There was nothing, he was certain, this vulgar American Pinkerton agent could tell him which he did not already know.
“Of course, Mr. Arden.” Her expression became pinched. “Your men.”
He did not like the implication in her tone. It was true he had been shocked to discover H.E. Montgomery was in fact Miss Hazel Elizabeth Montgomery, rather than the man he had supposed her to be. But he did not entirely object to her being female, though admittedly, he had been taken aback to discover H.E. Montgomery was a woman. Rather, he objected to the notion of being forced to share his power with anyone, let alone her.
Plainly put, he did not like her. He had not liked her when he had supposed her to be Mr. Montgomery, and neither did he like her as Miss Montgomery. The Special League was his now, and given enough time to make reparations for The Incident, Lucien was certain the Home Office’s faith in him as a leader would be restored. The Incident aside, his record was impeccable. He had imprisoned dozens of Fenians since taking on his position, ensuring the safety of the queen’s men, women, and children to the best of his ability.
“I mean you no insult, madam,” he said, making his best effort at kindness, though Lord knew the creature before him deserved none. If she called him Mr. Arden one more time, he would gather her over his shoulder and personally haul her from his home. “What I meant to say, is that I fear the Home Office made the wrong decision in bringing an American agent to London to aid our cause. You are best served in your homeland. Our concerns here are better answered by myself and the agents beneath me. I will be speaking to the Home Office later today, and I am confident they will agree with my concerns in the matter.”
“The Home Office was very clear on the matter when I spoke with them prior to my arrival here,” she said, flashing him a smug smile. “I enjoyed a lovely discussion with the Duke of Winchelsea, Mr. Arden. It is the reason for my tardiness.”
Her revelation sank in his gut like a leaden weight.
“Once again, I would remind you I am the Duke of Arden,” he gritted. “You may refer to me as Duke or Arden or Your Grace, Miss Montgomery.”
She stood abruptly, smile still in place, clutching her satchel as if it were a weapon. “As I said, I will address you with respect when you treat me with the same. Now, if you will excuse me, I find I am plum tired from all my travels. I will leave my journal with you. If you would be so kind as to point me in the direction of my lodging?”
Plum tired.
The woman was a menace. But at least she was leaving at last. The weight in his gut lightened incrementally.
He stood. “I am afraid I do not know your hotel, madam. You may inquire with my butler, Reynolds. He ought to be able to assist you.”
“Oh, I am not staying in a hotel,” she informed him brightly. “I am staying here. With you.”
The hell she was. “That is out of the question, madam.”
“There was a recent spate of thefts at the hotel where I was meant to stay.” She tilted her head, considering him as if she found him pitiful. “The Home Office has deemed it best I stay here, as your guest, until further notice. We cannot afford for my documents to be stolen and find their way into the wrong hands, you understand, Mr. Arden. Now then, will you be showing me to my room, or would you prefer me to inquire with the guard dog?”
He clenched his jaw so hard, it ached.
Abomination, he decided grimly. That was the perfect word to describe Miss Hazel Montgomery.
Chapter Two
Hazel frowned down at the words she had written in her journal beneath the heading Lucien West, Duke of Arden.
Arrogant.
Condescending.
Devilishly handsome.
The last two words did not belong in her catalog, and the sight of them, penned in her own hand, aggrieved her mightily.
Why, it was as if her mind betrayed her.
Whenever she began a new case, it was her habit—a tactic established years ago, at the beginning of her career as a Pinkerton agent, but one which had stood the test of time—to make copious notes on all involved in the case. Suspects, friends, family members, fellow detectives, the law… Hazel recorded everyone, categorized them, studied them. Her mind functioned at its greatest potential when she was organized.
Lists. Her mind wanted lists.
Her fellow agents found her an oddity, she knew. Not just because she was a female, but a peculiar female at that, the sort who had no desire to become some man’s blushing bride. The sort who chose to find her own fortune, her own destiny. The sort who relied upon herself, upon her cunning, wit, daring, and determination. The sort who earned her own money and paid for the bread on her table and the roof over her head.
But strange or not, she had established a history. Not a failed case in a decade, with the exception of one. And she believed, quite firmly, her success was due to the familiarity she had with herself. It was the sort of familiarity which only could be had by years of living on her own, years of depending upon herself. She had learned a long time ago to trust no one else, to be her own best ally at all times.
Hazel had been depending upon herself from the time she was old enough to walk. Had learned to listen to the needs of her convoluted, confusing, complex mind. If her mind required lists, she gave it lists, by God.
One thing she did not do, was allow herself to feel any emotions toward her fellow agents or the suspects she investigated. She had allowed it to happen once, in the early stages of her career, and she would never forget the painful lesson she had learned. There was no place for subjectivity as a Pinkerton agent. Each moment was one of life or death, decision versus indecision, truth warring with deceit, right over wrong.
Proverbs said pride goeth before destruction, and an haughty spirit before a fall, but Hazel believed firmly it was not pride, but rather an inability to see past one’s nose, which caused destruction. She chose objectivity over subjectivity, without fail.
Which was why she put the metal tip of her pen to paper now and struck through the unwanted third item on the list. Heaving a sigh, she dipped her pen back into ink and continued her list.
