Page 16 of Disciplined by the Duke
Liz pushed the bookcase flush to the wall, and gathered up her own rags. “Speaking of the stable, I saw two men fighting by it last night. I expected there would be a lot of gossip about it, but have heard nothing. Do you know anything about it?”
“No.” Molly clicked her tongue against the roof of her mouth. “But that might explain your cousin’s black eye. He got right miffed with me when I asked him about it in the kitchen today.”
“Second cousin,” Liz replied, the correction coming unconsciously. “I wonder who he’d be fighting.” And why. She followed Molly down the hall, her thoughts racing.
Her contact at Hartsworth didn’t seem like the friendliest of men, and she could well imagine him getting into a mill. But was it a coincidence that the one man who’d been hired by Lord Westmore to spy upon the duke was involved in an altercation? Chewing on her lip, Liz worried about all that she wasn’t privy to. She needed to help her sister, but she didn’t want to be a party to hurting anyone else.
She squared her shoulders. For all intents and purposes, she was a spy now, too. If Pike was involved in last night’s scuffle she would find out. And find out why. She couldn’t cross Westmore or his man, not directly. But if her mission here was putting anyone else at peril perhaps she could obstruct the earl and Pike just the same.
And maybe, just maybe, learn something she could use against Westmore. The earl had taught her a lot about blackmail. He enjoyed applying pressure to people in order to get what he wanted. Why should Liz be any different?
Thoughts rolled around in her head, her mind as turbulent as the sea during a storm. If she couldn’t find the duke’s letter she would need some other way to convince the earl to have her sister released.
She needed to gather as much information about the earl’s intentions as she could. Follow Pike if necessary. Perhaps intercept his missives from the earl. As Westmore was fond of saying, information was power.
And it was time she got a little bit of that power for herself.
Chapter Six
Wasn’t that the way of things? The one person Marcus hoped to avoid, at least until he could sate his appetite at the Black Rose and, he hoped, rid her from his thoughts, greeted him immediately upon his arrival back at Hartsworth.
And what a greeting. Marcus had taken the curved staircase from the entryway to the second floor and found her. Miss Smith was dusting the base ofThe Rape of Proserpina.On her hands and knees. Bent away from him.
He bit back an oath.
Whipping her head around, Miss Smith caught sight of him standing at the top of the stairs. Her expression remained even, but the palest pink of a flush colored her cheeks. Even she didn’t have the control to stop that reaction.
Pressing her palms flat on the travertine floor, she pushed up to a standing position. She bobbed a quick curtsy. “Good afternoon, Your Grace.” She waited; for Marcus to return the greeting or pass by he didn’t know. Either action would have been appropriate for a man of his station. Standing there ogling the poor chit wasn’t.
Her flush deepened, but her polite smile didn’t falter.
The marble statue behind her dwarfed her frame. Her black gown and hair stood in stark relief to the creamy white stone, and Marcus couldn’t help but appreciate the irony of him finding his new maid in front of this, of all his works of art. The Roman god of the underworld was a lucky bastard. Taking the woman he wanted, and damn the consequences.
“Miss Smith.” He inclined his head. Stepping forward, he willed his feet to carry him past her, to seek his rooms. Like Reginald the pup, they disobeyed and stopped mere inches from his maid. “What do you think of my newest acquisition?”
She cocked her head to the side. Reaching out, Marcus gripped her shoulders and turned her so she faced the statue. “This was delivered to me two months ago from a count I know in Italy. Very poor cardplayer. He is most distressed at his loss.”
“And you are most happy with your gain?” She tilted her head back to examine the faces of the man and woman in the statue. A single lock of hair unwound from the tight chignon at the back of her head. It floated out from the knot, a rebel.
Reaching up, he carefully twisted the end of the lock between his thumb and forefinger. “Indeed.” His gaze found each of the pins holding her hair up. He itched to pull them from her head, shake loose the heavy tresses, see how far down her back they fell.
Dropping his hand, he stepped to her side. “It’s a Bernini. I find myself very taken with his work.” Her face was in profile, but he could see her brow drawn low. “Are you familiar with the artist?”
“I recognize the name.” She glanced over at him. “Early-seventeenth-century Italian sculptor? Known for his realism?”
“I’m impressed.” He’d learned from Mr. Todd how Miss Smith had come about her position in service. That her father had been a man of business, but his untimely death had forced her to find work as a maid. A pity. A woman as educated as she should have had more opportunities.
Her shoulders stiffened. “I should return to dusting it.”
Marcus studied her. “You don’t like it.”
“It is beautifully rendered.”
“Ah.” He waited for Miss Smith to look at him. “So it’s the subject matter you object to?”
“I have no objections, Your Grace.” She balled the dustrag in between her fists, shrugged. “How you decorate your house is your concern.”
“Yes, but that doesn’t answer my question.” He waited. He was an expert at waiting. Most people couldn’t abide silence.
