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The Bride's Necklace
Kat Martin
Knowing that she alone can protect her sister from the Baron Harwood, their lecherous stepfather, Victoria Temple Whiting snatches the family's heirloom necklace, believed to hold the power to bring great happiness or terrible tragedy, to pay for their escape to London.Terrified that the baron will find them, Victoria poses as Tory Temple and finds employment as a servant in the household of handsome Cordell Easton, the scandalous Earl of Brant. The sisters' arrival couldn't have been more welcome. In need of a new mistress, Cord turns to Tory, whose wit and intellect intrigue him.But when the baron discovers the girls' whereabouts, Cord learns Tory's secret–her noble birth. Furious that he has compromised the daughter of a peer, Cord must decide–marry Tory and keep her safe, or allow his stubborn pride to deny his heart.



“My study,” he commanded. “Now!”
Tory bit her lip, lifted her skirts and hurried down the hall in front of him. Cord followed her into the study and slammed the door.
“Sit down.”
She dropped into the nearest chair as if her legs had been severed at the knee and forced herself to look up at him. He seemed even taller than he usually did, his eyes fierce and dark.
“I think it’s time we talked about the necklace. The one you and your sister stole from Baron Harwood.”
Her head swam and her palms went damp. She smoothed them over her crisp black taffeta skirt. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Don’t you? I think you know exactly what I’m talking about. I’m speaking of the very valuable necklace that was stolen from Harwood Hall.” His jaw hardened. “And there is also the not insignificant crime of the attempted murder of the baron.”
Tory swallowed, tried to look calm even when her insides were quaking. “I don’t know a Baron Harwood,” she lied.
He didn’t believe her. She could see it in his face. Dear God, she wanted to tell him the truth more than anything in the world. But if she did, if she told him she and Claire were Harwood’s stepdaughters, he would be honor bound to send them back. She couldn’t let that happen. She and Claire would have to run again, leave London and find someplace new to hide.

Watch for the next book in this dramatic new trilogy by KAT MARTIN
THE DEVIL’S NECKLACE

Kat Martin
The Bride’s Necklace


To my great friends Meryl Sawyer, Ciji Ware
and Gloria Dale Skinner for their help
on this trilogy. Love you guys!

Contents
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Epilogue
Author’s Note

Prologue
England, 1804
A soft creak in the hallway awakened her. Victoria Temple Whiting sat upright in bed, straining toward the sound. The faint noise came again, footsteps passing her bedchamber, continuing down the hall, pausing in front of the door to her sister’s room.
Tory swung her legs to the side of the bed, her heart racing now, pounding in her ears. There was no lock on Claire’s door. Their stepfather, the baron, wouldn’t allow it. Tory heard the click of the silver knob turning, then the soft glide of shoes on carpet as someone walked into the room.
She knew who it was. She had known this day would come, known the baron would finally act on the lust he felt for Claire. Desperate to protect her sister, Tory rose quickly, grabbed her blue quilted wrapper off the foot of the bed and raced out into the hall. Claire’s room was two doors down. She made her way there as quietly as possible, legs trembling, her palms so slick she could barely turn the doorknob.
She wiped her hands on her wrapper and tried again, successful this time, opening the door and stepping silently into the darkness of the room. Her stepfather stood next to the bed, a long, shadowy figure in the dim light coming in through the mullioned window. Tory stiffened at his low-murmured words, the fear she heard in Claire’s voice.
“Stay away from me,” Claire pleaded.
“I won’t hurt you. Just lie still and let me do what I want.”
“No. I w-want you to get out of my room.”
“Be quiet,” the baron said more sharply. “Unless you want your sister to awaken. I think you can guess what will happen to her if she comes in here.”
Claire whimpered. “Please don’t hurt Tory.” But both of them knew he would. Her back still carried the marks of an earlier caning, the punishment her stepfather, Miles Whiting, Baron Harwood, had delivered for some minor infraction she could now scarcely recall.
“Do as I say then and just lie still.”
Claire made a sound in her throat and Tory fought down a wave of fury. Slipping around behind the baron, her nails digging into the palms of her hands, she inched closer. She knew what her stepfather meant to do, knew that if she tried to stop him, she would suffer another beating and sooner or later he would still hurt Claire.
Tory bit her lip, forcing down her anger, trying to think what she should do. She had to stop him. No matter what happened, she couldn’t let him touch her sister.
Then her gaze lit on the brass bed warmer next to the hearth. The coals inside had long grown cold, but the bowl was heavy with the ashes left inside. She reached down and gripped the wooden handle, silently lifting the instrument up off the hearth.
Claire made another whimpering sound. Tory took two steps closer to where the baron leaned over Claire and swung the heavy brass bed warmer. Harwood made a sort of grunting noise and toppled over onto the floor.
Her hands shook. The bed warmer hit the floor with a soft clunk, spilling spent coals and black ash all over the Aubusson carpet. Claire leaped up from the bed and started running toward her, threw herself into Tory’s arms.
“He was…he kept touching me.” She made a funny little choking noise and held on tighter. “Oh, Tory, you came just in time.”
“It’s all right, darling. You’re safe now. I won’t let him hurt you again.”
Trembling all over, Claire turned toward the man lying on the rug, a dark streak of blood running from the gash at his temple. “Did you…did you kill him?”
Tory gazed at the baron’s still form and swayed a little on her feet. She took a breath to steady herself. It was dark in the room, but a sliver of moonlight slanted in through the mullioned window. She could see the scarlet stain spreading beneath Harwood’s head. His chest didn’t seem to be moving, but she couldn’t tell for sure.
“We have to get out of here,” she said, fighting an urge to run. “Put on your wrapper and get your satchel out from under the bed. I’ll go get mine and meet you at the bottom of the servants’ stairs.”
“I—I need to change out of my bedclothes.”
“There isn’t time. We’ll change somewhere along the road.”
The journey wasn’t unexpected. They had each packed a satchel three days ago, the night of Claire’s seventeenth birthday. Since that night, the lust in the baron’s dark eyes had grown every time he looked at her. They had begun making plans that very evening. They would leave Harwood Hall at the first opportunity.
But tonight fate had taken a hand. They couldn’t wait a moment longer.
“What about the necklace?” Claire asked.
Stealing the baron’s most prized possession had always been part of their plan. They needed money to get to London. The beautiful diamond-and-pearl necklace was worth a small fortune and was the only thing of value they could easily carry with them.
“I’ll get it. Try to be quiet. I’ll join you as quickly as I can.”
Claire rushed out the door and headed down the hall. Tory cast a last glance at her stepfather and raced out behind her. Sweet God, don’t let him be dead, she thought, sickened to think she might actually have killed him.
Tory shuddered as she hurried away.

One
London
Two months later
Perhaps it was the necklace. Tory had never believed in the curse, but everyone for miles around the tiny village of Harwood knew the legend of the beautiful diamond-and-pearl necklace. People whispered about it, feared it, coveted and revered the magnificent piece of jewelry crafted in the thirteenth century for the bride of Lord Fallon. It was said the necklace—The Bride’s Necklace—could bring its owner untold happiness, or unbearable tragedy.
That hadn’t kept Tory from stealing it. Or selling it to a moneylender in Dartfield for enough coin that she and Claire could finally escape.
But that had been nearly two months ago, before the two of them had reached London and the ridiculously small amount of money Tory had been forced to accept for the very valuable necklace had nearly run out.
In the beginning, she had been certain she could find a job as a governess for some nice, respectable family, but so far she had failed. The few clothes she and Claire had been able to take along the night they had fled were fashionable, but Tory’s cuffs had begun to fray, and faint stains appeared on the hem of Claire’s apricot muslin gown. Though their education and speech were that of the upper classes, Tory didn’t have a single solitary reference, and without one, she had been turned away again and again.
She was becoming nearly as desperate as she had been before she left Harwood Hall.
“What are we going to do, Tory?” Her sister’s voice cut through the self-pity rising like a dark tide inside her. “Mr. Jennings says if we can’t pay our rent by the end of the week, he is going to throw us out.”
Tory shuddered at the thought. She had seen things in London she wished she could forget, homeless children picking food scraps out of the gutter, women selling their frail bodies for coin enough to last another bitter day. The thought of being tossed out of their last place of refuge, a small garret above a hatmaker’s shop, into the company of the riffraff and blacklegs in the street was more than she could bear.
“It’s all right, dearest, you mustn’t worry,” she said, putting on a brave face once more. “Everything has a way of working out.” Though Tory was truly beginning to doubt it.
Claire managed a trembly smile. “I know you’ll think of something. You always do.” At just-turned-seventeen, Claire Whiting was two years younger but several inches taller than Tory, whose build was more petite. Both girls were slender, but it was Claire who had inherited their mother’s stunning good looks.
She had wavy silver-blond hair that reached nearly to her waist and skin as smooth and pale as an alabaster Venus. Her eyes were so blue they put a clear, Kentish sky to shame. If an angel dressed up in apricot muslin and donned a warm pelisse, she would look like Claire Whiting.
Tory thought of herself as a more durable sort, with heavy chestnut-brown hair that often curled when she least desired it, clear green eyes and a smattering of freckles. But it wasn’t just their looks that set them apart.
Claire was simply different. She always had been. She inhabited a world mere mortals could not see. Tory always regarded her sister as ethereal, the kind of girl who played with fairies and talked to gnomes.
Not that she really did those things. It just seemed as if she could.
What Claire couldn’t seem to do was take care of herself in any responsible fashion, so Tory did it for her.
Which was why they had fled their stepfather, made their way to London and now faced the threat of being cast out into the street.
To say nothing of being wanted for the theft of the valuable necklace—and perhaps even murder.

A soft August breeze blew in off the Thames, cooling the heat rising up from the cobbled streets. Comfortable in a big four-poster bed, Cordell Easton, fifth earl of Brant, lounged back against the carved wooden headboard. Across from him, Olivia Landers, Viscountess Westland, sat naked on a stool in front of her mirror, slowly pulling a silver-backed hairbrush through her long, straight raven-black hair.
“Why don’t you put down that brush and come back to bed?” Cord drawled. “Once I get through with you, you’ll only have to comb it again.”
She turned on the stool and a seductive smile curved her ruby lips. “I thought perhaps you wouldn’t be interested again quite so soon.” Her eyes ran over his body, sweeping the muscles across his chest, following the thin line of dark hair arrowing down his stomach, coming to rest on his sex. Her eyes widened as she realized he was fully aroused. “Amazing how wrong a woman can be.”
Leaving the stool, she walked toward him, long black hair swinging forward, the only thing hiding her very seductive body, making him harder than he was already.
Olivia was a widow—a very young and tasty widow whom Cord had been seeing for the past several months—but she was spoiled and selfish and she was fast becoming more trouble than she was worth. Cord had begun to think of ending the affair.
Not today, however.
Today he had stolen a couple of hours away from the stack of papers he had been poring over, badly in need of a diversion. Livy was good for that if nothing more.
She tossed her black hair over her shoulder as she climbed up onto the deep feather mattress. “I want to be on top,” she purred. “I want to make you squirm.”
What she wanted was the same thing she always demanded, rough, hard-pounding sex, and he was just in the mood to give it to her. The problem was, once they were finished, he had begun to feel oddly dissatisfied. He told himself he should cast about for some new female companionship. That always raised his spirits—among other parts of his body. But lately, he simply couldn’t get into the thrill of the hunt.
“Cord, you aren’t listening.” She tugged on a tuft of curly brown chest hair.
“Sorry, sweeting.” But he wasn’t really contrite, since he was certain nothing she had to say would interest him in the least. “I was distracted by your very lovely breasts.” To which he directed his full attention, taking one of them into his mouth as he lifted her astride him and slid her luscious body the length of his powerful erection.
Olivia moaned and began to move and Cord lost himself in the sweet charms of her body. Livy peaked and Cord followed, then the pleasure began to fade, disappearing as if it had never existed.
As Livy climbed from the bed, the thought he’d been having of late began to creep in. Surely there is more than just this.
Cord shoved the thought beneath the dozens of other problems he had been facing since his father had died and he had inherited the Brant title and fortune. Following Olivia out of bed, he began to pull on his clothes. There were a thousand things he needed to do—investments he needed to consider, accounts he needed to review, tenant complaints and shipping invoices.
And there was his ongoing worry about his cousin. Ethan Sharpe had been missing for nearly a year and Cord was determined to find him.
Still, no matter how busy he was, he always found time for his single great vice—women.
Convinced a new mistress was the answer to his recent bout of gloom, Cord vowed to begin his search.

