The Mysterious Miss Flint (Lost Ladies of London 1)

“Then I must tell you that your plan has one major flaw.” Oliver cleared his throat in a bid to remain calm, though he feared it was too late. His fingers throbbed with the need for satisfaction. “The only person doing the whipping will be me if you dare speak to a lady in such a manner again. Now explain yourself.”

“Lady?” the man sneered. “She ain’t no lady. She’s a shameless hussy—”

“Curb your tongue.” Oliver’s pulse raced. The roaring in his ears was not a good sign. “I’ll not warn you again.”

“I’ve spent the whole blasted night with that filthy rag stuck down my throat,” the fellow blurted. “I could have choked. I could have died. And she … she tied the rope so tightly I can’t feel my blasted toes.”

The lady looked up and scowled, though the ugly expression did not lessen her appeal. “You cannot compare one night of agony to the six months of misery you’ve caused. You should be thankful I didn’t hit you with the candlestick when I had the chance.”

The man growled. “Why, you filthy little whore — ow!”

The punch was swift, quick, a left-handed jab that lacked the power to take a man clean off his feet. Still, the foul-mouthed rogue stumbled back as he struggled to remain upright. A pang of guilt stabbed Oliver’s chest. Never in all his years had he punched a man incapable of fighting back. And in his rebellious phase, he’d punched a fair few.

A commotion at the far end of the hall captured his attention. A woman came scuttling forward. Her slate grey hair was parted in the middle and pulled back into a severe knot that drew the skin taut across her cheeks. Her eyes were cold, empty pools. No doubt the result of a life filled with nothing but disappointment.

“What’s going on here?” With pursed lips, she scanned Oliver’s pristine attire. From the number of keys dangling from the chatelaine worn around her waist, it was obvious she enjoyed the power that came with the role of housekeeper. A deep frown appeared on her brow as she noted the rogue’s bound hands. “Baxter? What happened to you? Who tied your hands?”

“That is exactly what I am trying to establish.” Oliver was quickly losing patience. He was about to insist on an introduction when Baxter’s temper flared.

“Did no one think to come and find me?” Baxter raised his hands and gestured to the flame-haired siren hugging Oliver’s arm. “They attacked me. They tied my hands and feet and left me in that bloody room all night.”

They?

The woman’s chalk-white face turned a sickly grey.

“Did you expect us to behave like obedient children?” the lady at Oliver’s side said as she relaxed her grip on his arm and stepped away. He felt the loss of her warm body instantly. “Treat a lady like a dog, and she shall behave like one.”

“Like a dog?” The housekeeper scowled, though it was difficult for her to look any more miserable. “Why, you ungrateful wretch. We've treated you as fair as the master allowed.”

“Then the master is an ass,” the lady replied bracing her hands on her hips in defiance.

G

ood Lord. This beauty had spirit by the cart load. Finding a woman with such a level of determination and courage was rare.

“Will someone untie my damn hands before my fingers fall off!” Baxter shouted.

“Silence!” Oliver roared, determined to take control of the situation.

Eyes wide, they all stopped and stared at him.

“Now,” he began a little more calmly. “Heaven knows what is going on here. But this is no way to greet a visitor.”

They continued to stare.

“Your names,” he said in the masterful tone that always commanded respect. “I fear introductions are long overdue.”

The housekeeper raised her pointed chin. “I am Mrs Gripes, the housekeeper here at Morton Manor. And Baxter has many roles — gardener, groomsman, footman.”

And village idiot, Oliver added silently.

He noted the odd glances passing between Baxter and Gripes. From the muttered whispers they shared whenever he averted his gaze, it was evident they were intent on having their own private conversation.

He turned to the lady with the most vibrant green eyes he’d ever seen. Yet they were more than jewels used to attract admirers. Beneath the glittering depths, her gaze was sharp and perceptive, with a level of intelligence he’d not admired in a woman — until now. “Would I be right to assume you are Miss Flint?”

She nodded.

“And your role here is what?” From the way the servants treated her, she wasn’t his father’s mistress or by-blow. For some odd reason, the thought pleased him immensely. Perhaps he’d get to bed the beauty, after all.