Her hands seized the pot not a moment too soon, her mind grimly taking note after she had finished retching, that even the Duke of Arden’s chamber pot was fancy.
“Where is Miss Montgomery?”
Lucien knew a momentary spear of guilt, sharp and stinging, in his chest before he squelched it. He had no cause to feel guilt, he reminded himself, when the infernal woman had deceived him and cozened her way into staying at his home.
Careful to keep his face an expressionless mask of impassivity, he met the gaze of the Duke of Winchelsea, his primary contact at the Home Office, and the man responsible for saddling Lucien with The Abomination, which was how he vowed to think of her from this moment forward. It was far safer to think of her in those terms, after all, than to think of her as Miss Montgomery.
If he called her The Abomination, he would not be forced to recall the way her silk gown had clung lovingly to her generous bosom and sweetly curved waist. Nor would he recall her warmth, that suppressed feminine flesh heating his hand through her bodice, when he had escorted her to her chamber last night. She had not been wearing a corset, and he could not fathom how a dress could hug her body so well, without the boning and lacing which seemed to be the standard armament of all females.
Damn it, there he went again, thinking about The Abomination’s lush form.
“Arden?” Winchelsea repeated, his irritated tone cutting through Lucien’s tortured musings. “Have you received word from her this morning? When last we spoke, she assured me she would be here this morning at ten o’clock.”
Though Winchelsea was a diplomat, his demeanor was often haughty and detached. Lucien resented the extension of the Home Office’s power into the Special League under the aegis of the duke, and he suspected Winchelsea resented him in equal measure.
He extracted his pocket watch and glanced at the time. “I am afraid I have not, and it would appear she is one quarter hour late.”
Because he had gotten her thoroughly soused the night before, refilling her port glass until she had no longer resembled the determined detective who had appeared in his study. Until she had been glassy-eyed, giggling, and hiccupping. Until she had required an escort to her chamber, and he had given her one, and she had clung to him like a lover, her breasts crushing into his arm.
Her nipples had been hard. He wished he had never discovered the revelation. He also wished he was not thinking of those tempting peaks now, as he was seated across from the Duke of Winchelsea.
“This is most distressing,” Winchelsea offered, his tone grim.
Lucien silently agreed. Thinking of The Abomination’s breasts was not just distressing, it was the height of lunacy. But he and the duke were ruminating upon different matters entirely.
The door opened before he could gather his wits enough for a response, revealing none other than The Abomination herself, dressed in a somber gray gown, which failed to perform the same feats as her dress the previous evening at dinner had. Thank Christ for that. She wore the same jaunty hat upon her head she had worn for his first meeting with her, and she strode into the room with the same sense of purpose.
But there was no mistaking her pallor. Guilt attempted to break free inside him once more as he recalled helping her find the chamber pot the night before. A servant could have done just as well, but The Abomination had been clinging to him with the persistence of an ivy vine, and he had been responsible for her sorry state. He wondered now if she had spent the morning casting up her accounts.
And then he brutally reminded himself of the discovery he had inadvertently made during innocent conversation with the Duke of Winchelsea. The Abomination had been assigned a room at a hotel. She had not been ordered to stay at Lark House, which meant her story about thefts at the hotel had been pure fabrication. Which also meant she had deceived him with malicious intent. If anything, she deserved the punishment she had received this morning. After all, he had not poured the bloody port down her gullet.
Belatedly, Lucien stood in deference, along with Winchelsea, as she sailed across the office. Just as she had the day before, she marched forward, hand outstretched. The duke accepted her handshake with nary a hint of hesitation.
“Forgive me for my lack of punctuality this morning, Your Graces,” she said. “I fear I did not allow sufficient time to arrange for my transportation. With no omnibus nearby, I had to hire a Hansom cab instead.”
Had the woman truly imagined she would find an omnibus outside his door? And was it Lucien’s imagination, or was her honeyed drawl dipped in an extra coating of sugar for the Duke of Winchelsea’s benefit? And why had she yet to glance in his direction? Her bright gaze was settled upon Winchelsea with the fervent dedication of a lover.