“What if it’s the curse?” Claire looked at Tory with big blue worried eyes. “You know what people say—Mama told us a dozen times. She said the necklace could bring very bad fortune to the person who owned it.”
“You’re being ridiculous, Claire. There is no such thing as a curse. Besides, we don’t own it. We just borrowed it for a while.”
But it had certainly brought misfortune to her stepfather. Tory gnawed her bottom lip as she remembered the baron lying on the floor next to the bureau in Claire’s bedchamber, a trickle of blood running from the gash in the side of his head. Dear God, she had prayed every night since it happened that she had not killed him.
Not that he didn’t deserve to die for what he had tried to do.
“Besides, if you remember the story correctly,” Tory added, “it can also bring the owner good fortune.”
“If the person’s heart is pure,” Claire put in.
“That’s right.”
“We stole it, Tory. That’s a sin. Now look what is happening to us. Our money’s almost gone. They’re going to throw us out of our room. Pretty soon we won’t have even enough to buy something to eat.”
“We’re just having a little bad luck, is all. It has nothing to do with the curse. And we’re bound to find employment very soon.”
Claire looked at her with worried eyes. “Are you sure?”
“It might not be the sort of work we had hoped for, but yes, I am extremely sure.” She wasn’t, of course, but she didn’t want Claire’s hopes to plummet any lower than they were already. Besides, she would find work. No matter what she had to do.
But three more days passed and still nothing turned up. Tory had blisters on her feet and there was a rip in the hem of her high-waisted dove-gray gown.
Today is the day, she told herself, summoning a renewed determination as they headed once more for the area she believed most likely to provide employment. For more than a week, they had knocked on doors in London’s fashionable West End, certain some wealthy family would be in need of a governess. But so far, nothing had turned up.
Climbing what must have been the hundredth set of porch stairs, Tory lifted the heavy brass knocker, gave it several firm raps, then listened as the sound echoed into the house. A few minutes later, a skinny, black-haired butler with a thin mustache opened the heavy front door.
“I should like to speak to the mistress of the house, if you please.”
“In what regard, madam, may I ask?”
“I am seeking employment as a governess. One of the kitchen maids down the block said that Lady Pithering has three children and may be in need of one.”
The butler’s gaze took in the frayed cuffs and the rip in her hem and lifted his nose into the air. He opened his mouth to send her away when his gaze lit on Claire. She was smiling in that sweet way of hers, looking for all the world like an angel fallen to earth.
“We both love children,” Claire said, still smiling. “And Tory is ever so smart. She would make the very best of governesses. I am also looking for work. We were hoping you might be able to help us.”
The butler just kept staring at Claire and Claire kept on smiling.
Tory cleared her throat and the skinny man dragged his gaze away from Claire back to Tory. “Go round to the back door and I shall let you speak to the housekeeper. That is the best I can do.”
Tory nodded, grateful to have gotten even that far, but a few minutes later, when they returned to the front of the house, she was filled with an even deeper despair.
“The butler was ever so nice,” Claire said. “I thought for certain this time—”
“You heard what the housekeeper said. Lady Pithering is looking for someone older.” And there never seemed to be a job for a servant as lovely as Claire.
Claire gnawed her bottom lip. “I’m hungry, Tory. I know you said we have to wait till supper, but my stomach is making all sorts of unladylike noises. Can’t we have a little something now?”
Tory closed her eyes, trying to resurrect some of her earlier courage. She couldn’t stand the look in her sister’s eyes, the worry mingled with fear. She simply could not tell her they had spent their very last farthing, that until they found work of some kind they couldn’t buy so much as a dry crust of bread.
“Just a bit longer, darling. Let’s try the place the housekeeper mentioned down the block.”
“But she said Lord Brant doesn’t have any children.”
“It doesn’t matter. We’ll take whatever jobs we can find.” She forced herself to smile. “I’m sure it won’t be for long.”
Claire nodded bravely and Tory wanted to cry. She had hoped to take care of her younger sister. While Tory had often worked long hours at the day-to-day task of running Harwood Hall, Claire wasn’t used to the hard work done by a servant. Tory had hoped to spare her sister, but fate had led them to this dismal place in their lives and it looked as if they would have to do whatever it took to survive.
“Which one is it?” Claire asked.
“The big brick house just over there. Do you see those two stone lions on the porch? That is the residence of the earl of Brant.”
Claire studied the elegant town house, larger than any other on the block, and a hopeful smile blossomed on her face.
“Perhaps Lord Brant will be handsome and kind as well as rich,” she said dreamily. “And you shall marry him and both of us will be saved.”
Tory flashed her an indulgent smile. “For now, let us simply hope the man is in need of a servant or two and willing to take us in.”
But again they were turned away, this time by a short, bald-headed butler with thick shoulders and beady little eyes.
Claire was crying by the time they reached the bottom of the stairs, which was a rare thing, indeed, and enough to make Tory want to cry along with her. Funny thing was, if Tory cried, her nose got all red and her lips wobbled. But with Claire, it just made her eyes look bigger and bluer and her cheeks bloomed with roses.
Tory grabbed her reticule and began trying to dig out a handkerchief for Claire when one magically appeared in front of her face. Her sister accepted it gratefully. Dabbing it against her eyes, she turned her sweet, angelic smile upon the man who had provided it.
“Thank you ever so much.”
The man returned the smile as Tory could have guessed he would. “Cordell Easton, earl of Brant, at your service, dear lady. And you would be…?”
He was looking at Claire the way men had since she was twelve years old. Tory didn’t think he realized there was anyone else there but Claire.
“I am Miss Claire Temple and this is my sister, Victoria.” Tory silently thanked God that Claire had remembered to use their mother’s maiden name, and ignored her sister’s disregard of the proper rules of introduction. The man was, after all, the earl, and they were desperately in need of his employment.
Brant smiled at Claire but had to force himself to look in Tory’s direction. “Good afternoon, ladies.”
“Lord Brant,” Tory said, hoping her stomach wouldn’t choose that particular moment to growl. Just as Claire had imagined, he was tall and exceedingly handsome, though his hair was dark brown and not blond, and his features were harder than one of Claire’s imaginary princes would have been.
His shoulders were exceptionally wide, with no padding that she could discern, while his build was solid and athletic. All in all, he was a very impressive man, and the way he was looking at Claire made a knot of worry ball in the pit of Tory’s stomach.
Lord Brant continued to gaze at Claire as if Tory had disappeared. “I saw you leaving my door,” he said. “I hope you weren’t crying over something my butler might have said. Timmons can be a bit of a muttonhead at times.”
Tory answered while Claire continued to smile. “Your butler informed us there were no positions available. That is the reason we are here. We are in search of work, my lord.”
For a moment, he actually looked at Tory, his gaze running over her slim figure and upswept brown hair, sizing her up in a way that sent spots of color into her cheeks.
“What sort of work are you talking about?”
There was something in his eyes…something she couldn’t quite read. “Any sort of position you might need to have filled. Chambermaid, kitchen maid, anything that pays a respectable wage for a respectable day’s work.”
“My sister wishes to become a governess,” Claire said brightly, “but you don’t have any children.”
His gaze returned to Claire. “No, I’m afraid I don’t.”
“Anything would do,” Tory said, trying to keep the desperation out of her voice. “Recently, we have come upon rather unfortunate circumstances.”
“I’m sorry to hear that. You have no family, no one who might be of assistance?”
“I’m afraid not. That is the reason we’re looking for work. We were hoping that perhaps you might have something available.”
For the first time, the earl seemed to understand exactly what they were about. He gazed at Claire and his mouth curved up. Tory thought that perhaps that smile did to women what Claire’s smile did to men.
Only Claire’s was completely guileless, while the earl of Brant’s definitely held a calculating twist.
“As a matter of fact, we are in need of help. Timmons just hasn’t yet been informed. Why don’t you both come with me?” He was offering Claire his arm, which didn’t bode well as far as Tory was concerned.
She knew the effect her sister had on men—not that Claire was even remotely aware of it. It was the reason they found themselves in such dire straights in the first place.

God’s breath—the girl was an angel. Cord had never seen skin so fair or eyes so blue. She was slender, yet he could see the swell of her breasts, outlined beneath her slightly frayed apricot gown, and they looked utterly delectable. He had been searching for a new bit of muslin. He hadn’t expected a divine creature like this to appear at his front door.
Cord paused inside the entry, the sisters gazing up at him from where they stood beneath the crystal chandelier. A few feet away, Timmons cast him a look of disbelief. Cord turned to Claire, but she had wandered over to a vase filled with roses and appeared to be enthralled with a single pink bud.
The other sister, he saw, was eyeing him with what could only be called suspicion. He gave her a friendly, innocent smile, all the while calculating how long it would take him to lure the blond beauty into his bed.
“So, my lord, you were telling me about the position you have available.”
He focused his attention on the dark-haired sister…what was her name? Velma or Valerie or…? Victoria—yes, that was it.
“As I was saying, we are definitely in need of help.” He looked her over. She was shorter than Claire, but not too short, and not nearly so…fragile. That was the word for Claire. This one, Victoria, looked capable, at least in his estimation, and she was obviously protective of her sister.
“My housekeeper, Mrs. Mills, gave notice nearly two weeks ago. She’ll be leaving in a few more days and I have yet to find a suitable replacement.” Victoria Temple was far too young for the position and undoubtedly she knew it. But he didn’t give a damn and he didn’t think she would, either. “Perhaps you would be interested in the job.”
He didn’t miss the staggering relief that washed over her face. It gave him an odd sort of pang.
“Yes, my lord, I would most assuredly be interested. I’ve done similar work before. I believe I could handle the job very well.”
She was attractive, he saw as he hadn’t before. Not the raving beauty her sister was, but her features were refined, her dark eyebrows winged over a pair of lively green eyes, her nose straight and her chin firm. A stubborn little chin, he thought with a hint of amusement.
“What about my sister? I’m afraid I can’t accept the position unless there is a place here for Claire as well.”
He heard the tension that crept into her voice. She needed this job—very badly. But she wouldn’t stay without her sister. Apparently, she hadn’t realized yet that Claire was the reason that she had been employed.
“As housekeeper, you will be able to hire as you wish. Another chambermaid would probably be useful. I’ll summon Mrs. Mills. She can show you around and discuss the duties you will need to perform. As this is a bachelor household, I imagine it would be better if I introduced you as Mrs. Temple.”
Her lips slightly pursed as she recognized the necessity of the lie, which obviously didn’t sit well with her.
“Yes, I suppose it would. As that will pose a problem for Claire, you may refer to my sister as Miss Marion. That is her middle name.”
He motioned toward Timmons, who left to collect Mrs. Mills. The broad-hipped housekeeper arrived a few minutes later, a speculative look on her face.
“Mrs. Mills, this is Mrs. Temple,” Cord said. “Beginning on Monday, she will be taking your place.”
The housekeeper’s speckled gray eyebrows drew together. “But I assumed Mrs. Rathbone—”
“As I said, Mrs. Temple will be your replacement. And this is her sister, Miss Marion. She’s being employed as a housemaid.”
Mrs. Mills didn’t look all that happy, but she nodded her acceptance, then motioned for the women to follow her and started climbing the stairs.
“We’ll get your sister settled in first,” the housekeeper said. “Then I’ll show you to your room. It’s downstairs next to the kitchen.”
“Come, Claire.” The dark-haired sister’s command drew the blonde’s attention from the flower-filled urn. “Mrs. Mills is going to show us our rooms.” Though the words were directed at Claire, her eyes were fixed on Cord and he thought that they held a trace of warning.
The notion somehow amused him. A servant with that kind of pluck. For the first time in weeks, Cord found himself thinking of something other than the business of being an earl and his worry about Ethan.
He cast a last glance at Claire, who climbed the stairs with her elegant head bent forward as she studied the patterns in the carpet. Cord watched the way a silver-blond strand of hair teased her cheek and felt a familiar male stirring. Thinking of the intriguing possibilities the future suddenly held for him, he smiled.
Then he thought of the stacks of paperwork waiting on his desk and the smile slid away. With a sigh, Cord headed for his study.

Two
It was early the following morning that Mrs. Mills began her instruction and Tory learned the scope of her duties. Fortunately, she had managed a fairly large household at Harwood Hall, though the penny-pinching baron kept the staff to a minimum, resulting in long, exhausting days for all of them.
Though Claire had never worked at Harwood, she accepted her duties without the least complaint, collecting peas and beans from the kitchen garden, haring off to the marketplace for a pot of butter Cook needed for the evening meal, enjoying the camaraderie of working with the other servants.
Since their mother, Charlotte Temple Whiting, Lady Harwood, had died three years ago, they’d had very little social life. Tory had been away at Mrs. Thornhill’s Private Academy when her mother had fallen ill. After her mother’s death, her stepfather had insisted that Tory forgo the balance of her term at school to stay home and manage the household in her mother’s stead.
Claire, he said, could receive private instruction. Where the girls were concerned, the baron was miserly in the extreme, but Tory now knew he also hoped to find his way into her sister’s bed.
A shiver ran down her spine. Claire is safe now, she told herself. But in truth, the theft of the necklace and the possible death of the baron hung over them like a shroud that darkened each of their days. Surely, if the man had died, she would have read about it in the papers—or been apprehended for the deed by now.
Then again, perhaps the baron had recovered and simply said nothing of the crime, hoping to avoid a scandal. He was obsessed with the title he had gained on the death of her father. He was Baron Harwood now. He would not wish to sully the name.
Her mind strayed to the necklace. From the moment Miles Whiting had first seen it, he had been fascinated with the beautiful string of pearls interspersed with glittering diamonds. Tory thought that perhaps he had purchased it for his mistress then couldn’t bear to part with it. Whatever the truth, the necklace always seemed to have an odd sort of hold over him.
Surely the whispered tales of violence and passion, vast fortunes gained and lost that revolved around the necklace were nothing more than fantasy.
Then again…Tory glanced around, thinking of her present situation, her face damp from the coal fires burning beneath the pots boiling on the stove, her hair springing out of its coil and sticking to the back of her neck. She thought of Claire and worried at the earl’s intentions—and wondered, just for an instant, if perhaps the curse was real.

