The Virgin in the Rake’s Bed by Ava MacAdams
Chapter Three
The gripping hand released, though Emily did not dare to take a breath. Slowly, she turned to face her assailant. By the anemic glow of a candle that was almost burned to the stub, she recognized the wide nose, bushy eyebrows, and wicked grin of a familiar face.
“Peter!” she hissed, shoving him hard in the chest. “You gave me the fright of my life! I thought one of those fancy lords was trying to have his way with me!”
Peter Crastinelle was a former soldier, enlisted by their leader, “The Renard,” to keep an eye on Emily. At least, that had been the tale, though Emily suspected he was here at Hudson Manor for his own reasons. A mission, perhaps, running alongside Emily’s. For that was the only explanation she could conjure that would entice Peter to pretend to be a footman.
Peter put his finger to his lips. “Not so loud, girl! Do ye want to bring all of Christendom up here?”
“If you didn’t want to annoy me, you shouldn’t have leaped out like a bloody phantom!” The last word was flecked with a hint of her homeland. She had spent a long time ironing out any suggestion that she came from France, but the odd word still struggled to come out in the English way. Usually, she feigned a cough or a frog in her throat to hide it, but there was no need to do that with Peter. He knew everything about her.
Peter smirked. “Sorry, but I couldn’t have ye wandering off on another one of Lady High-and-Mighty’s errands.” He put an arm around her waist and pulled her further into the recess. “I need ye for something more important.”
“Let go of me first, or I won’t listen to a word.” She clawed at his fingers, peeling them away from her curved waist.
He put up his hands in mock surrender. “No touching. Fine. See.” His smirk returned. “But this isn’t going to be an easy task. Maybe ye aren’t fit for it. I never did see why R took such a liking to ye—probably thought ye could charm some coins into the coffers with that angelic face of yers.”
He always shortened their leader’s name to R, in case anyone was listening who might become suspicious of hearing the French word, Renard.
He moved his hand closer to Emily’s cheek, only to have it smacked away. “Last warning,” she muttered. “What is it you need?”
“I’ve got to get into the Duke’s study. Wormy came to me today, says the Duke’s got the documents we need, locked up in his writing desk,” Peter explained, suddenly serious.
Emily rolled her eyes. “He was discreet, right?”
“Wormy’s always discreet. Dressed up as a vagrant, lumbered up to the kitchens while I was eating my breakfast. I volunteered to get rid of him. Simple.”
Emily had never much liked Wormy, though he was one of Mrs. Robert’s most powerful and consistent informants. If anyone needed to know anything, Wormy would find it out.
Emily took a moment to draw in a slow breath. “Do you have to get the documents now?”
“Wormy’s coming back for them in the morning, so yes,” Peter replied curtly.
“I don’t know if it’s safe tonight.” Apprehension churned in Emily’s stomach. “I haven’t seen the Duke for a couple of hours, at least. He might’ve retired to his chambers, and that means he’s way too close to be risking this.”
Peter shrugged. “It has to be tonight, and that’s why I need you. You’re going to stand guard outside, and if the Lord of Misery should come by, you’re going to keep him occupied until I can get out.” He paused, an irreverent glint in his eyes. “I don’t care what you have to do to make that happen, though I might be a little envious.”
“I don’t do that,” Emily spat.
Peter was a good friend of hers, but sometimes, she did not care for him very much.
“Ready?” Peter ducked out of the recess and searched the hallway. “Come on.” He grabbed her hand and pulled her out, tugging her down the hall toward a door on the left.
There, Peter turned the ceramic doorknob until a soft click echoed up to the rafters. Emily flinched at the sound, praying the music and merriment would be enough to cover it, and stop it reaching the farthest end of the hallway. For that very last door on the right was Kenneth’s bedchamber.
Though it might as well be his cloisters.
“Rap twice on the door if someone comes,” Peter instructed, before slipping inside and closing the door behind him. Naturally, he had not bothered to wait for her confirmation.
Alone now, Emily knelt down and pretended to tie her shoe, while she kept her keen gaze fixed on the bedchamber at the far end. She could not help but wonder what happened behind that solid mahogany door. According to Nora’s countless tales of the ton’s wicked gentlemen, bedchamber doors were often a carousel of ladies, courtesans, prostitutes, and chambermaids. But Kenneth did not so much as look lustily at a woman.
And not for lack of trying.
In the last few weeks, Emily had deliberately tightened her stays, and selected Johanna’s tightest offerings, so she might draw Kenneth’s eye to her shapely bosom. She had hoped it might make him desire to know what was hidden beneath the Empire line of her gowns and tempt him closer to her. Alas, to no avail. The man was as a giant rock—utterly immoveable. Nor had he given her the chance to entice him with her words, for he had not uttered more than a few disapproving grunts, preferring to scowl or avoid her entirely.
I could walk past him without a stitch on me, and he wouldn’t notice.
She had to wonder why that was. Did the Duke have other preferences, never to be disclosed to the world? Was he interested in women, and merely conducted his encounters elsewhere?
“Maybe he thinks we’re so beneath him that he can’t even think to have one of us beneath him,” she muttered, with a smirk.
Then again, he showed Nora and Johanna a degree of respect, and indeed, seemed fond of the two ladies. Though Kenneth’s friendship with them had not been of any use in bringing Emily into his inner circle.
Because they wear fine gowns, and have wealthy husbands and titles, and I… fetch handkerchiefs, and refreshments, and tarts, and everything else for a demanding old crow.
Emily’s heart lurched into her throat as a quiet, scraping sound whispered up the hallway toward her. Her eyes widened in alarm as she watched the door to Kenneth’s bedchamber creaking open.
No, no, no, no… Go back to your self-flagellation, or your books, or whatever it is you do in there!
But her silent pleas went unheeded, as Kenneth strode directly out of his chambers and headed in her direction. She bent lower still, untying her lace and fumbling with the threadbare strands. A side-table concealed much of her, and though she knew it was fruitless, she prayed it would be enough to keep him from seeing her, crouched right in front of his study.
The heavy footfalls pounded through the floorboards and ricocheted up through Emily’s tense calves, sending tremors all the way into the pit of her roiling stomach.
Ignore me, like you always do. Ignore me like you ignore every servant, and every member of the fairer sex.
The percussion of his boots was almost upon her, prompting her to bow her head further over the wayward shoelace, making herself as small as possible. But her heart was beating too loud, and her breaths were too quick—hardly the demeanor of a calm person.
“And just what do you think you are doing?” Kenneth’s gruff, throaty voice took a blade to her hope, slashing it to pieces.
Peter was still inside… and there were only two ways he was going to get out. Either he would be dragged away by constables, or Emily was going to have to weave her best persuasion tactics to get Kenneth to leave. The problem was, nothing she had done or said had worked on this stoic, brooding, entirely unmovable man.
And as she looked up into his impossibly dark eyes, and saw the glint of disapproval within them, she sensed that was not about to change.
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