by Renee Rose
“What I am saying is the ineptitude is entirely unnecessary. You think because you have a mark on your face you cannot shine like the rest of them?”
He feared she might slap him for mentioning her splotch, his bluntness well beyond polite conversation.
She flushed and glared at him. “What would you know about my mark?”
He shrugged, maintaining direct eye contact. “I know it makes you unique. I know it brings out the blue of your eye. And I can see you do not find it as beautiful as I do.”
Her face twisted, showing flashes of anger, vulnerability, and pain. She searched his face as if trying to discern his sincerity. “Do you know what they called me as a child behind my back?”
He did not know, nor did he want to know, but she went on.
“Spot. They called me Spot.”
“Are you still that child?” he asked softly. He knew something about distancing oneself from childhood demons.
He could see her retreating before his eyes and wanted to apologize, to say never mind, to lighten the mood. But it was too important to drop.
She swallowed. “Sometimes.”
“Do you wish to continue to be?”
“No,” she whispered.
He bowed to her. “I honor your courage, Miss Hunt, in admitting your shortcomings, which have nothing to do with a birthmark I find beautiful.”
She blinked, the rise and fall of her quickened breath drawing his attention to her creamy décolletage.
They had reached the end of the corridor and turned back in the direction from whence they came.
“I think I shall retire,” she said when they reached the stair.
He bowed, allowing her to walk up the steps first, as it would be unseemly to escort her to her bedroom. He followed twenty paces behind, noting which room she entered. Pressing his ear to another door, he took out his hairpin and picked the lock, entering to do another search. He listened at the door before he opened it to exit, but just as he slipped out, Miss Hunt opened her door, her gaze sharpening as she looked from his face to the door.
She knew it was not his room.
* * *
Why was Lord Darlington in the Winstons’ room? She jumped back into her own chamber and shut the door, her heart pounding. She had known there was something off about him. Was he a thief? What other explanation could there be?
She listened as his footsteps drew closer to her door.
“Good evening, Miss Hunt,” he murmured through the door, as if he knew she leaned against it.
She held her breath, not answering, her heart hammering in her chest. His footsteps moved away, back down the stairs. She exhaled, assimilating what she had just seen with her impressions of Lord Darlington. She considered her obligation to notify Lord Westerfield, yet nothing short of a fire in the manor would make her open the door and go back down the stairs.
…a birthmark I find beautiful.
Warmth still filled her chest from their discussion. So what did she care if he were a thief? He had helped her out of two uncomfortable situations without shaming her and he called her charming and seemed to mean it. But then, a thief would be a good liar.
Still, she did not care. If the Winstons raised an uproar in the morning about missing items, she would not say a word. Lord Darlington, or whoever he was, had protected her from embarrassment; she would do the same for him.
* * *
In the morning she left the manor to take her daily walk. Throwing a wrap around her shoulders, she strode out into the misty air, eager for her favorite time of day, when she could be alone without the distress of interacting socially. She lifted her skirts, taking long strides, breathing in the fresh air. She headed for the woods, where the sounds of birds chattering in the branches called to her.
She slowed when she reached the thicker area, her mind lulled into a pleasant state of little thought. Her foot slipping into a hole came as a total surprise, and when the earth crumbled beneath both feet and she plunged downward, she panicked and let out an ear-piercing scream.
She thought she heard her name being called in alarm by a male voice at the same moment she screamed, but she landed on her back with the wind knocked out of her and her vision turned black.
“Miss Hunt… Miss Hunt… Miss Hunt.”
As she still struggled to regain her breath, quick, capable hands made an efficient examination of her body in the darkness, stroking down the sides of her face, lifting her head to check the back of her skull, traveling the lengths of her arms.
“Miss Hunt?” he asked with an urgency in his tone.
Lord Darlington. Her rescuer once again. She could not catch her breath to answer him. His hands continued their assessment, slipping underneath her to run along the length of her back, then down her legs, ankles, and feet. His touch was feather-light, but sure, as if he frequently checked the limbs of ladies who had fallen into… where had she fallen?
“Miss Hunt, Miss Hunt, Miss Hunt,” he breathed again, more to himself than to her. The hands returned to her torso, and to her shock, his fingers slipped inside the neckline of her dress, grasping the bodice of her dress and stays.
“What are you doing?” she croaked.
“Oh!” he exclaimed, yanking his hands back and then laughing. “I was trying to loosen your corset so you could breathe,” he explained, his voice still filled with mirth. “Forgive me! Are you all right? No—do not try to move yet,” he said, his hands stilling her as she tried to sit up in the darkness.
“I think I am unhurt,” she said. “My breath was knocked out of me. Where are we?”
“I believe it is a natural opening in the earth caused by the old tree roots rotting away. We are under the tree in a sort of earthen cave, I suppose.”
She blinked up in the only direction of light, which appeared to be a good ten feet above them. “How did you get here?”
“I saw you fall and I followed. I am Darlington, by the way, if you have not guessed.” He threaded one hand behind the nape of her neck and assisted her in sitting.
“Of course I guessed. Who else has such all-consuming interest in the state of my corset?”