Tory worked with Mrs. Mills, going over each of the tasks she would be responsible for as housekeeper. Keeping the accounts, preparing menus and receiving deliveries, inventorying the larder, looking after the linens and placing orders for household supplies were among an endless list.
It wasn’t until several hours later, as she headed upstairs to begin an inventory of the west-wing linen closet, that she encountered the earl, lounging in the doorway of one of the bedchambers. Her sister was changing the linens inside the room, she realized, and her whole body stiffened.
“Is there something you need, my lord?” Tory asked, certain she knew what he was about.
“What? Oh, no, nothing, thank you. I was just…” He flicked a glance at Claire, who was staring out the window holding an armload of dirty sheets. “What is your sister doing?”
Tory followed his gaze, saw Claire standing there with a mesmerized look on her face. Reaching out, she caught a moth on the tip of her finger. She didn’t move an inch as she watched the tiny wings float up and down.
Worry tightened Tory’s chest. They needed this job. They were out of money, out of options. They simply had nowhere else to go.
“You needn’t fear, my lord. Claire is a very hard worker. She’ll see her tasks completed. It might take her a little longer than someone else, but she’s very conscientious. And she’ll do a very good job.”
The earl looked down at Tory. His eyes were a sort of golden brown, a bit unusual and somehow disturbing.
“I’m sure she will.” His gaze flicked back to Claire, who still stood mesmerized by the slow, graceful movement of the tiny moth.
Tory started forward, walking purposely into the room. “Claire, darling. Why don’t you take those sheets down to Mrs. Wiggs? She could probably use some help with the laundry.”
Claire’s face softened into a beatific smile. “All right.” Strolling out of the room, she breezed right past the earl, whose gaze followed her feminine movements down the hall.
“As I said, you don’t have to worry about Claire.”
His attention returned to Tory and a corner of his mouth edged up. “No, I have a feeling you do enough worrying about her all by yourself.”
Tory made no reply, just continued past him into the hall. Her heart was racing, her stomach oddly trembling. Fear of losing their desperately needed employment, she told herself. But as her gaze slid one last time toward the tall, dark-haired earl, she worried that it might be something else.

The ormolu clock on the mantel struck midnight. Seated behind the desk in his study, Cord barely heard it. Instead, he stared into the circle of light from the silver whale-oil lamp illuminating the ledger he had been poring over since just after supper. Wearily, he rubbed his eyes and leaned back in his chair, thinking how far into the red his family fortune had sunk before he had taken over the job of rebuilding.
Until the day his father died, he’d had no idea the problems the old man had been facing. Cord had been too busy carousing with his friends, drinking and debauching, gaming, skirt-chasing and generally doing whatever pleased him at the moment. He’d had no time for family responsibilities, duties that should have been his as the eldest son.
Then his father had suffered an apoplexy, leaving him unable to speak and his left side paralyzed, distorting his once-handsome face. Two months later, the earl of Brant was dead and the crushing weight of his financially failing earldom settled heavily on his son’s more-than-adequate shoulders.
In the two years since, Cord still wondered if the earl might not be alive today if his son had been there to help ease his burden. Perhaps together they could have solved at least a portion of the estate’s financial problems. Perhaps if the strain hadn’t been so great…
Ah, but it was too late for that now and so the guilt remained, driving Cord to do what he felt he should have done in the first place.
He sighed into the silence of the room, hearing the clock tick now, watching his shadow move against the wall as he leaned over his desk. At least there was some satisfaction in the accomplishments he had made. Several wise investments over the past two years had returned the Brant coffers to a satisfactory level. He had earned enough to pay for all the needed repairs on the three estates that belonged to the earldom and make several new investments that looked very promising indeed.
Still, it wasn’t enough. He owed his father for failing him in his time of need. Cord meant to repay him not by simply rebuilding the Brant family fortune but taking it to greater heights than it had ever been before. Not only had he discovered he was remarkably good at making money, he had formulated a financial plan, one that included marriage to an heiress, a lady of quality who could contribute to the family wealth.
He didn’t imagine that goal would be particularly difficult to accomplish. Cord knew women. He felt comfortable with them, liked them—young or old, fat or thin, rich or poor. And they liked him. He already had his eye on a couple of potential mates. When the time came, it wouldn’t be hard to decide which attractive, wealthy young woman he should marry.
Thinking of women, an image of the lovely little blonde asleep upstairs rose into his head. He had never seduced one of the servants before, or for that matter, such an obvious innocent, but remembering the beautiful Claire, he was willing to make an exception. And he would take very good care of her. He would see she had a comfortable town house and be generous enough in his allowance that she could take care of her older sister.
The arrangement would benefit all of them.

It was Monday, Tory’s first official day as the earl of Brant’s housekeeper. It was just past noon and so far things hadn’t gone well. Even though the earl had introduced her to the staff as Mrs. Temple, Tory had known it would be difficult for a young woman her age to gain their loyalty and respect.
Hiring a woman of her mere nineteen years just simply was not done. The servants were resentful of taking orders from someone they saw as completely inexperienced, and though that was scarcely the case, beyond proving herself as time went on, there was nothing she could do to change their opinion.
To make matters worse, the servants all expected the job would be given to Mrs. Rathbone, a senior member of the below-stairs serving staff. And Mrs. Rathbone was obviously furious to have been overlooked.
“Tory?” Claire came rushing down the sweeping spiral staircase. Even the mobcap she wore over her silver-blond curls, the crisp black taffeta skirt and plain white blouse, couldn’t dim the glow of her beautiful face. “I finished sweeping the guest rooms in the east wing. What shall I do next?”
Tory gazed round the lavishly furnished mansion, noting the freshly cut flowers on the table in the entry, the gleam of the inlaid parquet floors. At first glance, the interior of the house looked clean, the Hepplewhite tables glistening, the hearths cleaned of coal dust, but on closer inspection, she had discovered a number of things amiss.
The silver badly needed polishing, none of the guest rooms had been freshened in weeks, and the chimneys needed sweeping. The rugs were due for a very thorough beating and the draperies desperately needed to be aired.
She would see it done, she told herself. Somehow she would win the servants’ cooperation.
“I haven’t done the rooms in the west wing,” Claire said from her place on the stairs. “Shall I go up and sweep in there?”
Tory didn’t really want her to. Lord Brant’s room was in that part of the house and she had vowed to keep her sister as far away from the earl as she possibly could.
“Why don’t you go down to the butler’s pantry and help Miss Honeycutt finish polishing that lovely Sheffield silver?”
“All right, but—”
“My room could certainly use a bit of sweeping,” the earl drawled from where he stood on the staircase just above Claire, his unusual golden eyes running over her sister’s suddenly flushed features.
Claire dropped into a curtsey, momentarily lost her balance and almost tumbled down the stairs. Fortunately, the earl reached out and caught her arm, helping her regain her footing.
“Take it easy, love. You needn’t kill yourself trying to get there.”
More color stained Claire’s already rosy cheeks. “Forgive me, my lord. Sometimes I—I’m a little clumsy. I shall see to it right away.” Claire raced back up the stairs, passing the earl, causing him to turn and watch her climb upward. His lion’s gaze followed her until she disappeared, then he turned and fixed his attention on Tory.
“I trust you’re settling into your new position.”
“Yes, my lord. Everything is going along quite well.” That was a lie, of course. The servants barely acknowledged her existence and she wasn’t sure how much work she could actually get them to do.
“Good. Let me know if there is anything you need.” He turned and started climbing upward, heightening Tory’s worry about his intentions toward Claire.
“My lord?”
He paused near the top of the landing. “Yes?”
“There are…I have a couple of items I should like to discuss.”
“Perhaps a little later.” He took the last several steps, started striding toward his room.
“They are rather important,” Tory called after him, beginning to follow him up. “Perhaps you might break away for just a few moments.”
Brant stopped and turned. He studied her for several long moments and something told her he knew exactly what she was about.
A faint smile curved his lips. “That important, are they? I’ll be down in fifteen minutes.”

Cord shook his head, his amused smile still in place as he reached the doorway of his suite. She was quite remarkable, this new housekeeper of his. Cheeky little thing and far too perceptive for his liking. The door stood open. His gaze slid across the room to the ethereal creature in the mobcap pushing the broom with light, rapid strokes, piling up the tiny bit of dust that was all she could find on the carefully polished oak floor.
She was lovely in the extreme. And unlike her slightly impertinent sister, completely in awe and even a little afraid of him. He wondered what he could do to put her at ease.
He started into the room, then stopped as he realized she hadn’t noticed his presence, which allowed him the pleasure of watching her. The broom continued its movements, then stilled as Claire stopped to study the little silver music box on his writing desk in the corner. Lifting the lid, she stood transfixed as the notes of a Beethoven lullaby spilled out.
She began to sway, the broom moving side to side as if it were her dancing partner, her lilting voice softly humming along with the tune in the box. Cord watched her lithe, graceful movements, but instead of being captivated as he had been that first day, he found himself frowning.
As lovely as she was, watching her was like peering into a fairy’s private kingdom, like watching a child at play. Cord didn’t like the notion.
She saw him just then, jumped and slammed the lid closed on the box. “I—I’m sorry, my lord. It—it was just so lovely. I opened it and the music poured out and, well…1I hope you aren’t angry.”
“No,” he said with a faint shake of his head, “I’m not angry.”
“My lord?” At the sharp tone of Victoria Temple’s voice, his eyebrows went up and he swung his attention in her direction. He found himself inwardly smiling at the fierce look on her face.
“What is it now, Mrs. Temple? I thought I told you I’d be down in fifteen minutes.”
She smoothed her features into a bland expression. “Quite so, my lord, but I was bringing up this load of freshly washed laundry and I thought I would save you the trouble of walking all the way back downstairs.”
She held up the laundry as proof of why she had come and he caught a whiff of starch and soap and a hint of something feminine. “Yes, well, that was extremely thoughtful of you.”
And fairly creative. She was a protective little thing, and no doubt. But then he had known that from the start.
With a last glance at Claire, whose face, even drained of color, still held an ethereal beauty unlike anything he’d ever seen, Cord closed the door, leaving the girl to her work. He followed Victoria Temple down the hall, then paused beneath a gilt sconce on the wall.
“All right, Mrs. Temple, these very important questions you have…what are they?” He imagined she’d had time to think of something in the moments she had feared for her sister’s safety. He found himself intrigued to discover what she might have come up with.
“To begin, there is the issue of the silver. I assume you wish to keep it polished at all times.”
He nodded very seriously. “By all means. What would happen if a guest arrived and the tea service were not up to snuff?”
“Exactly, my lord.” She glanced over his shoulder toward the room in which her sister still worked, Claire’s humming faintly audible through the door. “And there are the guest rooms to consider.”
“The guest rooms?”
“They are desperately in need of airing…if that meets with your approval, of course.”
He bit back an urge to laugh and instead kept the serious expression on his face. “Airing…Of course. I should have thought of that myself.”
“Then I have your permission?”
“Absolutely.” As if Victoria Temple needed his permission for anything she might wish to do. “Why, should a guest catch the scent of less-than-clean air in any of the bedchambers, the humiliation would be unbearable.”
“And the chimneys. It’s important that—”
“Do with the chimneys whatever you wish, Mrs. Temple. Keeping the house clean is extremely important. That is the reason I hired someone as obviously capable as you. Now, if you will excuse me…”
She opened her mouth, probably thinking he meant to return to where Claire continued to work, then snapped it closed when she saw he was heading, instead, downstairs. Chuckling to himself, he made his way toward his study. Behind him he could hear her sigh of relief.
Cord just smiled. He wasn’t sure what to make of either of the two young women, but one thing was certain. His life hadn’t been dull since the moment they arrived.

Tory rose early the following morning. As befitted her status as housekeeper, her below-stairs room just off the middle hallway was large and surprisingly pleasant, with a well-furnished sitting room and a bed with a comfortable mattress and pillow. A porcelain basin and pitcher painted with lavender flowers sat on the bureau against the wall, and pretty white muslin curtains hung at the half windows.
Tory poured water into the basin, completed her morning ablutions, then walked over to the black skirt and white blouse that were the uniform she wore each day. She frowned as she picked up the clothes, realizing these weren’t the ones she had hung beside the door last night.
Instead, these were freshly laundered, smelling strongly of starch and soap. They crackled as she took them off the hook, so stiff they looked as if they were fashioned of pieces of wood instead of the soft cotton fabric they had been sewn from.
Sweet Mother Mary! Of all the childish…Tory cut herself off, ending her silent tirade before it had actually begun. She didn’t know which of the staff had done this, though Mrs. Rathbone, the most senior of the staff, seemed the most likely. Her dislike of Tory was a clear case of jealousy, but it didn’t really matter. All of them resented her. They probably spent half the morning devising ways to make her quit. They didn’t know how badly she needed this job, how desperate she and Claire were for money.
They didn’t understand it was possible they might even be fugitives from the law.
At least they seemed to have accepted Claire. But then, Claire was so sweet and generous nearly everyone did. It was Tory they considered the problem, the one they needed to get rid of. Still, no matter what the others believed, no matter what they did to her, she wasn’t going to quit.
Gritting her teeth, Tory pulled the blouse on over her shift and shoved her arms into the sleeves, stepped into the skirt and fastened the tabs, the garments crackling with every move. The blouse scratched under her arms and the collar chafed the back of her neck.
She knew how she sounded, snapping and popping with every step. As she passed a gilded mirror in the hallway, she discovered how awful she looked. The sleeves of the blouse stuck out like wings and the skirt poked out front and back like a stiff black sail.
“What in God’s name…?”
Tory froze at the sound of the earl’s deep voice, turned to see him striding toward her, dark eyebrows raised in disbelief. Dear sweet God—of all the rotten luck! Didn’t the man have anything better to do than lurk around the hallways?
Cord stopped in front of her, leaned back and crossed his arms over the very impressive width of his chest.
“Perhaps, Mrs. Temple, when you were asking me all those housekeeping questions the other day, you should have asked my advice on how to manage the laundry. I might have suggested you consider using a bit less starch.”
Tory felt the color rushing into her cheeks. She looked like a complete fool in the ridiculous garb, which was perhaps the reason the earl looked even more handsome that he had the day before.
“I am not in charge of the laundry, my lord. However, I assure you that in future, I shall see that more care is taken in the training of your staff in that regard.”
A corner of his mouth curved up. “I would think that a very wise course.”
He made no move to leave, just stood there grinning, so she simply stared back at him and lifted her chin. “If you will excuse me, my lord.”
“Of course. I imagine you have airing and polishing to do—and laundry instruction of course.”
Her face colored again. Turning, she left him, trying to ignore his soft chuckling laughter and the crackle and popping of her skirts.

