A Lady Never Tells (Women of Daring)

by Lynn Winchester

  He held his breath, then let it out. “I cannot help but wonder who you really are,” he murmured, finally finding his voice, a slow burn of anger rising to flavor his words.

  “Ye’ll never know,” she replied, her voice suddenly husky against his ear. At the sound, his body tightened, his blood thickening. He could feel her breasts pressed against his back, soft and yielding to the hardness of his frame.

  With more agility and deftness than he thought was possible, she maneuvered him away from the entry, turning them both so he was facing the desk, his back to the door.

  “Now, count to ten…” she whispered, the heat of her body flowing into him, filling him.

  His anger boiling over, he gritted his teeth, his mind trying to figure out a way to disarm her without hurting her. He’d be damned if a woman bested him—even one as obviously skilled as this one.

  “Do it! Count,” she demanded.

  Sucking in a breath, he did as bid, the anger once again tainting his voice. “One…two…”

  Before he could blink, before he could mount a counterstrike, before he even spoke the word “three,” she was gone.

  …

  Vic mentally screamed every curse word she knew in Mandarin.

  That man might have ruined everything.

  She hadn’t wanted to threaten him, but if he told the earl that one of his maids—the one with the red hair—was in his locked study, she’d be in gaol instead of in her father’s good graces.

  She glanced over her shoulder, peering into the empty corridor down which she’d run. That man could spell disaster for her plans. And damn if he weren’t more than capable of doing so.

  Even watching him as he stood before her, Vic could see the taut muscles beneath his clothes. His coat fitted snugly, allowing her to see the breadth of his shoulders and chest, the trimness of his waist. And the tightness of his buff breeches exhibited the corded muscles of his thighs. It wasn’t just the look of him that told her he was dangerous; it was also how hard and warm he’d been, pressed against her chest. He’d been tense, coiled strength in a gorgeous, distracting, potentially devastating package.

  Gāisǐ de. No more thoughts about him.

  Using skills she’d learned while sparring in the dark with Honoria, she stuck to the shadows, her black dress helping to cloak her from any potential passersby. Too close. She was too close to discovery. The man had ruined her chance to complete her mission today, but he hadn’t completely curbed her intent. After her threat, she doubted he would say a word, but she couldn’t be sure. Which meant she couldn’t put off another attempt at the earl’s study.

  Tonight. She would return there tonight and try again, once all the guests had gorged and danced themselves into slumber. With any luck, the man with the smirk and taut thighs would be tucked into bed with some trollop and forget all about her.

  Vic continued down the corridor toward the empty powder room where she’d stashed her apron and mobcap. She entered and then closed the door behind her. She leaned against it, laying her head back and closing her eyes.

  That man…Richard Downing, only brother to the Duke of Gwynys. She only knew that because she’d read the operation file on the duke, which included information about his connections within the ton and his immediate family. It was easy enough to assume that Downing was at the Banebridge ball to wife-hunt and celebrate the launching of the Season, but was there more to his attendance than that?

  Why had he followed her?

  If his brother, the duke, was worth watching, perhaps Richard himself was somehow involved in the reason behind Vic’s mission at Clouster Hall.

  The Earl of Banebridge was on the list of suspects given to the Darings for their operation, as was the duke… Perhaps they should add Lord Richard to it as well. He’d acted suspiciously, following her and then confronting her in the earl’s study, when a man of his breeding usually would have reported her behavior without getting his hands “dirty.” He hadn’t done that.

  She’d be a fool to think he was sincere in his concern for her well-being, but his admission of being curious about her recognition of him rang true. Drat. She should have been better at hiding her surprise, and she could very well have failed her mission because of it.

  And why did a suspected blackguard have to be so handsome?

  Opening her eyes, she shook her head, trying to rid herself of the foreign and unwelcome sensations.