Darlington laughed, the deep rich sound of genuine male amusement. His hand stroked up and down her back as if he were still checking for cuts and bruises. “Any pain?”
She groaned. “Yes… no, not really. Just stiffness.”
“Sit for a moment until you are certain you are unharmed,” he instructed, his hand traveling to her nape, where his fingers lightly stroked her neck. It was too intimate, yet in the darkness, where he had been using his hands to see, it seemed a natural transition.
“How will we get out?” she asked, her voice wavering.
“Oh, I imagine I can boost you out. And if I cannot manage to climb out on my own, you can go for help,” he answered, sounding completely nonchalant about their dilemma. “Are you ready to stand?”
“Yes, please,” she said.
He lifted her to her feet before she could even begin to help herself. Stepping under the opening above them, his form came into view—strong, confident shoulders squared the top of a sturdy frame. She walked over to him.
“Well, if I boost you straight up, you should be able to catch hold of the tree roots up there—do you see them?”
“Yes.”
He knelt down. “Sit upon my shoulder.”
“Oh!” she exclaimed, grateful the darkness would hide the blush she felt rise to her cheeks. She gingerly perched one side of her bottom on his shoulder, holding his opposite shoulder with her hand.
His arm looped around her waist and held her snugly against his neck as he lurched to his feet. She gave a tiny shriek at the wobble, then giggled in embarrassment.
“All right, Miss Hunt. Can you reach anything at all this way?”
Fear made her reluctant to let go of his shoulder, so she reached with her left hand, waving it without actually looking up. Darlington shifted his feet, making her jerk in fear again.
“I have you,” he soothed. “I will not let you fall, I promise. Go ahead and look up to grasp a root.”
His coaxing voice made her realize her foolishness. “Forgive me,” she said, feeling like a goose.
“There is nothing to forgive,” he said without any sign of impatience, though she must be crushing him in the unbalanced way she sat side-saddle on his shoulder.
She looked up, holding her breath as she reached with her right hand and snatched a root. She caught it on the first try and exhaled. But even with the root in her hand, she could not see how she might climb out.
Lord Darlington grasped her feet and began to push them up, as if she might stand in his hands. Like when he lifted her to stand from the ground, she did not even have time to try to help herself before he boosted her into the air. She clutched at the roots, reaching higher to use her arms to climb out as Darlington propelled her from below.
She reached the soft ground above only to find it crumbling beneath her, sending a cascade of dirt down upon her poor rescuer. “Oh!” she shrieked.
“Keep climbing,” came his calm instruction.
She obeyed, wriggling her way forward on her torso until she reached more solid ground. She lay there panting, her heart beating a frantic, irregular rhythm in her chest. “I am out!” she called when she caught her breath.
“Yes,” he said in an easy tone, as if being patient with her for stating the obvious.
“I will get help straightaway!” she called down, guilty at being free whilst he remained trapped.
“Thank you,” he said, sounding unconcerned.
She scrambled to her feet, brushing off her skirts and rushing toward the manor. When she reached the edge of the trees, she looked back to mark the area and stopped, flabbergasted.
Lord Darlington sauntered toward her, a grin on his face as if nothing had happened.
Chapter Two
“What do you have to report?” he asked Smith and Jenners when he returned to his room before breakfast.
Jenners flopped across his bed in a blatant show of un-servitude. “We have not found anything in any of the servants’ things—searched them all. Not much for gossip, either, but I have not found anyone with too loose a tongue yet. I am still working to that end. How about you?”
“I have only searched three of the rooms so far. This morning I saw Miss Hunt going out by herself so I followed, but it turned out to just be a solitary walk.”
“I do not think it is Miss Hunt. Is she not the daughter of the wealthy shipbuilder Thomas Hunt?”
“Is she?”
He felt cheered to hear it—eager to move her from his suspect list to the top of a very different catalog. Truth be told, he had never courted a woman. His work kept him busy, and his father’s example as a husband and parent put him off the entire family idea. But the fascinating Miss Hunt had him hungry to spend more time with her.
He filled Smith and Jenners in on everything he had learned about the guests and their backgrounds and headed down to the dining room to eat.
“Here he comes now,” Miss Hunt said, looking up when he entered. She sat next to Lady Westerfield, whose talents at clever conversation seemed to have drawn out his quiet friend.
“Lord Darlington,” Lady Westerfield exclaimed. “I have just heard of your gallant rescue of poor Miss Hunt this morning!”
He caught Miss Hunt’s eye, giving her a wink and watching a rosy blush bloom across her cheeks.
“How are you feeling now?” he inquired.
“A little bruised, but otherwise unharmed. Thank you, again, for your timely arrival.”
He smiled. She had already thanked him in private when he caught up to her after climbing out, but seeing her speaking out so the entire table could hear, without her hyperventilating, warmed him. He sent a silent thanks to Lady Westerfield for her social dexterity with so many different people. Her husband did not possess the same gift, at times appearing as if he would like to disappear, yet he made an admirable host simply through his obvious devotion to his wife, their hostess.