Still smiling, thinking again of Victoria Temple in her god-awful, overstarched clothes, Cord continued down the hall to his study. He had a meeting this morning with Colonel Howard Pendleton of the British War Office. The colonel had been a good friend of his father’s. He had also worked closely with Cord’s cousin, Ethan.
Aside from the hours spent rebuilding his family fortune, the balance of Cord’s time was spent trying to locate his cousin and best friend, Ethan Sharpe. Ethan was the second son of Malcolm Sharpe, marquess of Belford, his mother being Cord’s aunt. When Priscilla and Malcolm Sharpe were killed in a carriage accident on their way in from the country, Lord and Lady Brant had taken in the marquess’s children, Charles, Ethan and Sarah, to raise as their own.
Since Cord had no siblings, he and the children had become extremely close. There had been the occasional bloody nose, and once Cord had accidentally broken Ethan’s arm in a wrestling match that ended up with the two of them landing in the creek. Cord would have suffered a well-deserved birching had Ethan not sworn he had fallen in accidentally and that Cord had been trying to save him from drowning.
The incident had cemented Cord and Ethan’s friendship, though Ethan was two years younger. Perhaps it was partly to prove himself that he had joined the navy as soon as he graduated Oxford. That had been nine years ago. Since then, he had left the navy but not His Majesty’s Service. Ethan Sharpe captained the schooner Sea Witch, serving Britain now as a privateer.
Or at least he had been until he and his ship disappeared.
A soft knock sounded on the study door. His short, stout butler, Timmons, stuck his head through the opening. “Colonel Pendleton is here, my lord.”
“Show him in.”
A few moments later a silver-haired man in the scarlet tunic of a military officer walked into the study, gold buttons glittering on the front of his coat. Cord rounded his desk and walked over to greet him.
“It’s good to see you, Colonel.”
“You as well, my lord.”
“Would you care for some refreshment? A glass of brandy or a cup of tea?”
“No, thank you. I’m afraid I haven’t much time.”
Cord passed as well, his mind on Ethan, his worry building each day. For nearly a year, he had been searching, refusing to consider the possibility that the missing ship and its crew might simply have perished in a storm. Ethan was too good a captain, Cord believed. Something else had to have happened.
Both men seated themselves in comfortable leather chairs in front of the hearth and Cord got directly to the business at hand.
“What news, Howard?”
The colonel actually smiled. “A bit of good news, my lord. Three days ago, one of our warships, the Victor, arrived in Portsmouth. She was carrying a civilian passenger named Edward Legg. Legg claims to be a member of Captain Sharpe’s crew.”
Cord’s chest tightened. He leaned forward in his chair. “What did he say about Ethan and his ship?”
“That is the good news. Mr. Legg claims that on their last mission, two French warships were lying in wait off the Le Havre coast. Someone had informed them as to Captain Sharpe’s arrival—or at least that is what Legg believes. A battle ensued and the Sea Witch was damaged beyond repair, but most of the crew was captured, not killed, including Captain Sharpe.”
“How did Legg wind up on the Victor?”
“Apparently, once they reached the mainland, Legg and another sailor managed to escape. The other man died of injuries he received during the fighting, but Legg made it to Spain, where he came upon the Victor returning to England.”
“Did he say where Ethan was taken?”
“I’m afraid he didn’t know.”
“Was Ethan injured in the fighting?”
“Legg said the captain suffered a saber wound and other miscellaneous injuries in the battle, but he didn’t believe they were serious enough to kill a man like Captain Sharpe.”
Cord prayed Legg was right. “I’ll need to speak to him. The sooner, the better.”
“I’ll make the necessary arrangements.”
They talked a few moments more, then Cord rose from his chair, ending the conversation.
“Thank you, Colonel.”
“I’ll be in touch,” Pendleton said, moving toward the door.
Cord just nodded. Ethan was alive; he was sure of it. The boy who had never shed a tear during the setting of his broken arm had grown into an even tougher man.
And wherever he was, Cord meant to find him.

Three
Tory’s laundry problem was resolved. Mrs. Wiggs, the laundress, professed her innocence, hands shaking as she reached out to examine Tory’s overstarched apparel.
That night the woman worked late to wash and repress the clothes and by morning managed to come up with a second skirt and blouse for Tory’s limited wardrobe, the black skirt shortened to precisely the correct length.
Today, the household, along with a small fleet of young male sweeps that Tory had employed, was immersed in the task of cleaning the chimneys. The warm days had allowed the bricks to cool so the only danger the boys faced came from falling down the three-story shaft.
There was little chance of that, Tory discovered. Like monkeys, they climbed the rough bricks, making their job look easy, which, of course, it wasn’t. Several of the servants assisted them, Mrs. Rathbone among them. Tory checked each fireplace as the sweeps and servants worked.
Satisfied with the progress being made in the Blue Salon, she made her way into Lord Brant’s study, where earlier he had been working. She had noticed the long hours he spent there, poring over stacks of paperwork and reviewing the sums in the heavy ledgers sitting on the corner of his desk. In a way it surprised her.
None of the wealthy elite who visited Harwood Hall did the slightest bit of work. They felt it was beneath their dignity, and instead were content to deplete whatever sums they had managed to inherit—her stepfather among them.
The thought sent a familiar jolt of anger shooting through her. Not only had Miles Whiting, her father’s cousin and the man next in line for the title, managed to gain the Harwood lands and fortune, he had also wormed his way into her grieving mother’s affections, convinced her to marry him, and thereby stolen Windmere, her mother’s ancestral home.
Miles Whiting—if she hadn’t managed to kill him—was the lowest form of humanity as far as Tory was concerned. He was a thief, a scoundrel, a molester of innocent young women. Beyond that, for the past several years she had begun to suspect he might even be responsible for the death of her father. For all that he had done, Tory had vowed a thousand times that someday Miles Whiting would pay.
Or perhaps he already had.
Resolved not to think of the baron and what might or might not have happened to him, Tory walked over to the fireplace in the corner of the study.
“How is the work progressing, Mrs. Rathbone?”
“There seems ta be a bit of a problem with this one. Perhaps you’ll be wantin’ ta take a look.”
Tory stepped closer. Bending down, she stuck her head into the opening and peered up the chimney—just as one of the sweeps knocked down a load of soot. Black dust flew into her eyes and mouth. Coughing, she inhaled a breath and sucked a snootful up her nose. Gagging and wheezing, she backed away from the chimney and turned a furious stare on Mrs. Rathbone.
“I guess they musta fixed the problem,” the older woman said. She was scarecrow-thin, with a sharp nose and wispy black hair shoved up beneath her mobcap. Though no smile appeared on her lips, there was an unmistakable gleam of triumph in her eyes.
“Yes…” Tory agreed through clenched teeth. “I guess they must have.” Turning, she started out of the room, her hands and face covered with soot. The way her luck had been going, she wasn’t at all surprised to see the earl of Brant lounging in the doorway, his broad shoulders shaking with mirth.
Tory cast him a glance that would have sliced a lesser man off at the knees. “I realize you are lord here, but in this I would advise you not to utter a single word.”
Tory walked past him, forcing him to step out of her way to avoid getting soot on his perfectly fitted, nut-brown coat. The earl kept smiling, but made no comment, wise enough, it seemed, to heed her words.
Upstairs in her room, cursing her stepfather and the circumstances that had brought her this low, Tory changed into the second set of garments Mrs. Wiggs had very opportunely provided. She took a moment to compose herself, then returned to her work downstairs.
It occurred to her that in the entire Brant household, her only ally was the butler, Mr. Timmons. But he was a meek, rather mildly mannered man and he mostly kept to himself.
It didn’t matter, Tory told herself as she had before. Nothing they could do was going to make her leave.

Cord reclaimed his study within the quarter hour, the chimney sweeps gone off to some other part of the house, Mrs. Rathbone wisely going with them. He wasn’t certain if the older woman were responsible for what had happened to his housekeeper, but he had a strong suspicion she was.
He didn’t like the idea of the Temple girl having problems, but he couldn’t help grinning as he remembered her black face and hands, the white circles of her eyes staring up at him in fury.
She wasn’t having an easy time of it. Still, Victoria Temple seemed capable of handling the job he had given her and he didn’t think she would appreciate his interference. She was an independent little baggage. He rather admired that about her. He found himself wondering where she had come from and why it was that she and her sister both possessed the manners and speech usually reserved for the upper classes. Perhaps in time, the information would surface.
Meanwhile, Cord had more important things to do than worry about his servants, no matter how intriguing they might be. This afternoon, he planned to interview the sailor, Edward Legg, in regard to the whereabouts of his cousin. Concern for Ethan loomed at the front of his mind and he meant to explore every avenue that might lead to his return.
Cord glanced toward the chessboard in the corner, a game in progress still laid out on the board and only half finished, the intricately carved pieces resting in the exact location they had been for nearly a year. The long-distance game had become a tradition between the two men, played whenever Ethan went to sea. In his letters to Cord, Ethan made known his moves, and in Cord’s reply, he countered. Their skill was fairly well matched, though at present, Cord was ahead two of the last three games.
In the current match, Cord had moved his queen and posted the information in a letter, which had been delivered to Ethan via military courier. But he had never received a reply. The chessboard sat in the corner, a silent reminder of his cousin’s disappearance. Cord had left instructions that the pieces not be touched until Captain Sharpe’s return. He sighed to think when that might be.
Seating himself behind the desk, he turned his thoughts away from Ethan to the stack of paperwork he needed to do, investments to be considered, accounting to be reviewed, but it wasn’t long before his mind began to wander, returning once more to the scene earlier in his study.
A faint smile tugged at his lips as it occurred to him that his housekeeper had had the audacity to issue him a command—and that he’d had the good sense to obey it.

At least the house was beginning to look better, the downstairs floors so shiny Tory could see her face, the household silver once more sparkling. Getting the servants to complete their assignments was like pulling the teeth of a chicken, or however the saying went. Still, little by little, the work was beginning to get done.
And Claire seemed happy in her new home. So far, Tory’s worries about the earl had not surfaced. Perhaps he was simply too busy to pay attention to a serving girl, no matter how beautiful she was. Still, she didn’t trust him. The earl was an unmarried man and exceedingly virile. There was every chance he was simply another lecher with designs on Claire.
The evening meal was over. Along with most of the servants, Claire had retired upstairs for the night, but Tory still wandered the shadowy halls. She wasn’t the least bit sleepy, or perhaps it was her stepfather that stirred her restless thoughts, worry that she had accidentally killed him—though at the time, there hadn’t been much of a choice.
Surely if he were dead, the authorities would have been searching for his murderer or might even have found her by now. She hadn’t seen anything in the newspapers, but she had only read them sporadically since her arrival in London. Mostly, she had simply been trying to survive.
Deciding that perhaps a book might help her fall asleep and hoping the earl wouldn’t mind if she borrowed one, Tory held the oil lamp out in front of her and climbed the short flight of stairs up from the basement. As she passed the earl’s study on the way to the library, she realized a lamp had been left burning on his desk. She was making her way in to snuff it out when she noticed the chessboard in the corner.
She had seen it before, had admired the exquisite inlaid board and its ebony and ivory pieces, and wondered which of the earl’s acquaintances might be his opponent. But days had passed and the pieces had not been moved.
Tory wandered toward it. She was very good at chess, had been taught by her father and played often with him before he had been killed. Looking down at the board, she couldn’t resist seating herself in one of the ornate high-backed chairs to study the moves the earl and his silent opponent had made.
On closer inspection, she saw that although the pieces had been dusted, small circles at the base of those remaining on the board gave evidence the game had been interrupted some while back.
Tory studied the board. Assigning the ebony pieces to the earl, which somehow seemed fitting, and prompted by a sense of competition that was simply part of her nature, she reached over and moved one of the ivory horses. Up two and over one, fitting the beautifully carved knight into a spot that jeopardized the opposing black bishop.
She ought to move the piece back. The earl would undoubtedly be angry if he discovered it was she who had made the move, but some mischievous part of her simply would not let her. He could always put it back, she thought. If he made a fuss, she could simply say it got shifted in the dusting. Whatever he might think, Tory didn’t return the knight to its former position.
Instead, sleepy at last, she snuffed the lamp on his desk, picked up her own and headed back down to her room.