  So what if the man’s eyes danced with mirth? So what if his coat fitted him to perfection so that the bulk of his muscled arms strained against it when he crossed them? So what if his mouth begged for her inexperienced kisses when it quirked up on the sides? Did it really matter that his golden hair was mussed in a wicked and wholly becoming way, a curl falling over his broad forehead? And why did she even care if his deep, resonant laughter made that place between her thighs clench?

  He could very well be the enemy, which would mean she might have to make good on her threat to silence him. But, until then, she’d steer clear of the much-too-handsome viscount. She had a job to do.

  Operation Imperial Twilight.

  Their foremost mission was to uncover those involved in the higher levels, dictating the activities of the underbelly. Her mission in Clouster Hall was to uncover whether the Earl of Banebridge was involved, and how.

  The operation was also tasked with uncovering where the money came from, where it went, and what the money actually funded. Already, through their work of spying on the back-alley deals, they’d learned that large shipments of unregistered goods were moving through unmarked warehouses. They didn’t know what was being shipped, who was receiving and selling those goods, or where those warehouses were located.

  They had much to do.

  That is a gross understatement.

  Donning her apron and re-pinning her cap to her wig, she left the powder room and headed back into the chaos of the kitchens.

  Chapter Four

  Richard stared down at the debutante and couldn’t fathom what in the world she was going on about. It wasn’t that she was ineloquent or speaking an unknown language, but rather that he hadn’t heard a word of what she’d said.

  Damn, man. He was supposed to be charming and elegant, offering witty conversation to fellow guests, so why was his mind filled with visions of redheaded, tart-mouthed, knife-wielding maids who were obviously not maids?

  She’d been dressed as a maid—then again, when he’d been thoroughly accosted in the earl’s study, she’d shucked her apron and mobcap. Certainly, a maid on a mission for her master wouldn’t remove part of her uniform en route, but then, he already knew she hadn’t been there at the earl’s bidding.

  And he’d be damned if she hadn’t piqued his curiosity.

  Where has she gone this time?

  “Richard?” his friend Michael Bennington, the Marquis of Bendrake, murmured, poking him in his side with an elbow. “Woolgathering, are we?” Michael’s carefully manicured brows arched up, his eyes twinkling. The lout knew he couldn’t care less about the company—he wasn’t there because he wanted to be. “Downing, I say, old fellow, you are about as present as a bit of ribbon in the wind.”

  “Oh, Lord Bendrake, you are a poet,” the woman between them simpered, batting her eyelashes and pressing her hand to her bosom, which was practically spilling from her bodice. Where had he been hiding that he had failed to notice how bold fashion had become?

  Buried up to your Adam’s apple in boredom.

  “He is a poet, is he not, Almyra?” the one simpering woman—Miss Buttertoast? Miss Butterbread? No. Miss Butterworth—said to the other.

  “Indeed, Moriah, a poet for the ages,” Almyra replied, taking her turn at batting her lashes, just so. Michael was grinning like a fool, and Richard felt like one. It wasn’t more than ten years ago when he’d been as eager and easily enchanted as Michael—even more so. At the fresh young age of twenty-two, he’d taken to society like a dog with a bone. But then, slowly over the years, he’d come to
realize that all that glittered in the ballrooms was really a facade meant to cover the many sins of each noble house. Even his own family had left a few buried bodies in their wake, but his brother was trying to make up for it, and in Richard’s own way, he was trying to as well.

  And so, despite how much he abhorred making niceties with Butterbread and her nattering friend, he knew it was a chore that must be endured. For his family—damn it.

  “Lord Richard, are you enjoying your evening?” an aged woman in a bright purple turban asked, sidling up beside him.

  “Lady Ashbury,” he remarked, noticing the woman’s narrowed eyes and pinched lips. “I am pleased to see you in such good health. Lovely as always,” he finished, hoping his flattery would curb whatever it was the dragon wanted to say.

  No such luck.

  “Don’t weigh me down with Spanish coin, Richard. You forget, I’ve seen you in naught but your skin,” she said archly.