Devilishly handsome.
Icy.
Forbidding.
Suffering from an abundance of self-confidence.
Yes, there was that. The Duke of Arden thought himself invincible. She had spotted it from the moment she had first set eyes upon him when she had entered his study.
She frowned down at the sudden ink blot, which fell from her nib and marred the page.
“Oh, hell,” she muttered.
Now she would have to tear out the sheet and begin again. The ink stain ruined it all. Hazel tore the bound page in one hasty rip, then crumpled it and set it aside.
She began again.
Lucien West, Duke of Arden.
Arrogant.
Forbidding.
Suffering from an abundance of self-confidence.
Strongly objects to being referred to as “Mr. Arden.”
She could not repress her smile as she wrote the last. Her intentional needling of him had proven fruitful indeed. Not only had it revealed a great deal to her about him, but it had also been vastly entertaining to watch the flush of anger steal over his sharp cheekbones. To witness him shifting in his seat, to note the ferocious slant of his brows, the pursing of his lips, the grinding of his teeth, and the tensing of his jaw.
Yet another necessity Hazel had learned during the course of her years as a Pinkerton agent: always study your fellow agents and detectives. It was the key, not only to working well with others, but to understanding their weaknesses and being able to fill the holes they inevitably left in an investigation accordingly, before it was too late.
And the Duke of Arden possessed a waterfall of weaknesses.
A gushing geyser of them after she’d had enough time to study him and anticipate his reactions. He was surprisingly easy to manipulate. Though, to herself alone, she would admit some of her manipulations had been for her
own pleasure, and had nothing whatsoever to do with her role as his partner.
A role he resented her for obtaining.
He had not been expecting a woman, and he had made no effort to hide that fact. Nor had he expected her to be a guest of his. Her smile deepened at the thought of her most successful manipulation of the duke. The Home Office did not give a damn where she laid her head at night, and she knew it. Nor had there been any thefts in the hotel at which she had been scheduled to stay. But she had been struck as she sat there in Arden’s study, the subject of his unnerving perusal, by the notion she should see how far she could push him.
Staying as a guest in his home seemed an excellent choice.
He had been too polite to deny her. Not an hour earlier, Arden’s butler, a man who seemed to view smiling as a sin, had escorted her to the chamber in which she now found herself. Naturally, though she had extended the offer to him, the duke would never deign to stoop so low as to show her to a room, as if he were no better than a servant himself. His sense of self-importance, likely ingrained in him since birth, would not allow it.
Easily manipulated, she added to her list. No surprise on that account; most men were, especially by fluttering lashes and feminine praise.
Pompous.
Strong.
Damn it all, where had the last item on her list emerged from?
She once more crossed out and continued on.
Strong.
Dark hair.
Emerald eyes.
Possessed of an authoritative manner.
No, this simply would not do. It made the Duke of Arden sound like a marital prospect, and Hazel had decidedly not suffered sailing over an ocean, then riding a train across England, merely so she could find herself a husband. Not only did she not want to marry, but she also had a purpose.
The information she had gleaned when she had posed as Mrs. Eliza Jane Mulligan in New York City would prove crucial to her work here in London. Of that, she was certain. If only her partner was as sure. She thought once more of the manner in which he had carelessly paged through her journal before dismissing it earlier, and returned to her list with a new resolve.
Emerald eyes.
Possessed of an authoritative manner.
Exceedingly rude.
Yes, no question about it, the man was insufferably discourteous. She ought to enjoy outsmarting him as she had, making an utter fool of him. For today, her story would hold true. Likely, by tomorrow, the truth of it would reign free, and she would then find herself landing on her rump after all, just as he had promised.
Had she already written arrogant? A cursory perusal of her list suggested she had. But if there was anyone she had ever crossed paths with who deserved a double listing of the word arrogant more, she could not think of one.
Arrogant, she added for the second time.
A quick, unexpected rap sounded at her door before she could proceed any further.
Some foolishness inside her convinced Hazel it was the Duke of Arden, coming to apologize for his earlier treatment of her. A second knock sounded, and she gave up the effort, simply snapping the journal shut. With a sigh, she stuffed her pen back into the inkwell before rising.
Hazel made her way to the door and opened it, startled to find yet another servant hovering in the hallway before her, this time, a female, who appeared similar in age to Hazel. A ready, if sheepish, smile was pinned to her lips.
“Miss Montgomery,” the servant greeted. “My name is Bunton. I am here to help you in dressing for dinner this evening. May I take the liberty of unpacking your trunks while you are otherwise engaged as well?”
Unpacking her trunks? Either the Duke of Arden believed her flummery, or this was his way of testing her. She decided the answer did not signify, for she traveled lightly—one trunk only—and no one had ever helped her to dress herself since she had been a babe in swaddling. What a lark! But then, this place was called Lark House, was it not? Fitting.
She did not hesitate with her answer. “I do thank you, Bunton, but no. Please advise the Duke of Arden that I will not require his peculiar sense of hospitality. I will do for myself, just as I always have.”
