A Lady's Secret Weapon (2 page)

Ethan chanced a look at Miss Hunt’s conveyance, and thankfully found her footmen’s attention on the clog of carriages ahead and not the scene unfolding behind. Decision made, he finger-combed his hair before facing the marquess’s squinting countenance.

“Good God, it is you,” the marquess said, hanging his head out the open carriage window. “What in blazes are you doing here, dressed like that?”

Striding forward, Ethan opened the carriage door and bounded inside. “Morning, Shev.” Instead of taking the open, back-facing seat, Ethan squeezed in next to his old school chum. “Be a good man and tell your driver to follow the carriage with the green livery.”

Instead of complying, the marquess dug out his handkerchief, flicked it open, and used it to cover his nose. “My word,” he said, the linen muffling his words. “Someone must have tried to drown your aristocratic hide in a vat of Blue Ruin. Either that, or you’re harboring a dead animal upon your person.” He moved to sit on the opposite side of the carriage. “Tell me you did not leave the lush confines of Madame Rousseau’s last night for,” he waved a hand toward Ethan’s attire, “this.”

Ethan began digging items out of his knapsack and tossing them onto the bench next to his friend. “You had disappeared into the depths of the Pearl and Ruby Room, so I had to make my own way home.”

“You’re blaming me for your current dishabille?”

“In a word, yes.” Opening the door, Ethan checked Miss Hunt’s location and gave Shev’s driver instructions to follow. Before sitting back, he drew the window curtain closed, leaving a small opening.

“Are you absconding with my carriage?” Shev asked, sounding more intrigued than put out.

The vehicle lurched into motion. “For a little while.”

He and the marquess had been in each other’s pockets since before either could speak an intelligible word. Shev knew nothing of Ethan’s life with the Nexus, and Ethan went to great pains to keep it that way. Even though Shev had come across his friend in some odd situations—such as now—the marquess seemed content with his less-than-descriptive explanations.

Lifting the tail end of his shirtsleeve, Ethan ripped off the foul-smelling coarse garment and rubbed his hands over his chafed skin.

“What, may I ask, are you doing?” Shev drawled.

Ethan grabbed a clean shirt from the stash of clothes he’d pulled from his knapsack. “Your eyesight can’t be that bad, old man.” Soft linen cascaded over his bare torso, soothing his abraded flesh. He began working on the fastenings of his filthy breeches.

“Really, Danforth, must you do that now?” The marquess peeled back the curtain to peer outside. “What if we’re set upon by highwaymen and they thrust open the door to find you in your smalls? Do you know what that will do to my reputation
and
my chances to continue on with my dissolute existence?”

Ethan pushed his breeches down and removed his stockings. “Have you always had such dramatic inclinations?”

The marquess sniffed and turned away from the window. “Protecting one’s reputation is a constant struggle.”

“You must be very busy.” Ethan drew on fresh stockings.

“I suppose if I ask about your activities,” Shev said, “you’ll tell me to get buggered.”

“You suppose correctly.”

“Why do I bother being your friend if
everything
is a secret?”

“Because of my charming wit?”

Shev snorted. “Please alert me when either your charm or your wit appears. I’d like to make a note of the occasion.”

“Continue along this same vein and I’ll be forced to remove my smalls, too.”

“Good God, Danforth.” Shev leaned away. “No need to threaten me with blindness.”

Ethan sent his friend a quelling glance while he jabbed his feet into the legs of his breeches. Once they were secure about his waist, he fastened the front placard. Then he tackled his neckcloth, tying it into a simple knot, before pulling on a buff-colored waistcoat shot with silver thread. His exertions left a fine line of moisture along his hairline, which he used to help bring some order to his tousled hair.

Spreading his arms wide, Ethan asked, “How do I look?”

The marquess appraised his appearance with a discerning eye. “Like a degenerate viscount?”

“Perfect.”

The carriage jolted to a halt, and a liveried footman approached the window. “What would you like the coachman to do, my lord?” he asked. “The carriage stopped outside 57 Mansell.”

Shev sent Ethan a this-is-your-adventure-not-mine look.

Ethan said, “Drive by slowly, but not so slow as to draw attention.”

Nodding, the footman said, “Yes, sir.”

Seconds later, the slap of reins and the jangle of tack reached Ethan’s ears before the carriage rolled forward at a sedate pace. Anticipation curled around his insides, gliding over each organ with aching slowness, squeezing gently, inexorably.

Number 57 stood at the edge of a long row of town houses. The building’s edifice looked as though it had received special care in the last few years, with new windows and a refurbished limestone portico supported by Ionic pillars. Flowers flourished in tall earthenware urns placed on each side of the entrance. Above the door swung a sign. Ethan squinted to make out the words.

