Desire (Notorious 3)

her gown when a whisper-soft rap sounded on the door.

“Yes?” Brynn said, inviting entrance.

The door opened slowly, and a young, blond-haired woman in servants’ attire inched into the room, her gaze focused meekly on the Aubusson carpet.

“I am Meg, milady,” she murmured in a thin voice that quivered with nerves. “Mrs. Poole sent me to assist you.”

“Thank you, Meg, but you may tell Mrs. Poole that I don’t require assistance.”

To Brynn’s startlement, the maid’s lower lip began to tremble. “Is something wrong, Meg?” she asked in concern.

“Please, milady,” Meg pleaded, giving her an almost desperate look. “Don’t send me away, I beg you. Mrs. Poole will think I have displeased you.”

Seeing that the girl’s distress was genuine, Brynn felt her heart warm immediately. “You haven’t displeased me in the least, Meg,” she said gently. “It is only that I have been accustomed to caring for myself. My family has been in rather straitened circumstances lately, so I have had to forgo the luxury of a personal maid. I confess, though, that I would appreciate your assistance.”

“Oh, thank you, milady!” Meg breathed, bobbing up and down numerous times as if Brynn were indeed a queen. “I usually serve as a parlormaid and I haven’t much experience, but I am a quick study, I promise you, even Mrs. Poole says so, and I will do anything you ask, anything-” She stopped abruptly, having run out of breath, and gazed wide-eyed at her mistress. “Where do I begin?”

Brynn managed a smile. “Perhaps with the buttons on the back of my gown.”

She offered her back, willing herself to patience as the girl attempted the task with fumbling fingers. She had to make allowances for the cold reception of longtime employees like Mrs. Poole and for inexperienced, terrified ones like Meg.

But still, Brynn reflected, adjusting to her lordly husband’s household would be more difficult than even she had imagined.

Dover

The prison cell was dank and stank of vermin, both the animal and the human sort-the condemned souls who had been caged there over the past centuries. Lucian had to stifle the urge to cover his nose with a handkerchief.

He’d sailed directly from Cornwall to Dover after learning that a government courier had been ambushed and murdered. The courier’s pouch contained dispatches meant for General Lord Wellington in Spain, most important a schedule of impending gold shipments, detailing dates and locations of delivery to Britain’s European allies. Then, before the schedule could be changed, a wagonload of bullion worth nearly two hundred thousand pounds was stolen, all its guards killed, shot without mercy.

An urgent investigation had ensued, with agents combing every tavern and posting inn and dock, searching for possible leads. The man in custody had had the poor judgment to boast about knowledge of the theft, although he claimed to have no responsibility in the courier’s murder.

Lucian had come today with one of his best agents to continue interrogating the prisoner.

“You there,” the jailer said gruffly, “get to yer feet. You ‘ave visitors.”

The ragged blanket on the straw mattress moved, then moaned when the jailer kicked it. “This is Ned Shanks, milord.”

A hulking brute of a man crawled slowly out from beneath the blanket and climbed to his feet, clutching his ribs.

Shanks was clearly the worse for his imprisonment. In the lantern light, Lucian could see his grimy face was badly bruised and one eye swollen shut, while dried blood matted his greasy black hair.

A look of fear crossed his face when he saw Lucian’s colleague, Philip Barton, who was primarily responsible for the prisoner’s current damaged condition.

“Leave us, please,” Lucian said to the jailer.

When they were alone, Lucian eyed the prisoner for a long moment. As the silence drew out, Shanks visibly grew more nervous, until finally he exclaimed in a voice oddly high and breathless for so large a man, “Gor, I know naught, milord. I don’t even know why I been arrested.”

Lucian kept his voice gentle. “You have been arrested, Mr. Shanks, because a government courier has been murdered and his dispatch pouch gone missing. And because you have knowledge about how and why it happened.”

“I know only what I told that gent, I swear! That’s all I know.”

“Why don’t you repeat your tale to me? My colleague, Mr. Barton, believes it might be helpful to have another, fresh perspective.”

Ned flashed the silent Barton a fearful glance. “I ‘eard my friend Boots bragging about a job over an ale, saying ’ow ‘e was soon to be plump in the pocket.”

“At the Boarshead Tavern?”

“Aye, milord. Well, I followed ‘im to see who ’e planned to meet with. I stopped around the corner from the mews. It was dark so I couldn’t see much, and I could only ‘ear part of what was said.”