Dukes to the Left of Me, Princes to the Right

“Then I don’t want to be a proper young lady,” she blurted out.

“Of course you do,” he said, censuring her with a look. “Proper young ladies don’t create risk. Risk is part of my business. I must eliminate all unnecessary danger.”

“Are you saying I’m a danger?” She backed away from him a step.

He was the Duke of Drummond, after all. Perhaps he’d planned to take her up here so he could throw her over the side of the gallery to her death.

“I’m not going to eliminate you,” he told her with a chuckle. “Although I fear you could wreck the operation.”

“What operation?”

“Operation Pink Lady. My assignment. My secret assignment. The one mentioned in that paper inside the cane.”

Heavens.

For a moment, she could barely speak. “So that’s what OPL means.”

“Exactly.”

“I want to help,” she said. “And by the way, you’re not the only one who deals with subterfuge. My friends and I have our own secret organization.”

“Is that so? What’s it about?”

“None of your business. It’s secret.”

“I’ll bet it has to do with men. Women always have secrets about men. How to capture them, stifle them, and break their hearts.”

She scoffed. “That’s ridiculous. Men are the ones who do that to women, and yes —that’s a bit what our secret organization is about, protecting women’s interests.”

He gave a short laugh. “And you want me to entrust you with secrets? Look how easily you just told me yours.”

“I was making a point. And I never told you any details.”

“I got details enough.” He lifted her chin. “The best way you can help me is to do nothing. Say nothing. And behave yourself, as any good fiancée would.”

But she wasn’t a good fiancée. She was a Spinster.

“No,” she said. “I know too much now. Your employer shouldn’t have left that cane at my house—”

“You shouldn’t have been nosy.”

“If you want my silence, you’ll give me something to do.”

“Why?”

“Because I’m having fun. And if you don’t, I shall find a way to get involved anyway. You’re right. I am a danger. I know just enough to wreak havoc. You’d best keep me close.” She crossed her arms and raised her chin. “In case you haven’t guessed, this is my way of paying you back for stealing my stocking.”

She was asserting herself and her desires, wasn’t she?

He stared at her a moment. “I wonder if I’m not insane to have brought you up here thinking you’d cooperate.”

“You’re not insane,” she said, then wondered if she were wrong. All the stories Cook told almost made him out to be crazed. But surely he wasn’t, she decided, even though she had no clue what had happened to his uncle.

Nobody did. It was still a mystery.

She cast a sideways glance at him.

“Very well,” Nicholas said, his eyes boring into hers. “I’ll keep you close. But this won’t work if you don’t trust me.”

She bit her lip. “All right.”

“I’m about to confide secrets to you, and I need a sign that you’ll not go back on your word.”

She drew in a deep breath. “Give me your pinky finger.”

He laughed. “That won’t do.”

“Then what?”

The heated look he gave her made the hairs on the back of her neck stand up, and warmth spread through her limbs. “You’re not suggesting—”

“I am.”

“What?” she whispered. “A kiss?”

He shook his head. “Nothing so paltry.”

She gulped. “You already have my stocking.”

“That was to guarantee your adhering properly to your role as devoted fiancée. This is to get your pledge that you won’t reveal secrets of another sort.”

“What must I do?”

“What all my colleagues and I must do, those of us who work for Groop. Disrobe. And run around the gallery three times.”

She gasped. Had he been reading her mind? She longed to disrobe … and have him run his hands all over her body.

“Don’t worry,” he said. “I won’t touch you. No one ever gets touched. We do it to prove our mettle.”

Blast.

She shook her head. “I can’t.”

“So much for your fun.” He began to walk toward the door.

“All right,” she cried.

He turned around, his expression serious. “Very well, then.”

She rather liked the idea, if she were honest. She’d be disrobing for king and country. Even the martyrs buried at St. Paul’s wouldn’t fault her for doing her duty.

Slowly, she pulled at the ribbons of her bodice.

CHAPTER 14

One pull.

Two.

Nicholas saw the fabric on Poppy’s gown loosen and kept his face impassive, but his body betrayed him. Heat spread from limb to limb. He could barely breathe, thinking of her disrobing in front of him.

Dear God, he wondered, would she do it? Would she run naked around the gallery—just so she could have secret adventures?

“Think of England,” he told her. “That’s what my colleagues and I do.” It was a cheeky enough piece of advice from a cool, experienced bachelor, wasn’t it? Even though his heart was hammering.

“I already thought of England,” she said, her face implacable, and began to shrug out of one sleeve.

My, she was cool under pressure.

Nicholas rubbed a hand down his face. No way could he carry the ruse any further. He’d be a scoundrel to tease her out of her clothes, and she was a minx to look as if she were enjoying herself. The unruffled pleasure she took in wriggling out of that sleeve was enough to make the front of his breeches tighten to an embarrassing degree.

“That’s enough,” he said firmly, feeling the joke was on him.

“It is?”

“I wanted to make sure you were serious.”

She sucked in a breath. “You mean, you and your colleagues don’t disrobe and run around the gallery three times?”

“No. But congratulations. You passed the test.”

“My goodness.” Her hand froze on her sleeve. “You were lying.” She let her hand drop to her side. “You’re no