“Hunt Agency,” Shev said near his ear before plopping back in his seat. “Charming. Are you going to finally hire a valet instead of depending on your poor butler for such a position?”

Once they had passed, Ethan sat back. “You’re familiar with the agency?”

“Most households are,” Shev said, with a pointed look. “The Hunt Agency is only one of the most prominent staffing agencies in London. Operated by the iron will and hand of Miss Sydney Hunt. I’m sure your housekeeper can provide more detail.” His eyes narrowed. “What is your interest in the proprietress of the Hunt Agency?”

“Curiosity, nothing more.”

The marquess released a long sigh. “There’s
always
something more with you, Danforth. Are you quite finished with your clandestine activities? I need to be rid of you, so that I might go home and sleep the day away.” He glanced out the carriage window, his head tilted in a way to suggest he was noting the blue sky and bright sunshine. “It’s far too cheerful-looking for one of my disposition.”

Chuckling, Ethan said, “I don’t recall you being so querulous in the morning.”

“And I don’t recall ever having my carriage and person seized before.”

“Then I am glad to be your first.” Ethan draped an arm over the back of the seat and propped a booted foot next to the marquess. He waved his hand in the air. “You may proceed in getting rid of me.”

Ethan thought his friend mumbled “Thank God” beneath his breath before barking out orders to his driver. Would Miss Hunt complicate his mission to find Giles Clarke? Why was she poking around
his
boys’ home, using an alias and acting the featherbrain? Once he figured out their former connection, he would coax the answers to his questions from the lovely Miss Hunt. Of this, he had no doubt. Because that’s what the Nexus paid him to do.

Seduce information from the most beautiful women in the world.

Anticipation unfurled in his chest, the sensation shocking due to its scarcity. How long had it been since he’d looked forward to such an assignment?
Years
. He rubbed the palm of his hand over his tight chest, his thundering heart.

The corners of his mouth lifted into a predatory smile.

“Last one.”

Sydney Hunt accepted the final contract from her assistant. “Five new placements in two days.” She dipped her quill pen into the inkwell. “Is that our best yet?”

“A month ago, we placed six in one day,” Amelia Cartwright said. “Five is a great accomplishment.”

Sydney scratched the pen’s nib across the page. “How is Fanny Talbot adjusting to her new position?”

“Quite well,” Amelia said. “As you predicted, the housekeeper is the mothering sort and has taken little Fanny under her wing.”

She handed the signed contract back. “I’m glad to hear someone else could look beyond Fanny’s infirmity to see all that beautiful eagerness beneath.”

While working as a scullery maid, the thirteen-year-old girl had been brutalized by one of her master’s vicious friends. Shocked by the extent of her injuries, the young earl had ordered Fanny be taken to a surgeon as far away from Mayfair as possible. There, the incompetent surgeon set the bone incorrectly, causing a deformity of the girl’s left arm.

Mac had found the bedraggled, starving girl a few weeks later, trudging down the middle of White Chapel Road, begging for assistance from passersby. Sydney would never forget the day Mac carried the girl into her study. Her chest still ached from the impact, and that was over four months ago.

“Do I have any reference letters to write?” Sydney asked.

“We do have a new request.”

She noted the neutral set to her assistant’s features. After working with Amelia for four years, Sydney had perfected her ability to divine the young woman’s thoughts with nothing more than a glance. But that didn’t stop her from going through her list of questions. She had learned through experience that no one was infallible, not even those she trusted most.

“Male or female?” Sydney asked.

“Male.”

“Position requested?”

Amelia pulled out a sheet of paper from the stack in her arms. “Valet.”

“Previous post?”

“Valet.”

“Reason for leaving?”

“Theft.”

“Did our sources confirm the charge?”

“Yes.”

“No extenuating circumstances?” Sydney asked. “A refusal to pay his wages, perhaps?”

Amelia shook her head. “Mr. Patterson’s been released for the same reason on two other occasions. He does not purloin anything of great value, only small articles he can sell and that are not quickly missed.”

Sydney nodded, expecting as much. “I will not jeopardize the agency’s reputation by providing a letter of recommendation for a sneak. Please inform Mr. Patterson’s sponsor that I am unable to accommodate the request.”

“Of course, Miss Hunt.”

“Good work, Amelia,” Sydney said. “Uncovering damaging information from our potential clients’ backgrounds is time-consuming, but so necessary. Thank you for your vigilance.”

Although Sydney was never miserly with her praise, Amelia’s cheeks flushed. “Thank you, Miss Hunt. I cannot take full credit, though. Mick helped.”

Leave it to Amelia to avert attention away from herself. “I will be sure to thank him as well.”

With her father’s assistance, Sydney had established the Hunt Agency in an effort to improve deplorable working conditions for servants across the city. Many worked from before sunrise to nearly midnight every day, with no time—or only a half day—off during the week. And if that wasn’t difficult enough, the female servants found themselves consistently under attack from not only the masters of the house, but the male servants as well.