That thought gave him pause. Frowning, he cast a glance over Winchelsea. He was a man in his early thirties with a reputation for being rigid, harsh, and unforgiving, one wife in the grave, and if Lucien recalled correctly, a daughter. The man was unyielding and cold. Hardly the sort a woman who bore the personality of a gale of wind would be drawn to. Surely she was not interested in the duke?
“Perhaps you ought to have risen earlier,” Lucien suggested to her, his tone cool, for he could not suppress his irritation.
Her presence was an anchor in the room, and Lucien had done his damnedest to make certain she would fail to appear. But appear she had, and even in her shapeless dress and ashen complexion, Winchelsea was looking upon her with undisguised appreciation. Indeed, it was the warmest regard Lucien had ever seen the devil cast upon anyone. Worse, she continued to invade his own thoughts, and his arm would not forget the graze of her nipples. Nor would his mind stop wondering if she wore a corset today.
Blast. She had, it would seem, thwarted him once more. Perhaps abomination was not a strong enough descriptor.
The woman was a plague.
A pestilence.
An interference he neither wanted nor needed.
Her gaze flicked to his at last, and the anger he saw sparkling in their depths was unmistakable. He had prodded her with his words. Goaded her even, and had issued a challenge. Surely she would pick up his tossed gauntlet in acceptance and announce to the Duke of Winchelsea what Lucien had done to her the previous evening. For, thorn in his lion’s paw or not, Miss Montgomery was a smart woman. By now, she would have realized what he had been about. She would have known his machinations had led to the sickness roiling in her gut.
“I fear I was more exhausted from my travels than I had realized, Your Grace,” she told him sweetly. “Sea voyages require a fortuitous constitution. Next time, I shall be armed with the weapon of experience, however. I shall not fall prey to such naïveté.”
He understood the double meaning in her words and the challenge in her frank stare. She was not going to tell Winchelsea Lucien had foisted so much port upon her the night before, she’d spent the morning undoubtedly on her knees before the chamber pot.
Part of him rather wished she had, for then they could dismantle this farce, and he could convince Winchelsea and the rest of the Home Office he had no need for a partner. Specifically, that he had no need for The Abomination, a woman who had allowed her pride to lead her foolishly into his trap on the very night of her arrival in London.
“I have no doubt your voyage was arduous, Miss Montgomery,” Winchelsea said, the picture of a beau flattering the lady he had asked to dance at a ball. “Fortunately, you are here in London for the foreseeable future, and I am sure time and some proper rest shall aid you.”
Good God, was Winchelsea courting The Abomination? Had he chosen her for the position based upon having seen her photograph? Had the Duke of Winchelsea met her during his trip to New York City in the wake of The Incident? Perhaps that was the reason Arden had been given such a bloody curse.
Lucien must have made a noise of disgust, for The Abomination and Winchelsea both looked at him askance. Though the urge was a childish one, he was struck by the sudden desire to point a finger at the bane of his existence and ann
ounce she had been late on her first day due to over-imbibing his port. Clearly, the woman brought out the very worst in him.
He swallowed, and when he finally forced himself to speak, he was unable to entirely expunge the bitterness from his tone. “Let us have a seat and carry on with the meeting, shall we? I have urgent matters requiring my attention today.”
“As do we all, Arden,” Winchelsea reminded him coolly, an edge of chastisement to his tone.
Lucien bristled, but he said nothing, for the man was his superior, and whilst Lucien had once believed the duke possessed relatively little authority over the League, he had discovered quite differently not so long ago. Of course, Lucien had never almost managed to get one of his own men killed before, never mind the man was a peer of the realm, the Duke of Strathmore. And Lucien’s brother-in-law.
Lucien sat, as did The Abomination, with her standard lack of grace. He’d had occasion to watch her seat herself thrice now, and each time was just as sudden and artless as the last. She sat as she did everything, as if she were waging war.
