A Lady's Secret Weapon (3 page)

“Even if the manservants are powdering their hair or wearing wigs?”

“Even so.”

Shaking his head, he said, “I will save you the trouble of fulfilling a particular hue, Miss Hunt.”

“As you wish.” She glanced down at her list. “With or without a family?”

“Without.”

“How tall?”

A heavy-lidded smile replaced his consternation, and he slouched back in his chair in the same manner she did when under pressure. “My height or a few inches less,” he said. “I prefer to be the tallest man in my castle.”

Ah, the charming rogue fully emerges. She understood why the ladies fell under his spell. No gentleman should be equipped with so much disarming weaponry. Even Ares, the mythical god of war, would not hold a lady’s attention long if Lord Danforth strolled into the same room, wearing his gorgeous smile.

Much to Sydney’s consternation, she was not immune to the raw power pulsing beneath his fine clothes and devil-may-care manner. He fairly reeked of the boudoir, so potent was his sensuality. An image of his sun-kissed flesh writhing amidst white silken sheets captivated her mind’s eye. With every rustle of his legs, the sheet shifted to reveal another glorious inch of his well-toned bottom.

Sydney’s insides clenched violently, jerking her back to the flesh-and-blood viscount, who stared at her with a knowing smile. She halted her body’s mad spiral into the chasm of desire with a ruthlessness that surprised even her. She
hated
that I’ve-got-you-now curve of a gentleman’s lips. Hated it with a dedication that guided her efforts at the Hunt Agency every day.

“Indeed,” she said. “Your requirements are not complicated, my lord, but I don’t believe the Hunt Agency can help you in so short a time.”

That wiped the seductive smile off his face. He straightened. “I have it on good authority that your agency has built its reputation on finding good matches under difficult circumstances.”

“Whose good authority would that be?”

His eyes narrowed. “A number of acquaintances have conveyed as much to me.”

Why was he resistant to sharing the name of his referrals? If she knew who he was conferring with about her agency, she could use the connection to find out if his request was a legitimate one or not. “Have you no one among your staff whom you could promote?”

“No. I keep a modest number of servants, and my only footman is not suitable for the position.”

“That is too bad,” she mused. “Promoting from within your own household reduces the amount of learning a new servant must undertake.”

“True,” he said. “However, I’m looking forward to introducing a new perspective. Bring someone in who can look at the running of my household with an objective eye. One thing I cannot abide in my staff is complacency.”

An interesting observation from a bachelor with a modest number of servants.

“Won’t you reconsider, Miss Hunt?” he asked. “I have every faith that you will find an appropriate replacement butler in time.”

Could his lordship’s visit simply be a coincidence? Every instinct told her no, but outside his initial reaction to seeing her, she had detected no ulterior motive. Perhaps the old saying about keeping one’s enemy close at hand might be excellent counsel in this situation. Though she did not precisely view him as an enemy. Not yet, at least. If his suppressed knowledge of her identity ever surfaced and he threatened her business and all that entailed, he would become not only her enemy, but her mortal enemy.

Making her decision, she said, “Give me a day or two to review whom we have available, my lord. Tomorrow, I will tour your residence and interview your butler, so that I might better understand the scope of your needs.”

His eyes widened. “You wish to visit my home?”

“If that is convenient for you, of course.”

Although he made a gallant attempt, the viscount could not completely mask the caged look in his eyes. “Tomorrow?”

“Yes,” she said. “I prefer not to tarry long over a new assignment.”

“Good to know, but I don’t understand why you feel the need to visit my home. Did I not give you enough information to conduct your search?”

No servant placed through the Hunt Agency ever went to a new situation without either Sydney or Amelia visiting the household first. Much could be derived by a few well-placed questions to the other servants and viewing the living conditions of the home. Amelia’s ability to detect malevolence beneath a pleasant mask was one of the many reasons why she was so valuable to Sydney. Sydney would never forgive herself if she inadvertently sent one of her people into a bad situation like the hell her mother had endured. But her wealthy clients did not need to know that she was interviewing them as much as they were interviewing their new servant.

