Page 6 of A Duke's Keeper
“You, yourself, are no dying duck in a thunderstorm,” he said. “Quite the opposite.”
“Like a doll.”
The words from her childhood settled like a stone in her gut. Her hair pulled savagely at her scalp in an unflattering knot. The dresses she wore were shapeless and of poor quality, nothing flashy, nothing to draw attention to herself. But she could do nothing about her face; the fair skin and naturally rose-tinted cheeks. She sneered. “I can’t help that.”
His look all but said,“I know.”
The man had a point, damn him. Aside from his general ‘maleness,’ she couldn’t admonish his manners or character after he’d gone out of his way to stop Hawkins and his cronies.
“Very well.” She sighed. “You may remain handsome.”
“Then I’m forgiven?”
“On this matter.”
He winked. “I’ll take it.”
They continued in silence. Feeling relatively certain the man wouldn’t accost her should her attention waver, Camille glanced at their surroundings, catching a glimpse of the moon through a rare break in the smog, before prodding her wrist and determining the bone wasn’t broken. She sighed.
“Plotting something?” he asked.
She tucked her arm back to her side and gave him her best haunting stare. “Your demise.”
He grinned. “A blow to the head?”
“Strangulation by corset lace.”
He smiled.
She watched his eyes crinkle in the corners, and her own smile came unbidden. “You don’t seem concerned.”
“I have a younger sister.”
“A sister.” The admission made him seem more human. She didn’t like it.
Shehad a brother. A different domineering duke, Lord Hamish Hurstfield, the Duke of Camine, a man who didn’t know when to quit sticking his good intentions in her business. After a brief but infuriating conversation, the man had taken it upon himself to play Lord and Savior for his poor, unfortunate,bastardsister. If he’d set his sights on anyone else, she may have admired his persistence. But he hadn’t chosen someone else, and she continued to wish he’d fall into a deep hole and not come out. Imagining Renard’s sister as a spoiled and starched lady of theton, she asked, “What’s your sister like?”
“Trouble.” His grin turned into a real smile.
Camille’s head spun—probably dehydration.
“She’s commanding, not that she realizes,” he said. “Her mind is sharp, her words sharper. She loves nothing more than digging in the dirt or hunting for bugs. I’ve found more than onebeetle in my breakfast after angering her. Hence, my concern.” His smile faded. “She stays in the country, where it’s quiet.”
Camille saw something dark lurking behind his expression.
She couldn’t fathom the feeling in his voice: warmth, worry. She had no experience with the softer emotions, but, coming from him, they didn’t sound so awful.
Camille would give a month’s pay to meet a lady with dirt under her fingernails. What a waste to keep her locked away.
They passed over Bethnal Green Road and into one of the isolated rookeries, where few ‘bobbies’ ventured after Scotland Yard had moved from Whitehall place to Victoria Embankment a year ago, the London rookeries now beyond help or, more likely, above notice.
As if sensing the danger, Renard lengthened his strides, leaving Camille to hobble along behind him, her breath coming in sharp gasps.
She was dizzy. The pain she refused to feel had become the pain she couldn’t ignore.
The alley walls blurred. Listening to his steps, she matched the rhythm, relying on her mental map to turn when needed. She knew they’d reached the textile mills by the smell alone.
Camille’s eyes stung, but she had no handkerchief to cover her nose, and she refused to ask the man beside her when he didn’t so much as flinch at the stench. The smell was acidic, a mixture of chemical, piss, and cheap soap used by the immigrants brave, or desperate, enough to maintain the streets for a coin.