The gold crest on the door gleamed beneath the lamp on the side of the Brant carriage as it rolled up in front of Cord’s town house. It was well after midnight. After his unproductive interview earlier that afternoon with Edward Legg, who’d had little more to add to his tale besides how gallant and courageous Captain Sharpe had been during the ship’s ill-fated battle and how much Legg admired him, Cord’s mood had plunged straight downhill.
With his pursuit of Claire Temple somehow stalled and not wishing to put himself back in the clutches of his former mistress, he had decided to pay a badly needed visit to Madame Fontaneau’s very exclusive house of pleasure.
Cord wasn’t sure what had changed his mind, why he found himself detouring, instructing his driver to take him to White’s, his gentlemen’s club, instead. But there he had sat some hours later in a deep leather chair, sipping a glass of brandy, immersed in a game of whist, brooding and losing his money.
His good friend, Rafael Saunders, duke of Sheffield, had been there, as well, doing his best to cheer him out of his dismal mood, but his friend had miserably failed.
Instead, Cord had finished his drink, ordered his carriage brought round and returned to his town house. Now, as the coach rolled to a stop in front of the three-story brick building and the footman opened the door, Cord descended the iron stairs and made his way inside the house.
He tossed his kidskin gloves into the crown of his beaver hat and left them on the table beside the door. He glanced up the staircase, knowing he should try to get some sleep. He had important papers to review at his solicitor’s first thing in the morning and he hadn’t been sleeping very well.
But instead of going upstairs, he headed down the hall to his study. Earlier, for whatever reason, his mind had veered away from his need for a woman to the work he needed to do, to Ethan and, amazingly, to his two latest employees.
The latter in itself amazed him. Had it simply been lust for Claire, he might have understood, but the lovely, ethereal girl appealed to him less and less while the older, slightly impertinent sister intrigued him more and more.
It was ridiculous. And yet as he watched Claire Temple glide through her work like a princess in a fairy tale, the thought continued to nag him that seducing the lovely Claire would be completely unfair. Where women were concerned, Cord was a man of vast experience, while Claire…well, he wasn’t certain the girl completely understood the differences between male and female.
In truth, seducing her would be like pulling the wings off a beautiful butterfly.
Out of sorts with women in general and cursing himself for not partaking of some badly needed sexual relief before returning home, Cord eyed the stack of papers still sitting on his desk. He removed his coat and tossed it over a chair, loosened and pulled off his cravat, rolled up his shirtsleeves and prepared to settle in for a couple of hours of work.
As he crossed the study, his gaze slid over to the chessboard in the corner. He continued a few more paces before he found himself frowning, turning back to where the inlaid board sat between two ornately carved high-backed chairs.
Cord studied the pieces on the board. He knew exactly where each one rested, had stared at them so many times he could close his eyes and see them in his sleep. Tonight something was different, slightly out of place. Cord stiffened in anger as he realized one of the pieces had been moved.
He told himself he must be wrong, but seeing the knight that now threatened his bishop, he remembered the game he and Ethan had started, the game they might never finish, and a muscle ticked in his cheek. Certain one of the servants had moved the piece, he stormed out of the study, his temper in high dudgeon, strode down the hall and started toward the stairs leading down to the basement.
Thoughts of Ethan kept him going, past the below-stairs’ first and second hallways, past the kitchen. Anger still pumped through him as Cord reached the end of the corridor and hammered on Victoria Temple’s door. He didn’t wait for her to answer, just lifted the latch, strode through her small sitting area and on in to her bedchamber.
The pounding must have awakened her. As the bedroom door slammed back against the wall, he saw her jerk upright in her narrow bed, trying to blink herself awake.
“Good evening, Mrs. Temple. There is a matter of some importance I wish to discuss.”
She blinked several more times. “N-now?” She was dressed in a thin white cotton night rail, her usually clear green eyes heavy-lidded with fatigue, her mouth rosy from slumber. A single thick braid of chestnut hair hung over one shoulder while stray wisps curled around her cheeks.
He had thought her merely attractive. Now he saw she was far more than that. With her finely carved features, full lips and straight, patrician nose, Victoria Temple was a very lovely young woman. If she hadn’t been so overshadowed by the otherworldly beauty of her sister, he would have noticed long ago.
She shifted on the bed and his blood began to thicken. In the moonlight streaming in through the bedchamber window, he could see the outline of her breasts, the dark shadows of her nipples, the pale arch of her throat beneath the small pink bow on the front of her gown. Desire sank into his loins, pulled low in his belly.
“My lord?”
He dragged his gaze back to her face, saw that she was staring up at him as if he had lost his mind, and a fresh bout of anger rippled through him.
“Yes, Mrs. Temple, we need to discuss this now—this very instant.”
She seemed to finally awaken. Glancing down, for the first time she realized the state of her undress and that a man stood next to her bed. With a small squeak, she jerked the covers up over her very lovely breasts.
“Lord Brant—for heaven’s sake! It is the middle of the night. Need I remind you it is highly improper for you to be standing in my bedchamber?”
Highly improper and extremely arousing. “I am here for a reason, Mrs. Temple. As I said, there is something of importance I wish to discuss.”
“And that would be…?”
“Surely Mrs. Mills instructed you in the matter of my chessboard.”
She paused in the act of scooting backward, taking the covers with her, then continued until her shoulders came to rest against the headboard. “What…what about it?”
“Mrs. Mills and the rest of the servants received strict instruction that those pieces were not to be moved under any circumstance.”
“Are you…saying someone did?”
“Exactly, Mrs. Temple, and I expect you to ferret out the culprit and see that he doesn’t do it again.”
“You are here…in my room at—” she broke off, glanced at the small clock on the bureau “—half past three in the morning, because someone moved a chess piece? I don’t see how that could possibly be of such importance that you would come barging into my bedchamber in the middle of the night.”
“What you do or do not see is none of your concern. I don’t want those pieces moved—not until my cousin is returned.”
“Your cousin?”
“That is correct. Captain Ethan Sharpe of the Sea Witch. He and his crew are missing.”
She said nothing for several long moments. “I’m sorry.” He wasn’t sure what she saw in his face but her features softened. “You must be very worried about him.”
There was something in the way she said it. Or perhaps it was the way she looked at him when she did. Whatever it was, his anger seeped away as if a hole had been pricked in his skin.
“Yes, well, I am, and I appreciate your concern. At any rate, if you discover the man who moved the piece, please inform him not to do so again.”
She eyed him in the moonlight, took in his weary expression. “Perhaps it would be good to finish the game, my lord. Sometimes memories do more harm than good. You can always begin anew once Captain Sharpe is returned.”
He’d had the same thought himself. The chessboard was a grim reminder, a haunting note that never let him forget Ethan was missing, perhaps even dead. “Just do as I say, Mrs. Temple.”
Cord took a last long look at the woman propped up in bed and thought how incredibly desirable she looked. In the moonlight, her eyes were luminous green pools, her lips a little pouty. He wanted to pull back the sheet and lift her night rail, to feast his eyes on the delectable body outlined by the thin cotton garment. He wanted to remove the ribbon at the end of her braid and run his fingers through the heavy dark strands of her hair.
His body tightened with arousal and Cord turned away. As he left the room, he shook his head, wondering what the devil was happening to him lately. He had never been the sort to have designs on his serving women, but lately, two of them had caught his fancy.
He amended that. One had appealed to his appreciation of beauty, like a finely crafted vase or an exquisite painting. The other intrigued him with her saucy tongue and overly protective nature. Now that he had seen her in her bedclothes, his prurient interests had also been aroused.
He should have gone to Madame Fontaneau’s, he told himself as he climbed the stairs. Then again, he far preferred a relationship of sorts with the women he took to his bed. As he headed upstairs, he thought again of Victoria Temple.
With Olivia Landers gone from his life, he remained in need of a mistress. Now that his misplaced desire for Claire had vanished, he began to think that perhaps he had merely fixed his interest on the wrong woman. Where Claire was shy and fearful, Victoria was bold and not the least afraid of him. Beneath her prim facade, he sensed a passionate nature he would very much like to explore.
And of course, he would take care of her, set her up in grand style and see that she wanted for nothing. She could take care of Claire, as she wanted so badly to do. He would be doing them all a favor.
Yes, Victoria would be a far greater challenge than her sweetly innocent sister. In fact, judging from the fiery look in her eyes when he had burst into her room, she might very well run him a merry chase. Still, Cord loved nothing better than a challenge, and in the end, he would have her. Victoria Temple might as well resign herself to her fate.

Tory immersed herself in her work the following day, making an inventory of the wine cellar, receiving deliveries from the butcher and the milkman, trying to keep her mind off the earl and his appearance in her room last night.
Just thinking about it made her pulse race. Sweet God, the man had been beyond angry. Surely moving a single chess piece hadn’t set off such a reaction?
Tory thought perhaps it was more a response to his worry for his cousin than the fact that the piece had been moved. It was obvious the men were close friends. She knew what it was like to lose a loved one. She had lost her father and not long after, her mother. She knew how badly it hurt.
And yet she wasn’t sorry that she had moved the piece. Perhaps in a way, the outburst had been good for him, a means of helping him vent his frustration. She could still recall the way he had looked—a virtual fire-breathing dragon with the light of battle glowing in his golden eyes.
His coat had been missing, his shirtsleeves rolled up over nicely corded forearms. Snug black breeches hugged a narrow waist and the long, solid muscles in his thighs. He had been breathing hard, expanding the width of an already powerful chest.
As furious as he was, for the first time since they had met, he had looked at her. Really looked at her. And the heat in his tawny eyes had made her feel as if her bones were slowly melting. She had felt as if her heart might pound its way out of her chest, as if her entire body might go up in smoke. Then, to her utter mortification, her nipples had peaked beneath her night rail.
Secretly, she had worried about the strange pull she felt whenever she encountered the earl. Now, sweet Lord, her worst fears were confirmed. She was attracted to the earl of Brant!
It was ridiculous. Completely absurd. She wasn’t even sure she liked him. She certainly didn’t trust him, and aside from that, the man was an earl while she was merely a servant. Even as the daughter of a baron, after hearing the gossip about him, Lord Brant was the last man who should interest her.
Was it only earlier that morning Miss Honeycutt had stood just inside the butler’s pantry giggling at the tale she had heard from Alice Payne, lady’s maid to the Viscountess Westland?
“Alice says ’e’s quite the stallion, is the earl. Says ’e can tup all night and still be rarin’ for more in the mornin’. Says her ladyship were sore for a week the last time ’e come to call.”
Like every other young woman, one day Tory hoped to marry. Someone kind and considerate, a gentle sort of man, she had always imagined, a man much like her father, who never spoke a harsh word to either his daughters or his wife.
Certainly not a man like Brant with his fiery temper and equally fiery passions.
Fortunately, aside from the hot looks he had cast her way last night—due, she was certain, to the natural instincts of a male in the proximity of a young woman in a state of semi-undress—Lord Brant had eyes only for Claire. In that regard, Tory vowed to remain vigilant. If Brant were half the rake he seemed, Claire yet remained in danger.
Tory strengthened her resolve to do whatever it took to protect her sister from the earl.

Four
“Tory?” Claire flew toward her up the stairs. Three days had passed since the earl had barged into her room and things seemed to have returned to normal. “Thank goodness I found you!”
“What is it, darling?”
“It’s Mrs. Green and her daughter, Hermione. They had to leave for the day. Mrs. Green says she is coming down with an ague and she thinks Hermione has contracted it, as well.”
“An ague? They both looked perfectly healthy this morning.” Then Tory remembered that she had assigned the women the job of preparing two of the upstairs guest rooms for the arrival of Lady Aimes, one of the earl’s cousins, and her little boy, Teddy. It was simply another attempt to make Tory leave, but there was nothing she could do about it now.
She looked down the stairs to the grandfather clock in the entry. The day was rapidly slipping away. The rest of the staff was busy, grudgingly doing the work she had assigned them. Any attempt to rearrange their schedule would simply cause more trouble than it was worth.
“I’ll take care of it, Claire. You go ahead and finish helping Mrs. Wadding. She is outside beating carpets.”
Claire hurried off to her tasks and Tory made her way downstairs to collect a broom, mop and pail.
All the rooms in the house were lovely, and the two she had chosen for Lord Brant’s guests overlooked the garden, one of them done in peach and cream, the other in shades of robin’s-egg blue.
Deciding the little boy should have the blue, she began her work in there, opening the windows to let in the summer breeze, fluffing the feather pillows, dusting the landscape paintings on the wall and the marble mantel over the hearth. She did the same to the second room, grateful that at least the linens had already been changed, then began the job of mopping the inlaid parquet floors.
She was down on her hands and knees scrubbing a particularly stubborn stain when a pair of shiny men’s shoes appeared in her line of vision. Her gaze traveled up a set of very long, very masculine legs, over a broad chest and extremely sizable shoulders.
Tory sank back on her heels as she looked up at the earl. “My lord?”
“What the devil are you doing?”
She glanced down, saw that her skirt was wet, her white blouse damp and clinging to her breasts, so translucent she could see the shadow of her nipples.
Brant must have noticed. His gaze fixed there and some of the heat she had seen before reappeared in his eyes. Tory’s face heated up as he continued to stare at the damp fabric plastered over her bosom.
Tory swallowed, tried to pretend nothing was wrong. “Two of the chambermaids took ill,” she explained. “In their stead, I am completing the work necessary for the arrival of your guests.”
“Is that so?” The earl’s jaw hardened, and instead of answering, she found herself wanting to back away. A little squeak escaped as Brant caught her arm and hauled her to her feet.
“Dammit, I didn’t hire you to scrub my floors. I hired you to run my house. As I see it, there is a very large difference.”
“But—”
“There is a virtual bevy of servants in this house. Find one to take care of the guest rooms.” He frowned at the look of horror that appeared on her face. “Never mind. I’ll send someone up myself.”
To her utter amazement, the earl strode out of the bedchamber and down the stairs. She could hear him bellowing for Timmons and a few minutes later, Miss Honeycutt and Mrs. Wadding both came bolting into the room.
Determined to act with at least some portion of her authority as housekeeper, Tory instructed the women to finish mopping the floors in both bedchambers, then sprinkle a few drops of lavender scent on the embroidered linen pillowcases.
With menus to plan for the week and shopping lists to compile, she left them to their work and returned downstairs. She was on her way to change into a dry blouse when she passed the open door to the earl’s study. Her steps seemed to slow all by themselves and she found herself wandering inside, over to the chessboard in the corner.
She was surprised to discover the white knight hadn’t been returned to its former position but remained exactly where she had placed it. Even more amazing, the earl had countered the move.
Not that he knew it was she who had made it. Clearly, he believed one of the male servants had made the play, having made the reference to a man several times in his tirade that night—which irritated her more than he knew. Perhaps he thought it was Timmons who challenged him or one of the two new footmen who had recently been hired.
Whatever the case, in moving his bishop in response, her challenge had clearly been accepted. Either that, or a trap was being laid to discover if the culprit had the nerve to gainsay his orders again.
Tory pondered the latter, worried she might lose her position. Surely the man wouldn’t fire her over a simple chess game. Convinced she could talk her way out of trouble if she had to and never one to back down from a challenge, she seated herself in front of the board and contemplated how to counter the earl’s countermove.