  Michael bit back a chuckle, and the two misses gasped behind their fans as if this were the most scandalous thing they’d ever heard.

  “Aunt Margaret,” he intoned, offering the Duchess of Ashbury—his mother’s sister—a welcoming smile. “You know I meant every word.”

  She huffed, but a smile cracked through the carefully made-up mask she often wore.

  “Enough of that.” She hit her fan against his arm. “What is this I hear about you running off after some maid? You are not dallying with the help, are you?”

  Again, the two misses gasped, and he fought the urge to roll his eyes. Michael, on the other hand, was staring at Richard with a curious look on his face.

  Richard sighed. “Nothing of the sort, Aunt Margaret. And any rumor to the contrary is just that, a rumor.”

  She arched an eyebrow. “So, you did not chase after a redheaded maid?”

  “I did,” he answered, seeing no reason to lie about that. He’d only been a concerned gentleman, after all. “I jostled her while she was carrying a drinks tray. When she ran off, I assumed she’d been hurt. I felt it only right that I should see if she were without injury.” That had been part of it, at least. But he wasn’t going to tell his aunt—or anyone—that he’d been intrigued by the redheaded maid with the striking blue eyes and a dagger hidden beneath her dress.

  Because they will think you mad. Admittedly, he wondered if that wasn’t the case already. Why else would he be so drawn to a woman who’d threatened to kill him?

  Examining his face, Aunt Margaret waited a tick before she asked, “And did you find her?”

  “Yes.”

  “And was she injured?”

  “No, she was not,” he admitted, although she’d nearly injured him—having moved so fast she’d been a blur. Who moved like that? Certainly not a housemaid.

  You should tell Banebridge. He needs to know what is going on under his roof.

  Richard knew the Earl of Banebridge was a close, personal friend of Prinny, and for all Richard knew, that maid-not-maid might have been a spy, sent by the French to learn Crown secrets. He struck that possibility from his mind the instant it arose. No… He didn’t know a thing about her, save she was deadly with a dagger, but he did know that there was something…honorable about her.

  Despite his skill with the sword and his greater physical strength, he had no qualms about admitting she could have easily dispatched him and walked away, leaving his body to be found the next day, no one the wiser.

  But she hadn’t.

  He should have called her bluff and immediately reported the incident to Banebridge. But he hadn’t.

  No. Instead of doing as he ought, he’d allowed the surprise and intrigue of the situation to override his good sense.

  At least his boredom was gone.

  “Richard,” Michael drawled, pulling him back into the conversation. “I believe I see Pratmore— I must have a word with him.” Snapping quick bows to each woman in turn, Michael left their small party behind, seeking out the dimwit Avery Jarell, Viscount Pratmore. The two misses followed soon after, offering curtsies to Her Grace and moving off to find a more agreeable pair of partygoers.

  Clearing his throat, Richard asked, “Where is Elizabeth? I figured she would be with you all evening.” His young cousin was experiencing her first Season and was a ball of nerves about every little thing. It was quite a shock not to see the dear girl hiding behind her mother’s skirts.

  Aunt Margaret waved a gloved hand in the direction of the dance floor, where it appeared a knot of snakes was coiling together to the sound of Haydn’s Waltz No.1 in G Major.

  “She is dancing with Lord Summervale.” She craned her neck, looking about the room as if peering into the souls of all present.

  “Aren’t you worried she will make a misstep—literally and figuratively?” He might not like the insidiousness of polite society, but that didn’t mean he didn’t worry about his cousin making a good match. She was the only daughter of the Duke of Ashbury, so she was bound to meet a few bounders and fortune hunters, and it was his duty, as the only familial male present, to make sure she didn’t make the morning papers.

  “Of course I am worried. But I cannot hover if she is to learn. I am of the mind that making every decision for her will only cripple her when she is the lady of her own house.” She sighed heavily. “I cannot abide the thought that she will bombard me with missives begging advice on all manner of household matters. Lord save me from having to tell her how to please her own husband in bed.”

