Chapter Five

Honoria took the servants' passage to the back stairs and up to the second floor.

A pair of housemaids standing by the linen cupboard were ensconced in speculation over the reason the widows had put Mr. Flint

at the end of the hall in a drafty old room that overlooked the stables. As Honoria scuttled by, she grinned to herself.

Served him right. The blackguard deserved nothing but misery.

Stealing inside his chamber, she closed the door with a quiet click and leaned against it, taking in the spartan surroundings.

Now what? she wondered, wishing she'd brought a venomous snake to slip beneath the moth-eaten coverlet. Or anything, really.

Yet, as she stood in the quiet space where he'd slept the night before, it dawned on her that she hadn't come prepared to

commit murder. Then again, how could anyone summon an appetite for homicide on an empty stomach?

She sighed and decided to search for damning evidence to use against him instead. After all, if he was going to blackmail

her, then she would blackmail him right back.

Setting down her pail, she went to his bedside table and found a book, the woven red cover worn so thin that no printing or

markings of any sort remained. The first leaf held the title, Awildian Palace , in block print, but there was no author.

Unfamiliar with the title, she was curious about what would have drawn Flint to choose this from the abbey's library. Though, considering it was on the bedside of a scoundrel, it was undoubtedly something risqué. So, of course, she turned the page.

She was surprised to discover that it was a book of verse.

The tumbledown mystic of castle walls

Amidst the hoary frost of early morn

Charmed by the beginnings of a fanciful story, she felt a grin tug at her lips. Flint read poetry? It made him seem so cultured,

perhaps even idealistic... as if he cared about more in this world than ruining her life.

A rush of irritation filled her as she closed the book with a snap. How was she supposed to kill him now that he had depth?

Not that she could have gone through with it. But it was the idea of being able to do it that had filled her with a sense

of control over this dratted situation.

"There has to be something here that I can use against him that won't damn me in the process," she muttered, absently setting

down the book.

Unfortunately, her inner marauder was sorely disappointed. He had few possessions to pilfer. But she left no stone unturned.

Pausing by the washstand, she examined his razor, poked at his shaving soap. Her fingertip came away with a faint residue

of froth. It had a pleasant, spiced scent that curled low in her belly. An image of him standing there shirtless at his morning

ablutions drifted into her mind.

It wasn't until she caught herself distractedly dragging the soft bristles of the brush against her lips that she realized

her thoughts had bolted away from her like a pair of Thoroughbreds on Rotten Row.

She abruptly reined them in and put the brush back.

Crossing to the wardrobe, she found only one change of clothes: a coat neatly brushed, trousers pressed, cashmere waistcoat, shirtwaist and cravat freshly laundered. And yet the scent of him still lingered in the fine weave, especially near the open collar and—

Suddenly, she heard a throat clear behind her. An all-too-masculine throat.

Flint. And he'd just caught her bent at the waist with her head buried inside his wardrobe.

Then again, he hadn't caught her . Not really. He'd discovered a maid-of-all-work. So there was only one thing she could do in a situation like this: put on

a convincing performance.

Continuing her ruse, she grabbed the rag at her waist and began to scrub the wardrobe doors as she closed them.

"Beggin' yer pardon, milord," she said in the cracked voice she also used to portray the witches in the Scottish play. "Thought

to shine yer boots for ye."

"I'm wearing the only boots I have at present. However, since you seem so determined..." Flint walked over to the small

hearth and propped one booted foot on the stones.

She bristled. The very thought of lowering to her knees to perform such a menial task on that cad made her blood boil.

But what else could she do? If she refused, he could easily accuse her of trying to steal from him, take her by the arm and

drag her downstairs to be dealt with. If he did, she didn't know how she would get away without revealing herself.

So keeping her one exposed eye lowered, she shuffled over. Staying in character, she issued a smattering of grunts and groans

as she sank to her knees. Rag in hand, she roughly scrubbed the top of his boot.

When she made an impatient gesture for him to lift the other, he paused to consider. "Hmm... there's a bit more along the

stitching. Work your fingernail into it. Some spit will give it a good shine."

And just like that, murder was back on the menu.

"Done and dusted," she muttered when she finished. Oh, and she was so finished with him!

Standing, she snatched up her pail and went to the door.

But just as she reached it, a hand fell on the wooden frame above her. Then a steely arm snaked around her waist and turned

the key in the lock.

"You aren't fooling anyone, Miss Hartley."

"Dunno any Miss 'artley. Just goin' about me work. That's all."

His responding chuckle was low and deep in her ear and sent a shiver trampling through her as his warm body pressed against

her. She drew in a breath, his scent invading her nostrils in a dizzying rush.

"You're clever." Without warning, he spun her around to face him. Before she even knew what he was doing, he slipped his fingers

inside the neck of her shapeless dress and patted the pillow that served as her hunch. "But not quite clever enough."