It was late in the afternoon the following day, the June days lengthening and growing warmer. With so many projects in the works, Cord rarely had time for visitors. His cousin Sarah was the exception.
Seated on a pale blue brocade sofa in the Blue Salon, Sarah Sharpe Randall, Viscountess Aimes, was the sister Cord never had. Blond and fair, Sarah was tall for a woman yet slim and fine-boned. As children growing up, he had always been protective of her, the only girl among three rowdy boys, but in truth, Sarah was entirely capable of taking care of herself.
Cord crossed the high-ceilinged room beneath a crystal chandelier, stopping in front of an ornately carved sideboard to refill his glass of brandy.
“How is Jonathan?” he asked, speaking of her husband. “Well, I trust.”
Lifting a delicate, gold-rimmed porcelain teacup, Sarah took a sip of her chamomile tea. “Aside from grousing over the fact he had prior commitments and couldn’t come with us, he is fine. He sends you his regards.”
Cord took a drink of brandy. “Teddy has certainly grown since last I saw him. I hardly recognized the boy.”
Sarah smiled with pleasure. Her husband and son were the most important people in her life. “Teddy looks more like his father every day.”
“You have a fine family, Sarah.”
“Yes, I am fortunate in that. Perhaps it is time you began to think of having a family of your own, Cord.”
Carrying his glass, he walked over to the sofa. “Actually, I’ve been thinking quite a lot about it. I’m trying to work up the courage to enter the marriage mart. So far I haven’t quite found the nerve.”
“At least you’re considering the notion. That is more than you have ever done before.”
“More than considering. I’ve decided to wed. It’s merely a matter of choosing the right woman.”
“Have you anyone particular in mind?”
He thought of Mary Ann Winston and Constance Fairchild, the two young women currently at the top of his list, but he was far from ready to mention any names. “Not yet.”
“Tell me you’ve given up that silly notion of marrying an heiress. I can tell you from experience, loving someone is far more important.”
“Perhaps to you.” He sipped his drink. “I’m afraid I wouldn’t recognize the emotion, though I can tell you’re happy with Jonathan. It shows in your face.”
“I’m very happy, Cord. Except for missing Ethan.”
It was the reason for Sarah’s visit. She had come to discover news of her brother, which they had briefly discussed over breakfast earlier that morning. Cord set his brandy glass down on a piecrust table.
“I wish I had more to report. At least we know that the Sea Witch didn’t go down in a storm. According to Edward Legg, Ethan was alive when he was taken off the ship.”
“Yes, and I suppose in a way that is very good news. My brother is a strong man and we both know how determined he can be. We must believe he is still alive. Which means, all we have to do is discover where he might have been taken.”
Cord only wished it were that easy. He took a courage-building breath, preparing to explain the difficulties they would be facing in their renewed effort to locate her brother, when a soft knock sounded at the door.
“That will be Pendleton,” Cord said, grateful for the interruption. “I received a message from him this morning. Perhaps he has received more information.”
Cord opened the door, allowing the silver-haired colonel to enter. Pendleton made a polite bow to Sarah, his glance taking in her upswept golden blond hair, fine features and the feminine fit of her pale green silk gown.
He spoke for a moment to Cord, then addressed himself to Sarah. “I presume, Lady Aimes, that Lord Brant has informed you of the latest word on Captain Sharpe.”
“Yes, he has. We were both in hopes you might be bringing news of his whereabouts.”
“Unfortunately, not quite yet. We have, however, as of this morning, been able to place an informant on the shores of France with the specific duty of locating the prison where Captain Sharpe may have been taken.”
Sarah’s features seemed to draw in. “Prison. I suppose I have denied the thought far too long. I cannot bear to think of my brother suffering in such a place.”
“Dear lady, you mustn’t despair. Once we are certain of the captain’s whereabouts, we shall find a way to rescue him.”
Sarah nodded, managed a wobbly smile. “Yes, I’m certain you will.”
Cord spoke up just then. “In the meantime, Colonel Pendleton has promised to keep us informed of whatever news he receives and I shall do the same.”
The meeting lasted a few minutes more, then Pendleton left the study. Needing to check on Teddy, Sarah followed him out, leaving Cord alone.
The news of Ethan again had been good. For the first time in nearly a year, he felt they were finally making progress.
As he thought of Ethan, his gaze strayed toward the chessboard. Something looked different. He found himself walking in that direction, stopping next to the board. Then he saw that a piece had been moved yet again and a fresh shot of anger poured through him.
He’d been certain the Temple girl would relay his middle-of-the-night demands to the servants. Just to be sure, he had baited a trap for the culprit, daring him to disobey his rules again. The ivory knight remained as it was, but in response to his countermove, the ivory queen had been advanced three spaces.
Cord found himself studying the board. It was an intriguing move. His bishop remained in danger, and if he weren’t careful, his castle just might fall. He told himself to move the pieces back to their original position. Ethan was the man he should be playing. But he couldn’t quite convince himself. Perhaps with this latest news of his cousin, it was a good sign the game had begun again.
He wondered if Timmons had taken it upon himself to challenge him in an effort to renew his spirits where Ethan was concerned, or if, as he had believed that night, one of the new footmen simply could not resist.
A niggling thought surfaced. Claire Temple wouldn’t have the slightest notion how to play a sophisticated game like chess, but her sister…Surely, Victoria Temple wasn’t masterminding the game.
Few women played, even fewer did so with any amount of skill, yet the latest moves said this player knew what he—or she—was about. That his opponent might be Victoria Temple was, though somewhat farfetched, decidedly intriguing.
Cord sat down in one of the ornate chairs and began to assess the board. The clock ticked and time slipped past. Lifting his black knight, Cord countered his opponent’s latest move.

Tory stretched and arched her back, trying to work out the kinks in her neck and shoulders. Today had been even more difficult than the day before, the atmosphere below stairs openly hostile, Mrs. Rathbone’s silent anger grating on everyone’s nerves.
As housekeeper, Tory could fire the serving woman and hire a replacement, but somehow that didn’t seem fair. What she needed to do was win the woman’s loyalty—but she had no idea how to go about it.
Badly in need of fresh air, she walked over to the French doors leading into the garden, then found herself shoving them open and walking out beneath the warm summer sun. White clouds floated by overhead, one shaped like a dragon, the other a damsel in distress. Not liking the image, she wandered through the garden, which was lush and green with colorful crocuses blooming along the gravel paths and bright purple pansies yawning at her feet.
She shouldn’t be out there. She was a servant, not a guest. Still, it had been so long since she had enjoyed the splash of water in a fountain, smelled the scent of lavender in the air. Pausing next to the round, tiered fountain, she closed her eyes and inhaled a deep breath of air.
“Are you Mrs. Temple?”
Tory’s eyes shot open. She looked down to see a small, dark-haired boy standing beside her. “Why, yes, I am.” She smiled. “And you must be Master Teddy Randall.”
He grinned and she saw that two of his front teeth were missing. He was perhaps five or six, with great blue eyes and a smile that lit up his face.
“How did you know my name?” he asked.
“I overheard your mother and Lord Brant talking about you at breakfast,” she said.
“I heard people talking about you, too.” He looked up into her face. “Why doesn’t anyone like you?”
Tory’s smile slid away. “The earl was talking about me?”
He shook his head. “A lady named Mrs. Rathbone and the cook. They said you were Lord Brant’s doxy. That’s why he hired you. What’s a doxy? I thought it was some kind of dog.”
Her face must have been seven shades of scarlet. How dare they say such a thing! Thoughts of firing the woman resurfaced, but Tory tamped them down.
“Well…a doxy is…is someone who does things she shouldn’t. But that is not at all the truth. And it is the very reason you must never listen to gossip.” She reached down and took hold of his hand. “You mentioned dogs,” she said, desperate for a change of subject. “Do you like puppies?”
He vigorously nodded.
“Well, then, you are in luck. There is a new litter just birthed out in the mews.”
Teddy grinned and a dimple appeared in his cheek. “I love puppies. ’Specially little black fuzzy ones.”
Tory smiled. “Come on, then.” Still holding on to his hand, she started leading him through the garden. “Why don’t we have a look?”
They were just walking into the shadowy interior of the carriage house, Teddy clinging to her hand, when she spotted Lord Brant on his way out.
He paused just in front of them. “Well, I see you two have become acquainted.”
Mrs. Rathbone’s words came rushing back, sending hot color into her cheeks. She wanted to shout at him, tell him the gossip was entirely his fault, but in truth it was her fault as much as his, since she never should have accepted the housekeeping job in the first place.
She kept her features bland. “Yes, we met out in the garden.” The words came out a bit sharply. She wished she had the nerve to quit. She couldn’t possibly do that. She had to think of Claire and what would happen to them if she did. “Teddy and I have come to look at the puppies. If you will excuse us, my lord.”
But he made no effort to move, just stood exactly where he was, tall and broad-shouldered enough to easily block their way.
“I heard the coachman’s mongrel had a litter. If you don’t mind the company, I would enjoy seeing them myself.”
Oh, she minded. She minded a very great deal. The servants were already gossiping about them. Seeing them together would only fuel the wagging tongues.
Still, she could scarcely order him out of his own carriage house. She and Teddy started forward and the earl fell in beside her. She stiffened at the feel of his warm hand settling at her waist, guiding her through the shadowy interior, past a shiny black carriage parked at the far end of the building.
She could hear the faint rustle of her skirt against his leg and her heart kicked up. When his arm lightly brushed her breast as he helped her through the doorway into another, smaller room filled with harnesses and hay, a rush of heat slid into her stomach.
They reached the enclosure where the puppies lay sleeping next to their mother, a thin, black-and-white-spotted hound, but the earl didn’t move away. She tried to widen the distance between them, but there simply wasn’t room.
“They’re only a few days old,” he said softly, his warm breath fanning her cheek. Embarrassingly, she trembled.
“Could I hold one?” Teddy asked, staring down at the mongrel pups as if they were purebred.
“They’re too little yet,” Brant said, reaching down to affectionately ruffle the little boy’s dark hair. “Perhaps the next time you visit.”
“Do you think I could have one?”
The earl chuckled softly, and Tory felt an odd lift in her stomach. “If your mother says it’s all right. Why don’t you go in and ask her?”
Teddy grinned up at him, turned and tore out of the carriage house, running pell-mell back inside and leaving her alone in the shadows with the earl.
“I—it is time I went back in. I have a great deal of work yet to do.”
“You’re looking a little flushed,” he said, his golden eyes fixed on her face. “Are you feeling all right, Mrs. Temple?”
He was standing so near she could measure the beats of his heart, study the sensual curve of his bottom lip, see the way his mouth faintly lifted in one corner.
“It’s…it’s a bit close in here. I believe I could use a breath of air.”
His lips curved even more. “Of course.” He stepped away from her so quickly she nearly lost her balance. The earl’s hand shot out to steady her. “You seem a little faint. Here, let me help you.”
“No! I mean…I’m fine. Really I am.”
“At least let me help you outside.”
Sweet Lord, Brant’s help was the last thing she needed. Mostly, she just wanted to get as far away from him as she possibly could. Why did that seem such a difficult task?
She tried to ignore his nearness, the strength of the hand at her waist, guiding her out of the mews, into the sunlight behind the fountain in the garden, but she couldn’t dismiss the flush in her cheeks or the soft heat in her stomach.
She felt a little better outside, a little more in control. The earl very politely stepped away.
“Feeling better?”
“Yes, much, thank you.”
“Then I shall leave you to your work. Good afternoon, Mrs. Temple.”
Tory watched him walk away, her heart still pounding, her knees weak beneath her skirt. The man had played the perfect gentleman and yet she could barely catch her breath. Dear God, if he did, indeed, have intentions toward Claire—
Tory walked back to the house, more worried about her sister than she had ever been before.