After breakfast, Lord Westerfield invited him on a hunt with the rest of the gentlemen. He went along, trying to get a sense for each man. He could not manage to get away from the group to continue his room search until they had returned and joined the women on the lawn for a game of bowls.
Excusing himself, he went upstairs to pick another lock and investigate the room’s contents. He managed to thoroughly look through four rooms before he heard the sound of voices entering downstairs and slipped out of the room, walking out the back door to circle the manor and follow the group in. Miss Hunt trailed near the end of the gathering, looking at him curiously. She had said nothing about seeing him leaving someone else’s room the night before, but something in her look told him she knew it had not been his room.
“Lord Darlington!” Miss Winters exclaimed. “Where were you? I so wished to play bowls with you.”
“I checked on my horses and then had a bit of a stroll.”
“Seems like you are always disappearing,” Lord Auburn said, his suspicious stare causing his skin to prickle.
“Am I?”
“Yes, you are,” the younger Miss Winters cried. “Last night you disappeared for the parlour games and then today you did not join us for bowls. Do you not enjoy the games?”
He forced himself to smile, wishing the foolish ladies would leave it.
“Lord Darlington was kind enough to accompany me on a short stroll,” Miss Hunt said, lifting her chin as if daring anyone to contradict her.
His heart made a strange lurching leap. What was she about?
“Oh!” Miss Winters said, looking taken aback. “How nice,” she added stiffly, picking up her pace to leave them behind.
He offered his arm to Miss Hunt moments before they stepped through the narrow kissing gate. His eyes slid to her as their bodies drew closer to fit through, his imagination leaping to the thought of kissing her.
She peeked up at him from under her lashes as if having the same thought, her rosebud lips parting. He paused as they reached the opening, causing her mouth to fall farther open in alarm.
“I am not going to demand a kiss,” he said, amused.
Her cheeks colored.
He looked in the direction of the manor to make sure the rest were out of earshot. “Why did you lie for me?”
Her gaze sharpened, studying him with the intelligence he saw in her when she observed others. She shrugged, her delicate collarbones narrowing and lifting her cleavage.
He waited for more.
“You are not Lord Darlington, are you?” she asked. “I saw you coming out of the Winstons’ room last night. What are you, a thief?”
“A thief?” he demanded, incredulous. “You lied to protect a man you believe is a thief? Someone ought to take you over his knee!”
“Someone?” she asked, as if clarifying who he meant.
The idea of being her disciplinarian leaped into his mind, turning his cock rock hard. He tugged at his cravat, too hot under her azure gaze.
“Miss Hunt,” he said, his voice sounding hoarse. “I am not a thief… but I am flattered you were willing to lie for me despite your belief. May I ask why?”
Her bold gaze faltered, lashes fluttering and her eyes dropping to his collar. “I felt I owed you, after your kindness to me.”
He wanted to grasp her shoulders and shake her—no, he wanted to take her over his knee and give her that suggested spanking for thinking so little of herself.
“I did not act out of kindness,” he said with heat.
She lifted her gaze back to his face, looking uncertain.
“Miss Hunt, you are an intelligent woman. Have you not yet deduced I am interested in you?”
She touched her chest as if she struggled for breath.
“I am not Lord Darlington, but I can assure you I am a respectable gentleman and Lord Westerfield knows my purpose here. When the Ides of March has passed, I would like very much to
begin afresh with you, as my real self, and court you back in London. Would you allow me to call?”
She fisted her corset at the waist, pulling it open as if to catch her breath.
“Please?” he coaxed, flashing a charming smile.
“I suppose it depends on who you really are,” she said, sounding breathless, but he thought he saw only admiration in her eyes.
“Fair enough,” he said, giving her a wink. “Shall we?”
* * *
She searched the trunk a second time, running her fingers along the lining, peeling it back to peer beneath it.
Nothing.
Could the plans have slipped out? She needed to find them immediately—Miss Hunt would be back from her walk soon. She searched the wardrobe, looked under it, removed and replaced everything in the trunk once more.
Still nothing.
Her heart pounded in her chest. They had been found. By whom? Miss Hunt? Had the man she was supposed to sell them to stolen them to avoid paying? Or had they been found by someone else? Someone from the government? A spy, perhaps?
But that was precisely why she had hidden them in Miss Hunt’s trunk, rather than with her own things. Although perhaps Miss Hunt was an even more likely candidate for having and selling war ship plans than she. She slapped her forehead. “Stupid, stupid!” she muttered. Of course she should not have hidden them in the shipbuilder’s daughter’s things. It would be the first place someone would look.
She needed to leave at once, before someone put it together that she had stolen secret plans from her employer. But where would she go? Gottard would kill her. He would think she had taken the money for herself. Unless she hung from the gallows for treason, he would never believe she managed to lose the plans before she could sell them.
But damn him, anyway! Leaving all this cat and mouse business to her. Her job had been to steal the plans—he was supposed to sell them. But then his middle man had found a buyer and the location for the transaction had been set at the Westerfield Ides of March ball. And of course, only she, as Eliza Hunt’s maid, had access to such an event.