  Richard choked on his own tongue. He knew his aunt was an outspoken woman, but he’d never heard her speak of the…err…marital bed before. It was disconcerting, to say the least.

  “I see,” was all he could muster. Unlike his rather quiet and reserved mother, his aunt was bold, and that was one of the many things he loved about her. Since his mother’s passing, his aunt had been there to pull him out of his deepest grief, oftentimes shocking him into a grin—one he greatly needed.

  Aunt Margaret tapped her fan against her palm and continued surveying the gathered crowds. He couldn’t say why, exactly, but he felt a tension building between him and his aunt. Like the air between them was filling with unspoken words.

  “Richard, your brother is concerned for you,” his aunt spoke again, her voice gentler than it had been before. He gazed down at her, petite yet fierce, and watched her eyes soften.

  He sighed, rubbing his jaw. “I know. He hasn’t ceased telling me how much I’ve changed.” It wasn’t as though he didn’t know he’d changed. He was well aware of how different his life had become. How different he had become.

  But ever since their father’s passing, he and Justin had both undergone a period of introspection. For Justin, it led him to marry and produce an heir—as was expected from the new duke. For him, however, it had led to an overwhelming loss of empathy for those in his social circle. They lived for the pleasure, the moment, only ever caring for what benefited them. It was a startling blow; he had been just like them.

  But no more.

  His aunt placed a hand on his cheek and declared, “We only want the best for you, dear. Your mother loved you so very much. Now that she is gone, I want to honor her memory by watching over you as she would have me do.”

  At the mention of his mother, his heart kicked, drawing the heat from his skin.

  Before he could speak, though he had no idea of what to say, his aunt broke in.

  “The dance has ended. I had better go fetch your cousin before she follows Lord Summervale into a dark alcove and makes me a grandmother.”

  He was biting back a snort of laughter when his aunt swirled her plum-colored dress and headed off in the direction of the dance floor.

  …

  The man slid onto the mattress, a feather bed covered with a counterpane of the softest material. It felt like shards of glass at his back. He groaned, placing the butt of his cigarette against his chapped lips. He took a long, slow, throat-burning drag, wishing the tension in his body would filter out through the smoke rin
g he puffed into the air.

  His body trembled, his hands shaking—a sure sign he was, once again, in the throes of withdrawal. The disgusting cigarettes he’d purchased in India were nowhere near as potent as the opium he’d sampled in Shanghai. One taste had turned him inside out, flipped him upside down, and left him in a quivering mass of euphoric ecstasy.

  He needed more, and soon.

  The pain would arrive within the next hour, pain so horrific it would lay him low for days. Robbing him of thought and voice and leaving him at the mercy of his addiction. But he shouldn’t care…he was too close to losing everything. If he lost it all…well, agonizing pain would be the least of his worries.

  His secrets were much too devastating to recover from.

  “There you are…” a familiar and hated voice murmured from the shadows, the view of the newcomer obscured by the fact that, just minutes before, he’d pulled the curtains shut to keep out the light from the moon burning outside his window.

  “What do you want?” he croaked, sucking in another drag on his cigarette, wishing it were something more potent. It would have to tide him over, though.

  The figure moved into the room, skirting the shadows until they were only feet away.

  “Is it done?” the figure asked, his voice coming from everywhere, echoing through the room—though, in reality, he was probably whispering. Without his sweet opium, the man’s world was louder, uglier, angrier. He just needed one more taste—that was it. One more taste to help him feel the peace of silence…and see the beauty of absolute bliss.

  He closed his eyes, humming, his body writhing with both agony and ecstasy…the hunger for poppy tears woven with the pain of being without it.

  He opened his eyes to find the figure pacing in front of him. Who was that, again? His mind, foggy and yet still frenetic, tried to piece together what the man had asked… Is it done?

  “Yes,” he finally replied, once again closing his eyes. “I delivered the missive, just as instructed. By the time this night is over, he will know what is expected of him.” The poor bastard.