“Of course you did, my lord,” she said, with practiced finesse. “I simply like to get a firsthand feel of my clients’ needs before placement. The last thing I want to do is send you an incompatible butler if a thirty-minute visit could have prevented such a waste of everyone’s time.”

“You have put a great deal of thought into this process.”

“It is my livelihood, sir,” she said. “Word of mouth has proven to be my best advertisement. If I become too complacent, my clients will become dissatisfied. Dissatisfied customers are the death of any vocation.”

“A valuable motto.”

“The credit must go to my father,” she said. “He taught me everything I know about business matters.”

“Then you were lucky in your mother’s choice of husband.”

Indeed, she was. However, luck was but one component in her good fortune. “I have much for which to be thankful.”

The viscount’s charming smile slowly reemerged, softening the square angles of his face and making him intolerably handsome. Lethal, even. “As much as I would like to accommodate your in-person observation, I’m afraid tomorrow’s not possible. Another appointment, you understand.”

Sydney had battled charmers, bullies, vacillators, and evil all her life. She knew how to handle each set with barely a flicker of forethought. Dealing with Ethan deBeau was no exception, though her adjustments to his moods came much more slowly than normal.

“Please do not concern yourself, my lord,” she said. “There is no reason for you to be present. I have your requirements—unless you have something more you’d like to add?”

A new intensity entered his study of her. “No, Miss Hunt. I have nothing more.” He lowered his voice. “At the moment.”

The promise behind his words raised the soft hairs running along the back of her neck. She pushed out of her chair. “Very good, then,” she said. “If you could let your staff know of my visit, I would be grateful.”

Rather than heeding her dismissal, he crossed one leg over the other and his body shifted to the left. He propped his elbow on the chair’s arm, smoothing his forefinger and thumb over his freshly shaven chin. The idleness in his action bespoke of contemplation and of quiet challenge.

Sydney’s gaze was riveted on the slow glide of his fingers, waiting with an embarrassing amount of anticipation for the soft pads to trail across his full bottom lip.

“Tell me, Miss Hunt. How long has your agency been in existence?”

She forced her attention up, away from temptation. “A little over four years.”

His fingers slowed to a provocative crawl. “Quite an accomplishment for an unmarried woman.”

Ah, familiar ground. The first ten minutes of their meeting had been nothing more than reconnaissance. Now that he knew the lay of the land, so to speak, Sydney suspected she would soon learn the real reason behind his visit.

She raised a brow. “Perhaps you would like a refreshment?”

The corner of his mouth quirked up at her disgruntled tone, and he stopped caressing his chin. Sydney experienced a stab of disappointment.

“Thank you, no.” He rested his cheek between his L-shaped fingers. “I’m intrigued by your story. How did you construct such a thriving enterprise?”

After exhaling a careful breath, Sydney resumed her seat. “I could not have accomplished half so much without the generous support of my parents and staff.”

“You must have a small army running around behind the scenes.”

She smiled at his probing question. “Hardly an army, sir. We are most fortunate in the number of clients seeking our assistance, but, like you, I am able to manage things with a modest number of well-qualified staff.”

“I wonder if perhaps I know your father. I’m acquainted with an Orson Hunt. Any relation, by chance?”

“Afraid not. Hunt was my mother’s family name.”

“What of your father? Did you not mention him earlier?”

Despite all of her bravado, Sydney did not enjoy sharing this part of her life, though she had never tried to hide the details of her parentage. But divulging the sordid facts of her upbringing to the viscount made her stomach turn queasy. “Jonathan Pratt is my stepfather. He raised me from an early age and is the only father I’ve ever known.”

She watched him sift through her explanation, bracing for the moment when he discerned he was about to contract the services of a bastard spinster.

“Why did your parents not change your surname to Pratt?”

“Do you always inquire into such personal matters?”

“Always.”

She leveled her gaze on him. “They discussed the notion with me, but I declined.”

“Why would you not accept such a generous offer?”

Generous, because not every gentleman would take on the responsibility of another man’s illegitimate child and have that base fact dangled before him every day by way of a surname.

