He was attempting to blackmail her. Of course, she should have expected nothing less from such a cad. But it would seem she had no choice. If she wanted her school’s reputation to remain pristine, she would have to report for duty herself. After all the effort and hard work she had put into building her school, she could ill afford to allow this man to ruin it. One negative word from him to the Home Office, and all the bricks would come tumbling down.
In her ire, she had taken a misstep. She had warned herself not to raise her voice, but to be calm and composed. To be gentle, yet firm. To take him to task and also appeal to his common sense. But it was apparent she had failed abysmally. Likely, he thought to chase her away. However, he had never met a lady with her determination before, she was certain.
“I look forward to seeing the notice in the Times,” she told him calmly. “I will report for duty tomorrow, at nine o’clock in the morning.”
“Half past eight,” he returned, a small, satisfied smile curving those beautiful lips.
It had been a long time since she had noticed a man’s mouth. That she was taking note of the Duke of Westmorland’s now was most displeasing to her. His looks should mean nothing to her. It was his position, and his ability to either help or hinder her school, which must matter.
“The previous three typists began at nine o’clock,” she pointed out to him, maintaining her composure by the intense assertion of her self-possession.
His smile remained firmly in place. Those eyes of his burned into hers. “Indeed, madam, but I am terribly behind thanks to the three unacceptable typists you have already provided me. I have reports that require preparation, and neither the Home Office nor the dynamitards will wait upon sniveling typists with lung infections and predilections for humming.”
Oh, he was rotten to the core.
What a pity that such a blackhearted scoundrel should have such a gorgeous exterior. It seemed a sin. But that was life, was it not? Angels married devils and paid the price. The most glorious hothouse flowers had no scent. The most delicious fruit hid within the ugliest exteriors.
“I shall see you at half past eight,” she agreed, maintaining her calm by clenching her fists until her fingernails dug into the tender flesh of her palms.
He offered her a deep, elegant bow. One to rival a swain in any ballroom. His stare never strayed from her. “Until then, Miss Hilgrove.”
She curtseyed, irritated by the prickle of awareness that skittered over her flesh beneath his regard. “Until tomorrow, Your Grace.”
Isabella turned on her heel, intent upon quitting the chamber. Needing a respite from the intensity of his gaze and the unwanted impact he had upon her.
She was nearly to the door of his study and freedom when his deep voice cut through the silence, giving her pause.
“Do not wear widow’s weeds tomorrow, Miss Hilgrove. Black and gray displeases me. Don a cheerful color.”
How dare he? The unconscionable cheek of the man…
She ground her molars with painful force, not bothering to cast a backward glance in his direction. “Good day, Your Grace.”
“Good day,” he called after her, his tone cheerful.
He was enjoying this, the villain. But she would have the last laugh, and she would see his endorsement in the Times. This, she vowed.
Chapter Two
Benedict’s carriage came to a halt well before they had reached Westmorland House. He peered out the window of the conveyance, confirming by the light of the street lamps that they were currently halted before the Earl of Pendrake’s home instead of his own.
Frowning, he scratched the back of his neck. He was returning home from a meeting at the Home Office involving the London Bridge bombing and the Gower Street Station explosion both. In a city which had already been rocked by the grip of panic in the wake of the attempt on the bridge, an attack on the Underground had made a bad situation far worse.
Witnesses to the London Bridge explosion reported seeing the mangled wreckage of the boat and bodies of the dynamitards sailing down the Thames through evening fog. However, others had stepped forward to claim the men responsible for the outrage had been seen alive in the days following the bomb. Rumors abounded, including some suggesting they had made their way to France. Others still claimed the same men were responsible for Gower Street station explosion.
All evidence gathered previously suggested the London Bridge dynamitards had been killed, but Scotland Yard was now searching all London for any sign of them out of necessity. Worse, tonight there had been reports from Philadelphia double agents that a new group of Fenian sympathizers were emerging in the wake of the death of Drummond McKenna, a death that lay squarely on his hands.
Benedict had taken no joy in dispatching the formidable Fenian leader, Drummond McKenna, a few months before. Though he had been left with no choice but to kill the man, the echo of the shot he had fired, and the bloody aftermath, still haunted his dreams.
Shaking himself free of the heavy mire of his thoughts, he knocked on the carriage roof, irritated and seeking an explanation as to why they had stopped at the wrong home. His head ached. He was tired. And all he wanted to do was have his dinner and go to bed. But it would seem the fates were conspiring against him to keep him from gaining his wish.
The carriage swayed, indicating his driver was leaving the box. In less than a minute, the door opened to reveal a