Bunton blinked, seeming uncertain of how to proceed. She lingered on the threshold, speechless. Hazel supposed most guests of the Duke of Arden would be elegant societal lords and ladies, who expected servants, such as the woman before her, to aid them in their unpacking and dressing. What a fantastical notion.
“I am afraid I cannot relay such a message to His Grace on your behalf, Miss Montgomery,” the domestic replied at last, her tone stiff.
“Thank you then,” she tried again, smiling, though she was weary, and she wanted nothing more than to return to her work. “You may go. I am otherwise occupied.”
Hazel had never particularly enjoyed the company of others. Not since Adam, that was. But she would not think of him now, for fear she would spend the rest of the evening wallowing in melancholy, rather than formulating her battle plan.
And a battle plan was precisely what her latest assignment would entail, there was no question of that.
But Bunton was still lingering, her expression fraught with concern. “I was told to assist you, Miss Montgomery, and directly by His Grace.” She looked as if she had been about to say more, but paused, attempting to compose herself.
Hazel’s eyes narrowed upon the poor woman, who clearly lived in fear of her employer. It would seem she had another trait to add to her notes concerning Arden: Tyrant.
“No need to overset yourself, my dear,” she said soothingly. Over the years, her work as an agent had enabled her to hone her skill of reading others, and the woman before her was clearly distraught. “Come along inside then, won’t you? I have already unpacked my trunk, but there is no reason why you cannot have a seat and keep me company.”
Indeed, now that she thought upon it, suffering more social interaction this day would prove most worthwhile, if it garnered her additional understanding of the Duke of Arden. He had made his distaste for her—a female—as his partner apparent. She would need to fight him at every turn to prove her worth, and the more ammunition she had in her reserves, the better it would suit her.
Bunton entered the chamber, closing the door softly at her back. “Thank you, Miss Montgomery. I am new to my position, but I would not like to displease His Grace. The duke has never spoken to me directly before today, and I do wish to keep this post.”
Hazel knew the necessity of earning her bread and board more than anyone. “I understand, Bunton. Forgive me for being churlish. You see, I am not a cheerful traveler. Ships make me ill, and I fear railways are little better. I have landed in an unfamiliar country, and I am tired and disagreeable and decidedly in need of sustenance. I am famished.”
“Dinner is to be served in an hour, madam, but I can fetch you something from the kitchens now if you wish,” Bunton said then, ripping Hazel from the murky distractions of her past. “Regardless of what you decide, we should have ample time to prepare you for dinner, Miss Montgomery.”
Hazel glanced down at her navy gown, one of the finest dresses she owned. She had donned it early that morning, but it was holding up rather well, she thought. Few wrinkles to show for all the carriages and chairs she had inhabited. And it had cost a handsome penny too, as it was made by a fine dress maker back in New York. Handsome gowns were one of Hazel’s few indulgences. Gowns and sweets. And baths. Hot, delightful baths, such a rarity and a delight…
“What preparing have we need for, Bunton?” she asked. “I am already dressed for dinner.”
Bunton appeared crestfallen. “Madam, forgive me. Is this not a day gown?”
Hazel sighed. Her hands itched to return to her journal, to take up pen once more and set the nib to paper. Her work loomed before her like a gaping, voracious maw. There was no more disconcerting time than the beginning of a new assignment, when she needed to lay the foundation, organize her existing knowledge so she could build upon it with her inqui
ries and investigations, brick by brick. Always daunting, yet forever thrilling.
She had no wish to be tormented over a matter as trivial as the gown she wore. “It is indeed a day gown, but a very fine one, Bunton. It will do.”
Bunton’s expression tightened with disappointment. “Very well, Miss Montgomery. Perhaps I may see to getting you a light repast while you wait, if you do not wish my aid in your toilette?”
Guilt skewered Hazel. “I do have one gown, Bunton, which may be a more suitable choice for dinner.”
It was her finest gown, the gown she knew showed off her figure to perfection, cut and draped with skillful precision. Fashioned in rich cream silk moiré, accented with cornflower-blue, and trimmed with antique lace, it had been sent to New York all the way from Paris. The dress had cost so much of her wages, she had eschewed dinner for two months just to pay for the frivolous confection.
Only to never wear it. It had accompanied her on her journey because of its value. She hated to leave the thing behind.
She ought not wear the dress now either. Not for the first time, and certainly not for the Duke of Arden. And yet, something within her longed to feel the luxurious silk against her skin. To don the extravagance she had not dared dream she would ever own as if it were her armor…
“Perhaps you could show it to me, Miss Montgomery? And then, I can see to your hair.”
Hazel frowned. “What is wrong with my hair, Bunton?”
Bunton blinked again. “Nothing at all, Miss Montgomery. It is perfectly lovely as it is.”
She quirked a brow. “But?”
A flush tinged Bunton’s pale cheeks. “But perhaps I could dress it for you. His Grace requested me to aid you, Miss Montgomery. I mean to uphold my duty.”
Hazel’s frown deepened. She was beginning to think she ought to have closed the door neatly in the domestic’s face when the woman had first appeared. If she had, Hazel could have continued on with her solitude and her research. But now, Bunton stood before her with expectations.
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