“To remember.”

He waited for her to expound. She did not. Would not. Ever.

“You are becoming more intriguing by the second, Miss Hunt.”

Blood pounded in her ears. Instead of censure, his lordship’s countenance heightened with peculiar interest. Why hadn’t she realized feeding bits of information to this man would only provoke his curiosity? She should have devised a bland background that would have induced sleep rather than intrigue.

A wave of vulnerability washed over her.
Always
have
a
means
of
escape, Sydney. Always
. Her mother’s warning filled her mind, and a flush of panicked heat dampened her skin. Sydney’s gaze shot to the closed door.

“Is anything amiss?” he asked.

She was overreacting to their byplay and knew it. But too many worries were converging in a short amount of time, heightening her deep-seated fears.
Escape
route
. She had one. She always had one.

She blinked to clear her vision. There, precisely where she had placed it at the edge of the ink blotter, sat her silver bell. Her means of escape. The welcome sight acted like a balm for her overreactive nerves. She ached to wrap her palm around the cool metal, but could not devise a way of doing so without snagging the viscount’s attention. Instead, she drew in a soothing breath. As quickly as her anxiety had manifested, the debilitating emotion ebbed away on a long exhalation.

“Everything is fine, my lord.” She tilted her lips up into what she hoped was a convincing smile, while taming her hair once again. “In light of my revelations, I will, of course, understand if you wish to retract your request for my agency’s services.”

“I have no concern for your parentage, Miss Hunt,” he said. “Only your ability to find me a competent butler.”

“Then I had best get started.”

He unfurled his big body and moved closer to the front of her desk. Leaning forward, he planted his fingertips on the smooth surface. “Are you sure we have not met before?”

Sydney forced herself to hold her position, even though everything inside her sought the cloak of darkness. Darkness had always protected her, but no such protector could be found in the middle of the day.

She rose to her full height, meeting him eye to eye. “I believe we have already established that I have one of those faces that can be familiar to many.”

He angled his big body over her desk and lifted his hand. “No, Miss Hunt.
We
did not.” His attention shifted to where his fingers brushed the hollow of her cheek. “No man could ever mistake these contours for another’s.”

His featherlight touch should have repelled her, should have been a reminder. But it did not, was not. Instead, his aching gentleness compelled her to block all rational thought and to revel in the moment. Who would have thought such a large man could be so tender? By slow degrees, she relaxed the muscles in her neck and, by doing so, she leaned—the slightest bit—into his awaiting palm. Strength, warmth, comfort surrounded her cheek, and Sydney nearly groaned in response to the unexpected pleasure, closing her eyes. She had missed this, though Philip’s touch had never made her insides quiver with embers of desire.

His breathing roughened, making the embers spark into flame. Yet something nagged at the edge of her awareness.
Too
close. He was far too close
. But she could not heed her mind’s warning, begging her to back away.

His warm breath fanned across her mouth. Her eyes flew open, and she found his face barely an inch away. In that instant, she knew she was not strong enough to prevent the kiss. Knew she would sink into it with a passion that would compromise everything. Already regretting her actions, but helpless to do otherwise, her hand fumbled on the desk between them.

A bell trilled out three times, rending the precious moment.

Startled, he glanced down. She followed his gaze to the tiny silver bell dangling from her fingers.

The door burst open, crashing against the wall. Mac and Mick stormed into her study, their hard gazes centered on his lordship.

Setting the bell down, she clasped her shaking hands before her and swallowed hard to control the erratic fluttering in her chest. The second she felt her voice would not betray her, she said, “Gentlemen, I believe Lord Danforth is ready to depart.”

Mac swept his hand toward the door. “My lord.”

His lordship didn’t move. Those piercing, blue-rimmed eyes of his studied her with an odd mixture of primal need and empathy. She must never again allow herself the pleasure of his well-honed caress. She knew better this time but had been unable to resist his touch. A touch that had ruined scores of women or, more accurately, their men. For a perilous moment, she had allowed herself to forget. Forget his caress was nothing more than the razor edge of a warrior’s blade.