Scandalous Deception. Rosemary Rogers
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of steps, and Brianna cursed softly as she was forced to slow to a snail’s pace. Whatever her panicked sense of urgency, she would not risk breaking her neck by charging up the uneven wooden stairs.
Placing her hand on the stone wall, she struggled upward, concentrating on each step. By the time she reached the third floor, her breath was rasping loudly in the silence and her back was aching from the unaccustomed strain of carrying her heavy bags. She paused long enough to fumble with the door, her heart lodging in her throat as the hinges squeaked in protest.
To her fevered imagination, the sound seemed to carry throughout London.
Had she alerted the entire house to her presence?
With Janet pressed nervously against her back, Brianna forced herself to count to ten. When there was no rush of servants, no cries of alarm, she allowed herself to suck in a deep breath of relief and step from the stairwell.
The wide corridor was bathed in the soft glow of candlelight from the nearby candelabra, revealing the vaulted ceiling and fine plasterwork that had been painted a pale ivory. The Persian carpet shimmered with vivid reds and blues and gold, reflected in the framed pier mirrors that lined the walls.
She was attempting to recall which of the numerous doors led to the guest chambers when a hulking shadow detached itself from the wall to reveal a large man with a hawkish face and fierce pair of blue eyes. Brianna froze in shock. Although the man was attired in the Huntley livery, she did not believe for a moment that he was any simple servant. He looked like a soldier.
Or an assassin.
“What is this?” he growled, his thick accent unmistakably Russian. “What do you think to do?”
This had to be the oaf that Janet had confronted earlier, and with that accent most certainly one of Edmond’s men.
Damnation. There was nothing to do but brave it out.
“Allow me to introduce myself.” Once again dropping the bags, Brianna performed an elegant curtsey. “I am Miss Quinn, the Duke of Huntley’s ward. I will be staying here for a few days, as will my maid.”
Brows that matched the man’s thick golden hair drew together in wary disbelief. “I have been told nothing of a ward. You will leave now.”
Brianna tilted her chin to a haughty angle. She may not have royal blood running through her veins, but her father was first cousin to an Earl and she could feign a conceited self-worth when necessary. And sometimes even when it was not necessary.
“I most certainly will not be leaving. This is my home now.”
“You will leave, or I will toss you out.”
“You would dare to lay a hand on the Duke’s legal ward?” she said, her voice pure ice.
“I was told to keep everyone out.” The man began to walk toward her. “That is what I will do.”
Brianna was quite convinced that the man intended to toss her out. Even if it meant hauling her to the curb screaming and kicking. It was clearly time to reveal her one and only weapon.
“Before you take another step, I must warn you that I have given a note to a friend with instructions that, unless she hears from me first thing in the morning, it is to be posted to the London Times,” she said, her voice echoing through the wide corridor with as much courage as she could muster.
At least the menacing servant came to a halt, his pale eyes glittering with the wariness of a seasoned warrior. He clearly sensed that she was not bluffing.
“What do I care of this note?”
She felt Janet move to stand at her side, as if the maid was preparing to protect her from the man—a brave, if rather foolish, display of loyalty.
“The note will inform all of London that it is not the Duke of Huntley who is staying in this town house, but rather his younger twin, Lord Edmond,” she said, a smile curving her lips as the man gave a revealing jerk of surprise. “I doubt your master would appreciate such information becoming the source of tomorrow morning’s fodder.”
“How did you…”
Not about to lose the brief advantage she held, Brianna grabbed her valises and headed for the nearest bedchamber.
“Come along, Janet. We will have to wait until morning to speak with Edmond.”
Stepping into the shadowed room, Brianna firmly shut the door in the face of the servant, dropped her bags and fumbled to turn the heavy key in the lock.
“Ye are going to get us strangled in our sleep,” Janet muttered in the dark.
“Nonsense.” Holding out a hand to keep from banging into the furniture, Brianna searched for the mantle where there would surely be a flint to light the candles. “Edmond might be a coldhearted cad, but Stefan would never forgive him if he murdered me.”
Janet heaved a deep sigh. “I would sleep a mite easier if you dinna sound as if ye were trying to convince yerself and not me.”
EDMOND LEANED AGAINST the doorjamb and silently studied the female curled in the middle of the vast, canopied bed.
His breath caught at the sight of the morning sunlight shimmering in the lush hair spread across the pillows and warming the delicate ivory features. He’d expected the vision he had carried in his head from the previous night to be tarnished in the harsh light of day. No woman could possibly be as exquisite as he had imagined.
But he was mistaken.
Christ, she was even lovelier.
He battled against the primal urge to pluck her tiny body from beneath the covers and carry her to his bed where she belonged. What the devil was the matter with him? Brianna Quinn might be a beauty, but he was not about to forgive her blatant intrusion into his home.
When he had returned home last eve after futile hours of trying to locate Howard Summerville, he had been stunned to discover from Boris that two females had locked themselves in one of the guest chambers and that one of them had threatened to send a note to the London Times naming him as Edmond.
His first thought had been to break down the door and toss Brianna into the nearest gutter. The devilish chit was a distraction he did not need. Unfortunately, while he did not believe her bluff for a moment, he could not be entirely certain that she would not scream bloody murder and waken all of London if he dared to haul her from the house.
Brianna Quinn had been clever enough to outwit him for the moment, but that did not mean she held all the cards.
He had every intention of ensuring she paid, and paid dearly, for daring to cross him.
Straightening from the jamb, Edmond stepped into the room decorated in a delicate French style with amber wall panels and Savonneirie tapestries framed above the carved chimneypiece. The furniture was made of lemonwood and covered with pretty English chintz that his grandmother had considered de rigueur for a London town house.
Closing the door and turning the key he had retrieved from his housekeeper, Edmond approached the bed. Barefoot and wearing nothing more than a dressing robe, he made no sound as he crossed the Persian carpet.
He paused just a moment to savor the delicate lines of her face. The straight line of her nose, the lush curve of her lips, the thick fan of lashes that lay against the pale ivory skin.
A sleeping Aphrodite.
His hand reached out of his own accord to stroke the sleep-flushed cheek, only to pull back as if he were burned. He was here to rid himself of the pestilent woman, not entangle himself even deeper into her fascinating web.
With a sharp motion, he reached to grasp the quilt and jerked it aside to reveal her tiny form covered only by a thin chemise.
Brianna’s eyes flew open as she squeaked in alarm, an alarm that only deepened as her wide gaze caught sight of Edmond hovering over her.
“Edmond.”