The basting stitches gave way with the barest tug of resistance. He tossed the lopsided thing over his shoulder and onto the

floor.

"Blimey! Where'd that come—"

He cut her off. "Utter another syllable of denial and I'll strip you down to your skin to prove you are no charwoman."

"I don't—"

His large hand splayed over her waist, coasted up along her rib cage and settled with unerring accuracy just beneath the gusseted

cups of her corset.

She gasped, her one-eyed gaze flying up to his. Surely, he wouldn't dare. Oh, but by the ruthless gleam in those stormy depths

and that slow smirk bracketing one side of his mouth, she knew that he would do any damnable thing he liked.

Or he'd try, she thought, preparing to lift her knee.

But as if he'd read her mind, he shifted to the side. Using the bulk of his left thigh and hips, he pinned her to the door. Then his large hand altered course, sliding around her ribs toward her back.

Before she'd even managed to lift her hands to his chest to try to push away, he'd already untied her gray apron. His fingers

glided toward the fastenings, his touch skimming the bare skin at her nape.

She swallowed. A plethora of unwanted sensations galloped through her—none of them fear or loathing. At least, she didn't

think so. The feel of his body, so hard against her, made her somewhat sleepy. A peculiar drowsiness settled into her limbs,

and she had the mortifying urge to sag against him.

"Now, either you tell me why you're here," he said, his other hand flipping up her eyepatch so that she was forced to look

into his stormy gaze, "or I'll continue what I've started. And I want the truth, Honoria."

She hated him. Hated the way he said her name. Hated that his tone was low and intimate and seemed to reach a place deep inside

against her will. Hated that his warm breath brushed her lips as his tongue caressed each syllable in a way that made her

crave the feel of his mouth on hers.

Splaying her hands over his chest, she tried to put distance between them. "I came here to murder you."

Her confession drew a pleased curl at the corner of his mouth. The crook of his finger settled beneath her chin, his thumb

coasting along the underside of her bottom lip, making it feel plump and tingly. As if he could sense it, he leaned in.

She shouldn't let him kiss her. Shouldn't let him ease the unwanted ache with the firm pressure of his lips.

Dimly, she saw her own hands curl around his lapels. A breath stalled in her throat, anticipation thrumming inside her like

a promising rumble of thunder when the garden was in desperate need of a quenching rain.

"Mmm... I do enjoy a woman who knows precisely what she wants."

"How splendid for you. But if you think I'm going to kiss you again, then you're sorely mistaken," she said and honestly tried

to mean it.

His brow furrowed. "Again?"

"Just like in Paris." Her reminder was met with a blank stare. "I daresay I must have scrambled your wits quite soundly."

She'd heard other men declare as much after stealing a kiss from her. She, on the other hand, had always been left utterly

unmoved.

Until the night she'd met this scoundrel and felt... well... not unmoved.

"You are delusional, madam. We've never kissed. The only noteworthy incident I recall is when you kicked me with your gargantuan

foot and nearly hobbled me."

She blinked as he straightened and glanced down at her feet.

Wait a moment. Did he truly not remember?

It didn't seem possible. At the very least, the mustachios would have left an impression. Let alone the startling contact

of their lips. The way they'd fit together. And there was the moment when their combined exhalations had melded and the kiss

seemed almost...

She didn't allow herself to finish that thought. All the pleasant heat thrumming through her body turned frigid.

"Is that really the size of your feet, or are you stuffing your boots with straw?"

Was that all he could think about? Her feet ?

Honoria refused to be offended. It didn't matter that he thought she had large feet. The truth was, she did have large feet

for a woman, but she liked herself just the way she was. She certainly didn't require his approval.

"You know, you're the first man to ever comment on them. Which is a shame, really. Just once I'd like someone to be impressed—astounded, even—that I've managed to walk and dance with superior grace on these replicas of the Colossus for the majority of my life."

"Well, that is quite the feat, isn't it."

"Was that your idea of a teasing quip? I think you're better off playing the part of a wretched gambler."

A warning light flared in his eyes as he leaned in to whisper, "Be careful, Signore, or you'll find out just how good I am,

at a great many things."

As he spoke, his lips brushed the vulnerable shell of her ear, the searing heat sending one last lick of sensation through

her, before he took a step back and turned away.

She told herself that her knees weren't wobbling. She simply preferred to lean against the door.

Oscar began to prowl the room, ensuring that all his belongings were where he'd left them. Frowning, he slipped the book of

poetry into the inner pocket of his coat and cast her an accusatory glance. "Find what you were looking for?"

"Where you're concerned, I'm only interested in one thing."

His brow arched rakishly, and his gaze swiveled to the bed.

Honoria huffed. "I meant your untimely death."

He clucked his tongue. "Not here to fulfill your promise of breaking your fast on me, then? Perhaps another time. Although,

if you are planning to return under the cloak of darkness to do your evil deed, then I feel I should warn you." He paused

to shrug out of his coat. "I sleep in the nude."