Drawing from her father’s keen business sense, Sydney had managed to build a good reputation with her service clients and her hiring clients, a reputation and level of success she protected with her mother’s tenacity.

“When am I—or shall I say, the featherbrained benefactress Mrs. Henshaw—scheduled to resume touring Abbingale Home?” Sydney asked.

“Friday morning.”

“Good,” Sydney said. “We saw so little of the facility on Wednesday and nothing of the boys before the matron was called away.”

“Forgive me, Miss Hunt,” Amelia said. “But I’m still unclear as to how visiting the boys’ home will help us locate the baron.”

“My contact with the Nexus believes there might be a connection between Abbingale Home and Lord Latymer, and I tend to agree, though I’m not sure how as of yet.” Latymer had once been the Under Superintendent of the Alien Office until his too-friendly relationship with the French was uncovered. Now he was a hunted man, with no country, no friends, and soon, nowhere to hide.

A little over two years ago, Sydney had begun sharing intelligence with a Nexus agent. In that time, she had managed to identify a few more of the secret organization’s members. She admired every single one of them, for very different reasons. Ethan deBeau’s image wavered before her eyes. Regret clamped around her throat, making it difficult to swallow. She forced the past away and focused her attention on finding the elusive baron.

“Since we have no one familiar with the inner workings of Abbingale Home, I thought it best to root about myself,” Sydney said. “I’m hoping that I’ll see or hear something that will lead us to Lord Latymer.”

“Miss Hunt, I—”

“I know, Amelia,” Sydney said in a low voice. Even though she had given her assistant leave to use her Christian name years ago, Amelia refused to do so, claiming she could never be so informal with her employer. Sydney suspected her persistence had more to do with maintaining an emotional shield against those around her. “Our involvement in this situation has gone beyond what is comfortable. The more we help the Nexus, the closer we come to their enemies. However, if a child is involved—”

One of Amelia’s rare smiles appeared, interrupting her.

“What is it?”

“Would there were more people like you,” Amelia said, with a sincerity that made Sydney’s chest tighten.

“Like me?” Sydney released an embarrassed chuckle. “Willful? Too obliging? Impetuous? Those are my dear mother’s favorites.”

Amelia raised a brow, as if challenging the woman’s assessment. “Resolute, kindhearted, courageous, intelligent, resourceful, selfless.”

Sydney squeezed her assistant’s hand. “I shall have to invite you to my family’s next get-together so you can defend my honor.” In truth, Sydney’s mother was quite supportive of her efforts at the Hunt Agency. Sydney cringed to think of what drastic measures her protective mother would take if she ever learned of Sydney’s clandestine activities.

Amelia’s lips twitched. “I look forward to the opportunity.”

A knock sounded at the study door. “Come in,” Sydney called.

Mac O’Donnell entered, closing the door behind him. “A gentleman’s here to see you.” He kept his voice low, and his gaze, always serious, could have sliced through steel.

Sensing unwanted news looming at her doorstep, Sydney released the stiffness from her spine and settled back into her chair. Relaxing her muscles always helped her assess a situation more clearly. “Who has come, Mac?”

“Viscount Danforth.”

A wave of dread burned over every inch of her flesh, then a second wave, frigid and slow, crept along in its wake.

Amelia sucked in a sharp breath.

Mac’s gaze flicked to her assistant before swinging back to Sydney. “Should I get rid of him?”

“Did his lordship provide a reason for his visit?”

“He’s in need of a butler,” Mac said. “His current one is on the verge of retirement.”

Sydney sent her assistant a glance. “See what you can find out.”

“Yes, Miss Hunt.”

Amelia gathered her materials and skirted around Mac’s large form; he followed her progress out of the corner of his eye.

“Where is he now?” Sydney asked.

“In the drawing room.”

“Very well.” For what seemed the hundredth time, she tucked a stubborn lock of hair behind her ear. “Let us adjourn to my study below.”

“You’re certain?”

“Yes,” she said. “I don’t believe in coincidences. It’s best to determine what his lordship is about.”

“What if he recognizes you?”

On unsteady legs, Sydney rose and strode around her desk, laying a hand on her bodyguard’s arm. “That’s a very good question, Mac. Let’s see what we can find out.”

Keeping her pace even, she led the way to the first floor. At the end of the stairs, Mac continued down a flight and Sydney veered right to a smaller study she used to meet with clients, or potential clients. Unlike her private study upstairs, everything was in order in this room, tidy and clean. Nothing sat around that could reveal the full extent of the Hunt Agency’s activities. Activities that some might construe as unscrupulous.

