Page 22 of Disciplined by the Duke
In a se’nnight or two, he would know everything there was to know about Miss Elizabeth Smith.
* * *
Liz’s breath caught in her throat. The duke had that effect on her each time she saw him. It was growing tiresome; truly it was. Still, she didn’t pull her eye from its position pressed against the small crack between the bookcase and the wall.
She hadn’t seen Montague in over a day, the distance giving her the focus to continue with her duties. Her true duties of spying and theft. Well, if she ever found the blasted missive it would be theft. It was her luncheon break, and instead of sitting at the table and pushing her food around, she had taken the opportunity to search.
The warren of servants’ passages had become most useful in her endeavor. She tiptoed in and out of rooms with no one the wiser. Yesterday, she’d traced the route of each passage, making a mental map of her escape routes. Not only were the channels a boon to her search, but she’d also found that several of the passages contained spy holes into Hartsworth’s rooms. Mainly bedrooms, although the steward’s office wasn’t spared. Whichever duke had built the servants’ hallways hadn’t trusted his right-hand man.
Today’s excursion had begun in the duke’s study. At her return, she’d found him occupying the seat behind his desk, blocking her exit. She could find a different way out of the passage to get back to work, and she would. She only wanted to look on him for a while more.
His golden hair was mussed, the short locks twisting in every direction, looking as though he’d run his brown fingers through them repeatedly. Liz was accustomed to the pale effeminacy that marked the upper classes. The virile Duke of Montague didn’t fit into her preconceived notions. He intrigued her.
She could little afford such a distraction. When he pinned her with that dark stare of his, her deceptions were difficult to maintain. She feared he could see through her, a prospect both alluring and dangerous.
She placed a palm to her chest, tried to slow her rapid pulse. Just looking at the man made her warm. And when he touched her? She thought back to their horseback ride, and stifled a sigh. It had been torturous. Exciting. Disconcerting. She’d been attracted to suitors before. She’d even let one go so far as to brush his lips against hers. The experience had been nice.
She stared at the duke’s lips, firm, with a fuller bottom lip than was fashionable. She had a feeling that if he ever pressed his mouth to hers the experience would go far beyond nice.
Those captivating lips flattened into a hard line, and the tips of her breasts tingled at the sight.Focus.If he was angry about something he read it might be important. Pressing her eye closer to the splinter of light, she peered at the paper he held. It bore a red wax mark at its bottom edge.
Her shoulders drooped. Red was the color de rigueur for seals, it seemed. That was all she had come across in her searches, red seals, with one envelope bearing a seal the color of the sky the sole exception. She couldn’t help but read that letter, curious who the feminine scrawl belonged to. Much to her shame, it had been written by a Benedictine nun, the missive profuse with thanks for Montague’s generous funding of the charitable hospital on their grounds.
The other letters she’d read were much of the same. If it didn’t concern business it communicated gratitude for one good deed or another that the duke had performed. The man didn’t seem to correspond for pleasure. She took in his furrowed brow and the scowl that now marred his face. She could well imagine that Montague had few close to him. He was too intimidating, too self-contained to need anyone’s companionship.
As quietly as possible, she pulled the bookcase shut, the tiny sliver of light disappearing. Stretching out her fingers, she let the wall guide her to a third-floor hallway near her chamber. At that time of day, it should be empty. Her thoughts remained in the study. For the duke’s sake, she hoped he had at least one or two close confidants. Now that she was walking alone in the world, she knew what a hardship it was to not have anyone to discuss one’s difficulties with, to not be able to unburden oneself of one’s troubles. That loneliness she did not wish upon anyone.
Alone in her room, she settled herself at the desk with a piece of foolscap. Her pen flew over the page, only slowed by the necessary dips into the inkwell. She wanted this charade to end. She’d found nothing, and her lies weighed on her more each day. Westmore must see the reason to her returning to London. To be given another task with which she could win her sister’s release.
When the earl had sat next to her in the Old Bailey that horrible day, he had become her only hope. The day Amanda had been convicted and dragged from the courtroom sobbing, Liz couldn’t force her feet to move. She’d watched her sister disappear into the back halls and done nothing. She’d watched every other trial that day, not hearing anything, just sitting silently in the gallery, unable to move. At the afternoon break, the courtroom had emptied. Except for her. And Lord Westmore.
He’d told her he liked to watch the trials, and that she could now well believe. He enjoyed seeing others suffer. But at the time, he’d said that perhaps he could help her and her sister, and she’d thought him the kindest, most wondrous of men. He’d taken her to his town house to talk and she soon realized he was neither kind nor wondrous, merely a scheming, powerful man who collected minions like he collected artwork. He surrounded himself with people who would do his bidding, and Liz had become one of their ranks. And she’d still been grateful. Because someone scheming and powerful could help her sister.
But it had been months. Months of following his orders, and Westmore making promises he had yet to keep.
The tip of her quill scratched against the foolscap. She didn’t beg; she wouldn’t give the man a power he would gleefully abuse. Rather, she appealed to the earl’s analytical side. After days of fruitless searching, she was no closer to discovering the missive. For a task with such a low probability of success, the risk of the duke uncovering their deception was too great.
She reread her words. Simple. Straightforward. And completely false. After spending time with the duke, learning of all the help he provided to those less fortunate, she could no longer stomach the idea of stealing from him.
She blew on the ink and folded her letter. She prayed the earl would see it her way. If Westmore demanded she complete her task, she would. Her sister’s life was too important. But each day she played this game, her heart hollowed little by little. By the time she earned her sister’s freedom, she wondered who it was her sister would come home to.
After her day’s work, she would go to the stable. Give Pike the letter to send to Westmore. Decision made, she sought out Molly, needing to return to her duties. Liz slipped into the front breakfast parlor on the tips of her toes. Her chamber-mate’s back was turned towards her as she wiped at a seat cushion, and Liz quickly brought her own rag up to wipe down the buffet. She hoped Molly would assume she’d been there awhile.
Molly pointedly cleared her throat, and Liz sighed. “I apologize for losing track of time. My foot was hurting and I went upstairs to change my boots. I saw the bed and thought I would just lie down for five minutes, take the weight off my foot.” Liz raised her hands, palms up. “But I fell asleep. I’ll work through dinner to make up for it, I promise.”
The girl nodded, turned back to her work. Her silence letting Liz know that she wasn’t quite forgiven. The afternoon wore on and the foolscap in her bodice scratched at her with each movement.
Why did the duke have to own so many things? So much furniture to be polished and dusted. For the first time since her sister’s arrest, she appreciated her bare lodging in Old London with a fervency that bordered on devotion.
Molly went down to dinner, and Liz toiled on. There were twenty walking sticks in the hallway canister and each one had a brass head that had to be polished. She scoured the rounded horn of a ram, her pulse pounding at her temples. Montague didn’t even carry the silly accessory.
Finally, she was done. She ached for a warm bath. Instead, she turned her steps to the storeroom exit. The urgency to find Mr. Pike and deliver him of her letter had only grown. Her previous jobs for Westmore, running correspondence for him, distracting a driver while another of the earl’s men lifted an object from a carriage, had gnawed at her. But nothing to compare with her present task. Even the day she’d donned a disguise and acted as though she belonged in Bedlam in order to cause a distraction in the Office of Patents hadn’t caused her stomach to twist as it did now.
She needed to find a way out of this.
Crossing the stone floor of the storeroom, she pushed open the door. The dirty figure on the other side made her jump back with a gasp. She placed a hand over her beating heart. “Mr. Pike, you startled me.”
He grunted and stepped inside, stomping his feet on the floor and knocking bits of mud onto it.