A summer storm rolled over the city, thick black clouds blocking the thin slice of moon. Thunder rumbled outside the mullioned windows as Tory made her way through the shadowy darkness to the earl’s study. The grandfather clock in the entry began the twelve chimes of midnight.
It was the Season in London. Lady Aimes was attending a house party with friends and, as was his custom, the earl had gone out for the evening.
Earlier, most of the servants had retired to their rooms, Tory among them. As she had lain in bed, she told herself to stay exactly where she was, to ignore the earl’s latest chess move. But the challenge was simply too great.
As soon as the house fell silent, she pulled her quilted wrapper over her night rail, picked up the whale-oil lamp in her sitting room and headed for the stairs.
Now as she entered the study, she could see the chessboard, the glow of her lamp casting the tall ebony and ivory pieces into shadow. She ignored the cold wooden floor beneath her bare feet, quietly made her way to the board and seated herself in one of the high-backed chairs.
Setting the lamp down on the table, Tory studied the board, barely aware of the rustle of branches against the brick walls outside, the glimpse of moonlight between passing clouds. Gazing at the pieces, she knew a moment of satisfaction. The earl had taken the bait. The trap she had laid had won her his castle.
She picked up a pawn to capture the piece, then realized that in doing so she was leaving an opening that could net him her queen. Tory grinned. The man was no fool. She would have to be more careful. She was deep in thought, planning the strategy that would win her the game, when a husky voice rumbled into her awareness.
“Perhaps you should take the castle after all. There is always the chance your opponent will fail to see the danger in which you’ve left your queen.”
Tory’s hand froze above the chessboard. Turning very slowly in her seat, she looked up into the face of the earl. “I don’t…I don’t think that he will. I think that he—you—are a very good player.”
“Do you? Then that is the reason you ignored my wishes and continued to play after I specifically told you not to?”
Tory eased up out of her chair, hoping to feel less at a disadvantage. She realized her mistake the instant she was on her feet, for only a few inches separated her from the earl. He didn’t back away, just kept her pinned there between the chair and the solid wall of his chest.
“Well, Mrs. Temple? Is that the reason you disobeyed my orders? Because I am such a very good player?”
She swallowed. He was a tall, well-built man and she knew firsthand how very volatile his temper. She had learned from her stepfather the consequences of angering such a man. Still, for some strange reason, she wasn’t afraid.
“I—I can’t exactly say why I did it. Chess is a game I enjoy. I was challenged in a way. Then you came to my room that night and I…I thought that playing again might be good for you.”
Some of the tension seeped from his shoulders. “Perhaps it has been. Why don’t you sit down, Mrs. Temple? You are prepared, are you not, to make your next move?”
Her own tension eased, replaced by a different sort of nervousness. Unconsciously, she moistened her lips, running the tip of her tongue into the corner of her mouth. In the lamplight, the gold of his eyes seemed to darken. He watched her with such sensual awareness that a little frisson of heat sparked in her belly.
“Yes, my lord. I’m ready.” It was insane. She was barefoot and dressed in her nightclothes. It would be no small scandal if someone chanced upon them.
Unable to stop herself, knowing the risk she was taking, she sank back down in her chair, hoping her hand didn’t tremble as she reached out and picked up her bishop. She angled it along an open row of beautiful inlaid squares, and captured one of his knights.
The earl chuckled as he seated himself on the opposite side of the chessboard. “You’re certain taking the castle wouldn’t have been the smarter move?”
Her confidence returned. “Quite certain, my lord.”
The earl studied the chessboard, then moved his queen, neatly capturing one of her pawns.
The play went on. The wind howled and wrenched the leaves from the branches of the trees, but in the small circle of light in the earl of Brant’s study, Tory felt oddly protected.
She moved her castle. “I’m afraid that is check, my lord.”
Brant scowled. “Yes, so it is.”
The play continued, pawns and pieces falling as if in a savage battle. It was well past two when the final move was made.
“Checkmate, my lord.”
Instead of being angry, as she somewhat feared he might be, the earl merely laughed. He shook his head as he looked over to where she sat on the opposite side of the board.
“You continue to surprise me, Mrs. Temple.”
“I hope that means I also continue to retain my position as your housekeeper.”
One of his dark brown eyebrows went up. “Perhaps you should lose to me once in a while, simply to ensure you keep your position.”
She smiled. “I don’t think you would like that in the least.”
The earl smiled, too. “No, not in the least. I shall expect a rematch, Mrs. Temple, in the very near future.”
“I would be delighted, my lord.”
The earl rose and helped Tory to her feet. She found herself in exactly the position that she had been in before, so close she could see the deep gold of his eyes. They seemed to hold her where she stood, to fix her feet to the carpet beneath the table. She felt his hand on her cheek, tilting her face up, then his mouth settled gently over hers.
Tory’s eyes slid closed as soft heat enveloped her. He didn’t reach for her, just continued to kiss her, his lips moving slowly over hers. He sampled and tasted, coaxed her to open for him, then slid his tongue inside. She started to tremble. Unconsciously, she reached her hand out and clutched the front of his evening coat. He made a deep sound in his throat and his arm came around her, pressing her more fully against him.
It was in that moment, as she felt the hard length of his arousal, that Tory’s senses returned, slamming into her with the force of the wind outside the window.
Breaking away, she stumbled backward, desperate to be free of him, to regain her self-control. “My lord! I—I know what you must be thinking, but you are…you are sorely mistaken if you believe that…that I…If you think for an instant that I would…would…”
“It was only a kiss, Mrs. Temple.”
Only a kiss? It felt as if her world had just turned upside down. “A kiss that shouldn’t have happened. An indiscretion that will not…not occur again.”
“I’m sorry you didn’t enjoy it. I assure you I did.”
Heat rushed into her cheeks. She had enjoyed it—far too much. “It isn’t proper. You are my employer and I am your housekeeper.”
“That is true. Perhaps there is something we could do to remedy that.”
What on earth was he saying? The word doxy popped into her head. “You aren’t…you aren’t suggesting…? You can’t possibly mean that I should…?”
Knees wobbling, she squared her shoulders and picked up the lamp. “I’m afraid I must bid you goodnight, my lord.” Turning away, she marched past him. As she crossed the study, she could feel his eyes on her, burning like fire into her nightclothes.
“Good night, Mrs. Temple,” he said as she walked out of the room.

Five
Standing in the darkness of his study, Cord struck flint to tender, lighting another lamp now that Victoria had carried hers away. He smiled to think how the evening had progressed. Having returned early to the house on purpose, he had been hoping to catch out his chessboard culprit. Secretly hoping it might be Victoria Temple.
She had surprised him with her skill. And pleased him. He liked intelligent women. His cousin Sarah was bright and interesting. As had been his mother, dead now seventeen years. He could imagine passing enjoyable hours with Victoria at the chessboard—after he had spent even more enjoyable hours in the lovely lady’s bed.
Getting there, however, might not be as easy as he had imagined.
Cord walked over to the carved wooden sideboard against the wall and poured himself a brandy. He had hinted at the notion of an arrangement tonight. Surely the girl was not so naive she didn’t understand that as his mistress her situation would be immensely improved for both her and her sister.
Next time he would explain the advantages in practical, no-nonsense terms, but he had a niggling suspicion it wouldn’t do any good. Victoria Temple had principles. She was an unmarried woman, regardless of the Mrs. he had placed in front of her name. Sleeping with a man not her husband wasn’t something she intended to do.
Oh, she was attracted to him. He knew women well enough to know when a woman returned his interest—which he most definitely had. His interest yet remained hard and throbbing inside his breeches, reminding him of the soft warmth of her lips, the way they had perfectly melded with his, the way they had trembled.
His arousal strengthened, making him harder still. He wanted Victoria Temple. He couldn’t remember a time when a woman had appealed to him quite so much.
Unless, of course, it was all merely an act.
Cord liked women, but he also knew how devious some women could be. No matter her upper-class manners and speech, he had found Victoria on the street. Was she playing a game, or was she truly the innocent she seemed?
For now, he would trust his instincts in that regard, follow the plan that would solve both of their problems, and begin a subtle campaign of seduction. It was, after all, in Victoria’s best interest. She had obviously been gently reared, no matter her current unfortunate circumstances. She belonged in stylish gowns, riding in a smart black carriage. And with the money he gave her, she could also provide those things for Claire.
The thought gave him pause. Just exactly who were Claire and Victoria Temple? Cord made it a policy to know the strengths and foibles of the people around him. Perhaps he should hire a runner, see what he might find out. He would give the matter some thought.
He glanced down at the chessboard. Seduction was not so different from a game of chess, he thought, the man making a move, the woman responding, the play going back and forth until one of them was victorious. He saw himself clearly in that role, but it wouldn’t be easy. If he wanted to win the prize, he would have to plan carefully.
Cord smiled. To the victor go the spoils.

Tory rose early the following morning, yawning behind her hand, her eyes puffy from the little sleep she had managed to get last night. Mostly, she had tossed and turned, torn between embarrassment and thinking what a fool she had made of herself in Lord Brant’s study.
Dear God, what must he think of her, allowing him such liberties? She certainly hadn’t been raised to behave that way. Her mother and father, as well as the years she had spent at Mrs. Thornhill’s Private Academy, had taught her to behave like a lady. Whatever weakness had come over her, Tory vowed it would not happen again.
With that resolve, she made her way up the servants’ stairs to the main floor of the house. She must check on the housemaids, see that the wardrobes were dusted and freshly lined with paper. She needed to see to the candle supply and be certain there was a sufficient amount of writing paper and ink.
She was passing through the entry when Timmons rushed up with the morning paper tucked beneath a short, stout arm.
“Ah, Mrs. Temple. Would you mind terribly? I’ve a quick errand to run and I’m a bit pressed for time.” He handed her a copy of the London Chronicle. “His lordship likes to read the paper while he takes his morning sustenance,” he said as he dashed to the door, leaving behind the paper, and Tory with the job of seeing that his lordship got it.
And here I was hoping I would never have to face him again. Tory sighed. Hardly realistic if she wished to retain her position. At least after last night, he knew she had no interest in becoming anything other than his housekeeper.
Timmons’s bald head flashed in the sunlight as the door closed behind him, and Tory headed for the breakfast room, a cheery salon done in shades of yellow and blue overlooking the garden. Perhaps the earl wouldn’t yet be there. If she hurried, she could leave the paper beside his plate and not have to see him.
She walked toward the door, opening the paper as she went, making a quick perusal of the headlines. Tory froze two paces outside the door.
Baron Harwood Arrives in London, Tells Strange Tale of Robbery and Attempted Murder.
Her heart jolted to a screeching halt, as did her feet, then started beating in a heavy, sluggish rhythm. According the Chronicle, the baron had received near-fatal head injuries during the course of a robbery at Harwood Hall, his country estate in Kent. His attacker had inflicted a great deal of pain and rendered him temporarily incapable of memory. He had only just recovered enough to proceed to London in search of the villain responsible for the deed.
There was mention of the valuable pearl necklace that had been stolen but no accusations against his stepdaughters. It appeared the baron valued his reputation far too much to stir up that sort of scandal. Instead there was simply a description of the two young women he believed responsible for the crime. Unfortunately, the descriptions fit her and Claire to a T.
At least I didn’t kill him, Tory thought with relief, then wondered with a trace of guilt if perhaps it would have been better if she had.
Just then the door to the breakfast room swung open and the earl strode out. Tory jumped, jammed the newspaper behind her back and forced herself to look up at him.
“Good morning, my lord.”
“Good morning, Mrs. Temple.” He looked down at the table. “Have you seen my morning paper? Timmons usually leaves it on the breakfast table.”
The paper seemed to burn her fingers. “No, my lord. Perhaps it is in your study. Shall I go and see?”
“I’ll go.” The minute he turned and started walking, she hurried away, hiding the newspaper in her skirts, hating to deceive him yet grateful the exchange between them had been so matter-of-fact.
At least part of her was grateful. The other part resented the fact he could look at her as if he had never pressed her up against his tall, hard-muscled body, never kissed her lips, never slid his tongue inside her—
Tory broke off, aghast at the train of her thoughts. She was a lady, no matter her current position—not one of the earl’s scarlet women. And thinking about last night was the last thing she wanted to do. Determined to put the incident behind her, she headed upstairs to find Claire, to warn her sister of the article in the paper.
Leaving London would undoubtedly be the safest course. But they had yet to receive their next pay and what they had earned so far would barely get them out of the city.
In the end, she decided the best plan was to remain where they were, hiding virtually in plain sight, hoping no more articles would appear in the paper or that if they did, no one would equate the baron’s odd tale to their appearance in Lord Brant’s household.
Tory shuddered, praying no one would. Not only would she find herself tossed into prison, but the baron would, at last, have complete and utter control of Claire.