An odd female, to be sure. Why he chose that moment to once more recall the curve of her waist in his palm and the silk-covered abrasion of her nipples against his upper arm, he could not say. His reaction to her was baffling.
“Now then, Miss Montgomery,” Winchelsea began with an overly familiar smile—a bloody smile—aimed in The Abomination’s direction. “Your reputation precedes you as an incredibly successful Pinkerton agent, and the history of your cases is impeccable, as is your work with the Emerald Club.”
“Thank you, Winchelsea,” she said, a becoming flush finally giving her pale cheeks some color.
Lucien gritted his teeth, tamping down a caustic reply. Was The Abomination batting her eyelashes at Winchelsea? Lord God, if this entire forced partnership was founded solely upon the Duke of Winchelsea’s desire to get beneath Miss Montgomery’s cursed skirts…
“Have you finished familiarizing yourself with Miss Montgomery’s work with the Emerald Club, Arden?” Winchelsea asked then.
Damnation. Of course he had not, because at the time he had received them, along with the devastating information he would be forced to accept a partner in running the Special League, he had been certain he would not need to bother acquainting himself with the background of someone he would see dismissed posthaste.
And nothing had changed, other than the unexpected realization that H.E. Montgomery was a woman.
A woman with responsive nipples and beautiful eyes.
Decidedly unwanted thought, that.
Lucien forced himself to answer Winchelsea. “I have worked my way through most of it, yes.”
“And?” Winchelsea prodded.
“I have only just provided him with my notes,” The Abomination chimed in. “They are far more detailed in their reporting than the summaries the agency provided to you previously. I expect the duke will require some time to pore over my copious scribblings.”
Lucien’s gaze swiveled to her. She tilted her head, regarding him with such intensity, the need to look away gripped him. Once more, she was smoothing things over. Making no effort to blacken his eye before the Duke of Winchelsea. This too was unexpected.
He did not like being taken aback, and it seemed for the past few months, his life had been rocked by one surprise after the next. First, his incorrect belief the Duke of Strathmore was a double agent, when in truth, the man he had taken under his wing was the true traitor. Then, his sister Violet, not just taking up the cudgels for Strathmore, but running away with him and marrying him.
The discovery, too late, that his own trusted man, Swift, had betrayed him. The inevitable reaction of the Home Office to his failure. Learning he would share his duties with a partner. Discovering the partner in question was a female. It never seemed to end.
But now, Miss Montgomery—correction, The Abomination—was surprising him as well. He especially did not like being surprised by his enemies. And he had no doubt the woman staring at him now was his foe. He recognized the hunger burning inside her. If he let her, she would not just share the reins with him, she would steal them from his hands and drive the carriage herself.
Straight into the ditch.
“I am certain Arden will devote himself to the task of reading your notes, Miss Montgomery,” Winchelsea said pointedly, casting a sharp glance toward Lucien. “We are fortunate indeed to avail ourselves of the incredible mind and investigative abilities of Miss Montgomery. I trust the knowledge she brings us will enable us to make further arrests and secure the safety of not just London, but all England as well.”
Winchelsea wished to avail himself of far more than The Abomination’s mind and skill as an investigator. That much was apparent to Lucien. The ordinarily unflappable, relatively quiet, always serious duke had transformed into a smiling, blistering-eyed Lothario, who could not seem to wrest his gaze from Miss Montgomery for any length of time. His admiration was clear.
For a brief, sickening moment, Lucien wondered if perhaps The Abomination had ever sought purchase against the Duke of Winchelsea’s wiry frame when she was not wearing a corset. If Winchelsea too knew the sensation of her generous breasts and her tight nipples grazing his arm. Had the duke kissed her? Had he already been beneath her skirts?
Because he could ill afford to exercise his anger, Lucien forced the unwanted thoughts from his mind. He could not worry nor wonder. And even if Winchelsea had already found his way beneath Miss Montgomery’s skirts, what effect did it have upon Lucien? He was still just as determined as ever to rid himself of her.
