The Mysterious Miss Flint (Lost Ladies of London 1)

“In a moment, I shall untie the ropes, starting with the one around your ankles.”

She edged closer to the disgruntled guard. The stranger’s timely arrival would prevent the staff from delivering whatever vile punishment they had in store.

Baxter sat calmly and watched her perform the ministrations. It appeared the man had no more fight left in him. But as soon as the restraints fell away he jumped to his feet. Nicole dodged the swipe as he hit out with his bound hands. She ran to the door, unlocked it and fled along the landing. The stomp of Baxter’s unsteady gait on the floorboards confirmed the guard was in pursuit.

Chapter Three

Morton Manor was the house of nightmares: an ugly monstrosity that looked to have burst up through the ground from the fiery pits of Hell. A place where people experimented with the dark arts. Where they sacrificed animals on a stone table located through a secret door in the cellar.

But it wasn’t an asylum — not anymore.

According to the villagers, it hadn’t housed patients for years and had long since been a private dwelling.

Oliver stood in the stark courtyard and surveyed the house his father had kept hidden. Heaven knows why. There was nothing remotely appealing about the sixteenth-century building. Everything looked odd and mismatched. There were too many small windows dotted about the grey stone facade. The uneven flight of steps leading up to the front door were evidently an afterthought, thrown down when the owner discovered he was too short to reach the threshold.

A sudden movement in the upstairs window caught his attention. He looked up, surprised to see a woman staring back at him. Oliver caught his breath. Had she possessed flowing white hair and a gown to match, he might have thought her a ghost.

But this flame-haired beauty was very much alive. As their eyes met, Oliver’s heart lurched — from a sudden pang of lust as opposed to an irrational fear of spectres.

Was this beguiling creature the Miss Flint named as his father’s benefactor?

He inclined his head, and she shot away from the window as if he were a witch hunter come to round up all the young women in the village.

Regardless of the early hour, Oliver marched up to the front door of the dreary manor house and rapped loudly with his fist. The thud echoed through the hall beyond. When met with an eerie silence, he raised the rusty knocker and let it fall.

A butler slept with one eye open, so where in devil’s name was he?

Oliver knocked again.

The house was occupied, he’d seen the evidence for himself. Unless the pretty temptress staring at him from the upper window was a mirage — a tempting illusion to remind him he’d not bedded a woman for weeks. The lady appeared far too young to bed his father and would no doubt welcome the skill and stamina a more virile member of the family could offer.

Had his mind not been focused on finding Rose, he’d have Miss Flint writhing and panting between the bedclothes before the day was out. Then another thought struck him, one that seriously dampened his ardour. Perhaps Miss Flint was his father’s by-blow.

A high-pitched scream from the hall beyond disturbed his rampant musings.

In a sudden state of panic, he seized the knob and twisted, equally shocked to discover the door unlocked. Oliver rushed into the entrance hall as the woman from the window came running down the stairs.

“Please, sir, you must help me.” The lady grabbed Oliver’s arm and clutched it as one would the mast of a sinking ship. While terror flashed in her eyes, she appeared to take comfort from the overfamiliar gesture. He did, too. The soft curve of her breast pressed against his sleeve and the sweet scent of jasmine wafted up to tease his nostrils.

Damn. If only he had time to further their acquaintance.

The thud of booted footsteps drew Oliver’s attention to the queer vision racing behind in hot pursuit. The man’s hands were bound, and he flexed his jaw to dislodge the piece of material wedged into his mouth.

The lady pressed her forehead to Oliver’s upper arm. “Save me, sir. You must save me,” she pleaded, too scared to look up at the scene unfolding.

Save her?

He imagined their ideas of what constituted saving differed somewhat.

Feeling strangely protective of the woman hanging on to his arm, Oliver straightened and squared his shoulders as the man skidded to a halt before them.

The fellow grunted, moaned, and nodded to the lady at Oliver’s side.

“May I make a suggestion?” Oliver leant forward and, using only the tips of his fingers, removed the sodden linen from the man’s mouth and dropped it onto the floor. “Now, perhaps you should begin again.”

The man heaved in a breath, and his nostrils flared. “This little witch is the devil’s own spawn,” he cried, his flushed cheeks resembling an overripe tomato. “I swear I’ll whip her with the birch for what she’s done.”

Oliver despised any man who threatened violence to intimidate a woman.