Too many people relied on her agency, and she could not afford to make even the tiniest mistake, or many would lose their livelihoods, including her. For those reasons and more, Sydney conducted her day-to-day operations out of a bedchamber-turned-study up on the second floor. The only staff she allowed in her haven were Amelia, Mac, and Mick. When dust balls threatened to overcome the chamber, she would take a break from her paperwork and tackle the cleaning herself.

Sydney pulled papers from the upper drawer of her desk and placed them on the top, scattering them the slightest bit. Then she retrieved some ledgers and laid them on the opposite side. The last item she extracted was a tiny silver bell; this she set in the middle of the desk, just above the ink blotter.

Opening one of the ledgers, she dipped a pen into the inkwell and waited. Before long, she heard her housekeeper’s familiar rapid approach followed by the more solid
thunk
of a gentleman’s step. She began writing.

Her housekeeper rapped twice on the door before entering. “Miss Hunt, Lord Danforth to see you.”

“Thank you, Wells.”

She took her time replacing her pen in its holder before plastering a welcoming smile on her face. Sydney rose to greet one of the few people in all of London who could ruin everything she’d worked for. “Good morning, my lord.”

“Miss Hunt,” he said, with an abbreviated bow, “thank you for seeing me.”

He lifted his gaze to meet hers, and Sydney’s breath caught. Never before had she seen such a riveting shade of blue swirled with an equally captivating green. Sound narrowed to a pulse beat. Thump. Thump.
Thump,
thump, thump, thump
. With bruises, scrapes, and swollen flesh marring his handsome features, he had been compelling. Without them, he was mesmerizing.

She braced her fingertips on the top of her desk, struggling to regain her composure. But she could not stop making comparisons to the last time she saw him, sprawled on a narrow cot in an abandoned building.

Today, broad shoulders tapered down to solid hips. Fawn-colored breeches strained against the musculature of his thighs, and his midnight blue superfine coat set off his wavy sable locks to godlike splendor.

Many a lady had sold her soul for one night in his bed. He made them feel like heavenly goddesses, unearthly creatures made for his love, and the most important woman in his life… at that moment in time. Or so she’d been told. The fingers that were only moments ago supporting her unsteady legs curled into a fist.

Even though she understood the reasons motivating his actions, he still represented everything she despised in a man. Gentlemen such as he walked the upper echelons of society, with money and power at their disposal, and laws at their mercy. They discarded women like they discarded a spent cheroot, while honorable men like Mac and Mick scraped by, day after day.

Sydney would make sure she did not become one of Ethan deBeau’s golden deities.

“Of course.” She slipped a stray curl behind her ear before indicating the lone chair in front of her desk. “Please make yourself comfortable.”

Instead of complying, his lordship cocked his head at a curious angle and his mesmerizing blue-green eyes studied her face.

The very last thing she wanted him to do. She lowered her chin a bit while she took her seat, hoping to break his concentration on her face. Once she was settled, she waved her hand toward his chair again. “My lord?”

“Forgive me,” he said, taking his seat. “You reminded me of someone.”

Sydney forced back a burst of anxiety. “You are not the first to think so,” she improvised. “I seem to have one of those faces.”

He said nothing, though he continued to scrutinize her features with maddening thoroughness.

Releasing a long, slow breath, she settled back in her chair. “Now then, how may I help you?”

The intensity hardening his expression dissipated, and something altogether more dangerous took its place. Something predatory. “As I mentioned to your housekeeper,” he said. “I’m in need of a butler.”

“What is your time frame?”

“Tanner is retiring at the end of the month.”

“Why so little notice?” she asked. “That barely gives you a fortnight to react.”

Glancing down at his coat sleeve, he brushed his fingers over it twice as if removing an annoying speck of dirt. “According to Tanner, his heart can’t take the constant strain.”

“Oh, that is unfortunate,” she said. “I take it you’d like Tanner’s replacement to be in his prime?”

“Not necessarily,” he said. “As long as he knows his duties, I have no care for his age.”

“But what of the strain?”

He stared at her curiously, then the area around his eyes crinkled. “The
strain
Tanner referred to was not in reference to his onerous duties.”

When he did not bother to explain further, she asked, “If not his duties, then what?”

“Me.”

“You?”

“Yes,” he said as if the notion of torturing his butler brought him great enjoyment. “It’s nothing you need to be concerned about for the new butler.”

“I see.” Though she didn’t. She experienced a wave of empathy for his lordship’s old retainer. “So, age is not a concern, but you want Tanner’s replacement to be an experienced butler. Do I have that correct?”

“You do, indeed.”

“What about hair color?” she asked. “Do you wish it to match the other servants?”

He barked out a laugh. When she did not join in, he said, “Please tell me you’re not serious.”

“Some of my clients have very exacting criteria when it comes to their servants.”