“I trust your judgment,” he said to his superior.
That, too, was a prevarication. But a necessary one. Lucien possessed enough experience with Winchelsea to know the man expected resolute loyalty.
“I am deeply honored by the faith you both place in my abilities,” The Abomination said then, drawing Lucien’s attention once more.
She was still pale, but also beautiful. Her neck was a smooth, elegant column. Her creamy skin called for a mouth. Her dark hair was swept into a haphazard chignon beneath her hat, but the rushed style did not detract in any manner from her allure. Even in her loose-fitting, unattractive gown, her inherent loveliness shone through. He could not seem to cease staring at her throat now that he had begun. Could not stop imagining pressing his lips there, his tongue flicking over her skin to learn the taste of her, the fragile beat of her heart beneath his mouth.
He did not want to be having these thoughts, did not wish for one moment to feel his cock stir as he sat before his immediate superior on an uncomfortable chair in Winchelsea’s office. And yet, The Abomination met his gaze without hesitation, the blue of her eyes sinking into him like a blade.
“I have nothing but faith in your abilities, Miss Montgomery,” he offered smoothly.
“In that, we are in complete agreement, Arden,” Winchelsea said, sounding pleased.
Lucien noted the man’s eyes had never once strayed from Miss Montgomery. And why should they? She was an entrancing woman. There was something about her which was quite unlike any lady Lucien had ever encountered: an assuredness, a confidence. She did not make any apologies for herself and who she was. Had she not been chosen as his unwanted partner, perhaps he would have been capable of appreciating her more. As it was, he dared not allow himself to feel even the base rush of lust which coursed through him whenever he was in her presence.
He told himself his reaction to her was foolish. After all, he had proven to himself this woman was not untouchable. She was susceptible to pride, to suggestion, to manipulation. Not the picture of womanly perfection Winchelsea would paint her. Not the solution to the dire straits in which they now found themselves, as the Fenians and their push for Irish Home Rule, by any means, grew more vociferous by the day.
“I am humbled by your faith in me,” The Abomination said then, and while there was a distinct note of humility in her tone, he could not help but doubt her. “I hope I can prove myself to
the both of you.”
“I have no doubt you will,” said Winchelsea with confidence, his statesman’s smile and his gaze both fixated upon Miss Montgomery.
Everything Lucien longed to say roared through his mind, demanding to be said, and yet he subdued it all. Banished it. Forced himself to be polite.
“I second that sentiment,” he told Winchelsea, as they all three got down to the business at hand.
But like his superior, Lucien’s eyes were firmly upon Miss Montgomery when he spoke the words.
Chapter Four
Because her head was still aching as much as her pride, Hazel decided the best course of action was to ignore Arden. Following her meeting with the duke and Winchelsea, she slipped away and left the building, intent upon hiring another Hansom cab to take her back to Lark House, so she could pack her belongings and make her way to the hotel. Arden had proven himself a worthier opponent than she had initially supposed, and she did not like it.
He had made a fool of her, in fact.
And Hazel did not like that either.
“Miss Montgomery,” his familiar baritone called out from behind her.
She spun about, somehow unprepared for the imposing sight of him, although she had just spent the better part of two hours in his presence. Even on the busy London street, he stood apart. He stared at her in that rude fashion of his, his gaze impervious, looking at her as if she were beneath his notice. An irritant. A pebble which had worked its way into his shoe.
“Mr. Arden.” This time, she did not force a smile as she acknowledged him.
Nor did she bother to hide her displeasure. This man was her enemy. He had made that more than apparent when he had plied her with port the previous evening. His clear intention had been getting her so thoroughly drunk, she would be incapable of attending their meeting this morning.
But she had thwarted his labors. It had required a Herculean effort on her part, but realization had settled in after her stomach had stopped heaving. She’d splashed cold water on her face and dressed in haste, vowing to never again drink another drop of port so long as she lived.
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