When he began to unbutton his waistcoat, she wondered if he intended to prove it to her right then and there. He seemed to

be under the impression that all debutantes were missish creatures. Clearly, he hadn't been paying attention when she'd explained

that she'd spent a good deal of time disguised as a man to infiltrate their world. Hardly anything shocked her now.

Except for the fact that he didn't remember their kiss.

"I highly doubt I'd encounter anything worth lighting a candle for," she said, feeling the need to even the score.

And yet as he peeled off the waistcoat, she was unabashedly intrigued. A warmth spilled into her midriff, settling low as

her gaze skimmed over the delineation of muscles revealed beneath the fine lawn of his shirtsleeves. His torso appeared firm,

his stomach flat, waist and hips narrow, lending the eye to fall naturally to the front fall of his formfitting breeches.

Then she heard him chuckle.

"You are such a stubborn creature," he said, crossing the room to his wardrobe. "I have no doubt that you would watch me strip

bare just to prove a point."

"And you would do so to prove yours."

But she felt a blush creep to the surface of her skin as she realized that he was right. She would have watched him. Though,

not to prove a point. Simply because she couldn't seem to help herself. Even now, her gaze followed him, admiring his finely

honed backside.

Distractedly, she wondered why men wore such long coats. It seemed rather unfair.

"Pity that I have no time to indulge you. I am on my way to see the dowager viscountess and did not want to wear the coddled

eggs that my dear aunt threw at me." Then he turned back, that insufferable grin lingering on his lips as he shrugged into

his cashmere waistcoat. "But I'd like to thank you for shining my boots and making them more presentable. Would you like to

button me up, as well? It would be good practice for when we are wed."

Honoria realized that she should have brought a knife. Or a rope. Possibly a club. After all, if one intended to commit murder,

one must come prepared.

Then again, she could simply bash him over the head with her pail. Now, there's a thought. "We will never marry. I will find a way out of this. You will be left floundering, without the help of my family's connections to a duke."

"I see murder lurking in your eyes again. You should learn to quell those tendencies," he said, then lifted his hands in a

gesture of surrender when she gripped the handle of her pail and advanced on him. "In my own defense, I used Longhurst's name

because I needed leverage. If you think about it, I'm sure you'll realize that both of us say the things we need to in the

moment. That is how people like us have learned to survive."

Like us? Honoria scoffed, appalled and ready to rail at him.

And she would have, too, if not for the flash of naked honesty on his face before he turned to close the wardrobe door. She'd

been about to declare that they were nothing alike. That she only lied to ensure her own future. To protect herself. To live.

But that's what he was doing, too.

Of course, he had a more underhanded way of behaving. Yet, would her family not think the same of her if they knew how she

had deceived—was still deceiving—them?

She didn't want to think about the answer.

"Leave my family out of our bargain," she said curtly. "And unlock this door."

Sliding the last button through the hole, he gave her an amused look. "I'm not the one holding the key. You are."

"I saw you take—"

She stopped when he glanced down to the pocket of her sagging apron. He couldn't have. She would have known... would have

felt...

She reached in and her fingers wrapped around the filigree head of a brass key. Apparently, she could have left at any point.

Pivoting sharply, she put the key in the lock. But before she could turn it, she felt him behind her once more, his movements

stealthy as a panther.

"Perhaps," he began as his thieving fingers stole over her fastenings to set her back to rights, "you simply didn't want to admit that you chose to stay in here and watch me undress. I'd be happy to oblige you next time."

"You are despicable," she said, ignoring the flush spreading over her cheeks when his breath stirred the downy hairs at her

nape. She hated that her pulse quickened. Hated the flutter rising in her midriff.

Clearly, she had a stomach full of demented moths.

Skirting around him, she snatched up her hunch from the floor and tucked it beneath her arm. Then, with the dignity of a queen,

she flipped down her eyepatch and made a somewhat less than grand exit.

Her plan had failed miserably. She was no closer to being rid of him than before, and she absolutely hated that he'd bested

her.

She would have to redouble her efforts. All she needed was a new plan of action.

Surely, it wouldn't be too difficult to—

"Oh, and Miss Hartley?"

She nearly leaped out of her skin when Flint suddenly whispered in her ear as she reached the servants' stairs. Whipping around

to glare at him only made him grin.

"Be prepared," he said ominously. "I'm going to take you on a picnic tomorrow."

Before she could utter a caustic refusal, along with a threat to tie a bell around his neck, he was gone like a puff of smoke,

disappearing around the corner.

A picnic? If he thought that she would even consider an outing with a man who...

Her thoughts trailed off as an idea occurred to her.

While Mr. Flint may have an uncanny ability to see through her disguises, he hadn't been so self-assured yesterday in the

morning room.

Hmm... she wondered if her best disguise was no disguise at all. He was just a man, after all. And perhaps all she needed

were her natural feminine wiles to ferret out the information she required to be rid of him for good.