baron from murdering Cynthia Simmons. Failures didn't deserve to wear priceless baubles and dress in fine frippery.

Stokes knocked on the door and pushed it open. ‘The Duke of Covington has arrived. He is waiting in the entry.' His gaze scanned over Philippa and stalled on Hannah.

‘Have you forgotten something, Stokes? Like how to blink?' Philippa raised an imperious eyebrow at her butler.

Stokes cleared his throat. ‘No, Your Grace. Miss Simmons, you look quite ready for a ball.'

‘I don't think she needs your help ascertaining her readiness, Stokes. Tell the duke we shall be down in a moment.'

‘Yes, Your Grace. Although I'm happy to make him wait if you need more time to ready yourself.'

Philippa blinked slowly as everyone in the room held their breath. ‘I'm quite prepared for the evening, Stokes.'

‘Of course, Your Grace. I hadn't realised the newer fashions were quite so garish.' He clipped his heels together and spun, exiting with a noticeable spring in his step.

‘Dreadful man! Betty, let me know if you hear of any butlers looking for a new position. We might have a vacancy.'

Betty looked horrified at the entire exchange. Hannah turned to the maid. ‘Thank you so much. You've done a marvellous job.'

Betty nodded, her white cap bobbing frantically. ‘You do look ever so lovely. And you, madam. Breathtaking, I assure you. I hope you have a wonderful time.' She dipped a curtsey to Hannah, then Philippa before scurrying out the door.

‘That girl can't stand up to the mice in the cupboards.' Philippa shook her head, black hair shining in the candlelight. In contrast to the silver of Hannah's dress, Philippa was draped in hues of midnight and crimson, enhancing the blush of her cheeks and the blood-red stain on her lips.

‘I can't remember ever being so sweet. Can you?' The binding of Hannah's corset tightened as she took a shallow breath. Melancholy settled over her like a shadow in the flame.

‘You are going to be wonderful tonight. You will dazzle the duke, but you will also blend into the pomp and frippery of the beau monde. I think you'll find when one is surrounded by jewels, even a diamond can fade into the background, Hannah. Come. The duke is waiting.' For any other woman, Philippa's words would sound like an insult. But for Hannah, it was a message of hope.

She stood, feeling the weight of her skirts as she followed Philippa to the door.

The duke might be waiting, but Hannah wasn't sure she was ready.

She held her head high and took slow, measured steps down the wide staircase, the rustle of her skirts sounding like leaves in the wind.

He was watching her. She didn't have to look at him to know. The burn of his stare heated her exposed skin. She couldn't meet his gaze. Not yet. She would lose her nerve. Instead, she stared at the train of Philippa's gown.

Hannah reached the bottom of the stairs and he was waiting, his white-gloved hand extended. Finally, she raised her head, looking into Lord Killian's eyes.

It was a terrible mistake.

Scorching fire blazed there. Incendiary. Mesmerising. She was caught like a fluttering creature. Fascinated by what could engulf her.

‘Miss Simmons, you look quite enchanting.' He pressed his lips against her fingers. The firm warmth of his mouth seeped through the thin silk of her glove. She remembered the last time he kissed her hand. Soft lips brushing over bare skin.

‘Bloody hell,' she whispered.

Heat was replaced by a spark of humour in his eyes. ‘You say the sweetest things, Miss Simmons.'