Three days passed. No mention was made of the article in the paper, but Tory’s worry remained. Still, she had a job to do and she had to see it done.
Now that Lady Aimes’s brief visit was over, she ordered the linens changed in the upstairs guest rooms, set herself to the task of completing an inventory of the kitchen larder, then went in search of Claire.
“Excuse me, Miss Honeycutt, have you seen my sister? I thought she was working in the Blue Room.”
“She was, Mrs. Temple. She was polishing the furniture when ’is lordship happened past. She was staring out the window. You know how she loves to look out into the garden?”
“Yes?”
“Well, ’is lordship asked if she would care to take a stroll. Said something about showing her the robin’s nest he had found.”
Tory’s worry shot up, along with her temper. Why, the womanizing rogue! Only days ago he had been kissing her and now he was out in the garden trying to seduce poor Claire!
Hurrying in that direction, Tory made her way directly to the French doors, pushed them open and stepped out onto the red-brick terrace. The scent of lavender struck her, mingled with that of freshly turned earth, but she saw no sign of Claire.
Her worry heightened. If Brant had touched her sister…harmed her in any way…
Taking the gravel path, she hurried toward the fountain, knowing the garden lanes came together there like the spokes of a wheel, hoping she might be able to tell which direction they had gone. To her surprise, they were standing in plain sight, just a few feet off the path, Claire gazing up at the cluster of leaves and twigs that formed a shallow bird’s nest.
Claire was standing a goodly distance from the earl, staring up into the branches of a white-barked birch. At the sound of Tory’s leather-soled shoes crunching on the gravel, the earl looked away from Claire and fixed his gaze on her.
“Ah, Mrs. Temple. I wondered when you would arrive.”
She tried to smile, but it felt as if her face would crack. “I came in search of Claire. There is work yet to do and I am in need of her assistance.”
“Are you? I invited your sister to join me. I thought she might enjoy seeing the robin’s nest the gardener discovered.”
Claire finally looked in their direction, her eyes big and blue and filled with awe. “Come and see, Tory. Three tiny blue-speckled robin’s eggs. Oh, they’re marvelous.”
Ignoring the earl, who, instead of being annoyed at having been caught out, wore a faintly satisfied expression, Tory exchanged places with her sister, stepped up on the footstool the gardener had placed at the base of the tree, and peered into the nest.
“They’re wonderful, Claire.” She stepped down, eager to be away from the earl, feeling an unfamiliar twinge of jealousy. As lovely as Claire was, Tory had never been jealous of her sister. In truth, she wasn’t now. Lord Brant might have fixed his interest on Claire, but her sister had no such interest in him.
“The earl’s a nice-enough man, I suppose,” Claire had once said, “but he makes me nervous. He seems so…so…”
“Yes, well the earl can be a bit intimidating at times.”
“Yes, and he’s so…so…”
“Lord Brant is…well, he is definitely a masculine sort of man.”
Claire nodded. “I never know what to say or what I should do.”
The earl’s deep voice banished the memory. “Come, Miss Marion. As your sister appears to have need of you, I’m afraid our pleasant interlude is over.”
He was looking at Claire and smiling, but there was none of the heat Tory had seen in his eyes when he had looked at her. Taking Claire’s hand, he helped her down from where she once more stood atop the stool, peering into the bird’s nest.
He made them a last polite bow, as if they were guests instead of servants. “Have a pleasant afternoon, ladies.”
As soon as they were out of earshot, Tory turned to Claire. “Are you all right?”
Claire just looked at her. “It was nice of him to show me the nest.”
“Yes…yes, it was.” Tory wanted to say more, to warn her sister in some way. Claire had already had one bad experience, though fortunately nothing too damaging had occurred.
It was hard to believe Lord Brant was anything like her stepfather, and yet—why else had he been out there with Claire?

Darkness thickened outside the window. A soft fog crept through the streets, blanketing the houses and ships. After supper, Tory had retired downstairs to her room to continue reading the Mrs. Radcliffe novel she had borrowed from the library. At a little past eleven she fell asleep on the sofa in her sitting room.
She stirred as a soft rap at her door began to filter into her senses, then awoke with a start, thinking it might be Lord Brant, realizing by the timid knock it could not be. Quickly pulling on her wrapper, she hurried to the door. She didn’t expect to find her sister outside in the hallway.
“Claire! What on earth…?” She pulled her sister into the room and closed the door, alarmed by the stark look on her face. Tory hurried over to the oil lamp burning low on the bureau and turned up the wick, throwing soft yellow light into the sitting room.
“What is it, Claire? What’s wrong?”
Claire swallowed, her eyes huge and frightened. “It’s…it’s his lordship.”
Tory’s stomach tightened. “Brant?” In the lamplight, she could see the pale hue of her sister’s cheeks. “What about the earl?”
“Lord Brant sent me a message. I—I found it under my door.” With trembling fingers, Claire held up the folded sheet of paper and Tory pulled it from her hand.

Claire,
I should like a private word with you. Come to my bedchamber at midnight.

It was signed simply, “Brant.”
“I don’t want to go, Tory. I’m frightened. What if he…what if he touches me the way the baron did?”
Tory reread the paper and her temper went scalding hot. God save them, she had been right about the earl all along!
“It’s all right, darling. You don’t have to go. I shall go in your stead.”
“B-but aren’t you afraid? What if he beats you?”
Tory shook her head. “The earl may be wicked, but I don’t believe he is the sort to hit a woman.”
Though why she believed that she had no notion. So far she had misjudged the man completely. She had come to believe he was different from other men, more open-minded, a bit less condescending. It bothered her more than it should have to discover that he was also completely lacking in scruples.
Whatever sort of man he might be, tonight she intended to teach him a lesson in the consequences of trying to seduce an innocent young girl.

Cord flicked another glance at the clock on the mantel, as he had done at least twenty times. It was two minutes after midnight. Wearing only his shirt and breeches, he reclined on the bed, hoping his plan would work, that his latest strategy would win him the game.
That sacrificing a pawn would net him the queen.
It was a dangerous move and he knew it. Still, Victoria Temple was a difficult opponent and he had been forced to come up with a different approach than he had intended.
Cord grinned at the sound of four sharp raps at his door. Not the soft, tentative knock Claire would have used, but the firm, furious tapping that could only belong to her sister.
“Come in,” he drawled, then waited as the door swung open and Victoria marched in. She stood in the shadows so he couldn’t see her face, but he recognized her shorter stature and the belligerence in her stance.
“You’re late,” he said with a nonchalant glance at the clock. “I specifically instructed you to be here at midnight. It is now three minutes past.”
“Late?” she repeated, the fury in her voice unmistakable. “Three minutes or three hours, the fact is Claire is not going to come.”
Victoria stepped toward him, out of the shadows and into a shaft of moonlight streaming in through the window. He saw that her hair was unbound, curling softly around her shoulders and glinting with burnished highlights. He itched to run his fingers through it, to know the silky texture. Beneath her wrapper, her breasts rapidly rose and fell with her breath, and he wanted to cup them, to bend his head and take the fullness into his mouth.
“I am sorry to disappoint you, my lord, but your plan for seduction has failed. Claire remains safely upstairs in her room.”
Cord came up off the bed and paced toward her, a lion with his prey in sight. “As well she should be.”
“What are you talking about? You sent Claire a note. You told her to come. You planned to seduce her. You”
“You’re wrong, lovely Victoria. I told her to come because I knew you would not let her—that you would come in her stead.” He reached her then, settled his hands on her shoulders, felt the tension thrumming through her. Very slowly, he drew her toward him. “It’s you I want, Victoria. It has been almost from the start.”
And then he kissed her.

Tory gasped as his mouth settled softly over hers. For several moments, she simply stood there, letting the heat flood through her, absorbing the taste of him, only dimly aware of the hard male body pressing into hers. Then she remembered why she was there, that it was Claire the earl truly wanted. Tory pressed her hands against his chest, turned her head, and shoved hard enough to get free.
“You’re lying!” She was breathing fast. She told herself it was anger. “You’re just saying that because I am here and not Claire.” She took several steps backward. “You…you would take whatever woman happened to appear in your bedchamber.”
The earl shook his head, stalking her, matching her step for step until her shoulders came up against the wall and she couldn’t retreat any farther.
“You don’t really believe that? We were playing a game, you and I. You were the prize I wanted, not Claire.”
“That can’t be the truth. Men always want Claire.”
“Claire is a child, no matter her years. You’re a woman, Victoria.” He pinned her with his lion’s gaze, caught her chin, held her so she couldn’t glance away. “Deep down, you know it’s you I want and not Claire.”
She swallowed, stared into those hot golden-brown eyes and fought not to tremble. She remembered that same look the night he had come to her room, remembered the way he had kissed her in his study. She remembered the vague hints that he wanted her as his mistress, and God in heaven, she believed he was telling the truth.
The earl tilted her chin up, bent his head and captured her lips. It was a gentle, persuasive kiss, softly taking, convincing her with every touch, every taste. He kissed the corners of her mouth, pressed his lips against the side of her neck.
“If you’re telling the truth,” she whispered, “why didn’t…why didn’t you send the note to me?”
She felt the faint pull of his smile. “Would you have come?”
She wouldn’t have, of course. “No.”
“I didn’t think so.” And then he kissed her again.
Tory’s hands came up to his chest, fluttered, flattened against the front of his full-sleeved shirt. Sweet Lord, it was heaven, the softest, hottest kisses, his lips hard-soft, perfectly fitted to hers, coaxing and demanding, giving and taking all at once.
“Open for me,” he whispered, his tongue sliding over her lips, sending warm shivers across her skin. He deepened the kiss and pleasure made her legs go weak. Her arms slid up around his neck and he pulled her more snugly against him, tasted her more completely, let her taste him.
Tory trembled.
She knew she should stop him. He was the earl of Brant, a rake and a rogue, a man who would ruin her if she let him. He cared nothing about her. He only wanted to satisfy his lust. And yet she sensed a need in him, had since that night he had barged into her room.
Her own need surfaced, pulsed to life with every stroke of his tongue, deepened with the feel of his hands on her breasts, smoothing over them, molding them through her robe, sending little curls of heat sliding into her stomach. Her legs were trembling. He kissed the side of her neck as he parted the blue quilted wrapper and slid his hand inside, over her thin cotton night rail to cup her breast, his thumb stroking over her nipple.
“God, I want you,” he said, pulling the little blue bow at her throat, reaching in to caress the fullness of her breasts. Her mouth went dry. She couldn’t swallow. Her nipples swelled, pressed into his palm. “Give yourself to me,” he said softly. “I know you want to.”
God’s breath, it was the truth. She had never wanted anything so badly. She wanted to see where all this heat would lead, wanted him to touch her, kiss her all over. He was every wicked dream she’d ever had, every wanton fantasy. She had known that about herself, that she wasn’t like Claire, that she had desires and wants, and she wanted the earl of Brant.
Tory shook her head, tried to step away. The earl held her firmly in place.
“Don’t say no. Let me take care of you. You’ll have a better life. And you can take care of Claire. Neither of you will want for anything.”
He was saying it straight out. He wanted her to become his mistress. He didn’t want Claire, he wanted her, Victoria, the sturdy sister, not the beautiful one. The notion left her feeling light-headed. Considering the life she faced and the desire she felt for him, it wasn’t a bad proposition.
Tory simply could not do it.
She was surprised to feel the hot sting of tears. Shaking her head, she eased a little away, forced herself to look up, into that sinfully handsome face.
“I can’t. In a way, as wicked as it might be, I wish I could, but…” Another shake of her head. “It just isn’t something I can do.”
He ran a finger gently down her cheek. “Are you certain? It isn’t so wicked between people who share similar needs, and you’ve Claire to think of. It would ensure both of your futures.”
Claire. She felt guilty. She should do it for Claire.
But perhaps that was just an excuse.
Either way, she simply could not compromise her principles in that manner. And, of course there was the not-so-small matter of the robbery and attempted murder of her stepfather. She stifled a sudden urge to blurt out the tale, to throw herself into his arms and beg him to help her.
She couldn’t take the risk. “I am quite sure, my lord.”
Very gently, he bent his head and kissed the tears on her cheeks. “Perhaps in time you will change your mind.”
Tory stepped away from him and drew in a shaky, courage-building breath, though in that moment she wanted nothing so much as to let him kiss her again, let him make love to her.
“I won’t change my mind. Say you will not ask me again. Say it, or I shall have to leave.”
There was something in his expression, a turmoil she could not read. Several long moments passed, then he sighed.
“If that is truly your wish, I won’t ask you again.”
“I want your word as a gentleman.”
The edge of his mouth barely curved. “After tonight, you still believe I am one?”
She managed a tremulous smile. “For reasons I am at a loss to explain, I do.”
He turned, moved even farther away. “All right, I give you my word. You are safe from me, Mrs. Temple, though I am certain to rue this day for as long as you are employed in my household.”
“Thank you, my lord.” She turned to leave, telling herself she had done the right thing, feeling more wretched than she had since the day she had received word that her mother had died.

The echo of the softly closing door slid through him like the edge of a blade. His body still pulsed with desire, ached with unspent need. He had wanted her so badly, more even than he had guessed. And yet the feeling that washed through him now could only be described as relief.
There was no denying that over the years he had become somewhat jaded, somewhat insensitive where women were concerned. But he had never stooped so low as to attempting the seduction he had planned tonight.
He could have justified the results. As his mistress, Victoria, along with her sister, would have been well taken care of. He would have seen to their financial security, even after his liaison with Victoria was over.
And yet, in some perverse way, he was relieved that she had not agreed. In the weeks she had been in his employ, he had come to respect, even admire her. She did her job—no matter the little cooperation she received from the rest of the servants. She was intelligent and clever, spirited, and loyal to those she loved. And she had a strong set of morals—she had proved that tonight.
She deserved far better than the brief sexual liaison she would have had with him.
Still, he wanted her. Even as he stripped off his shirt and breeches and prepared himself for bed, his body throbbed with desire for her. He remembered her innocently passionate kisses and groaned with the ache the memory stirred.
But Victoria Temple was safe from him now. Cord had given his word and he would not break it. She would remain his housekeeper, nothing more.

Six
In some ways, at least, fate seemed to be on Tory’s side. As the days continued, nothing more surfaced about the theft of the necklace or the attack on Baron Harwood. Undoubtedly there would be gossip among the ton, but Lord Brant was far too busy to pay attention to rumors and scandal.
Brant. Tory did her best not to think of him. She didn’t want to see him, didn’t want to look into those tawny eyes and remember his scorching kisses, the way her body had melted into his the moment he had touched her. She didn’t want to feel the awful, wicked temptation that she had felt that night.
Or battle her desire to be with him that way again.
Fortunately, she had succeeded in hiding her turbulent thoughts from Claire. Her sister had been waiting when Tory returned downstairs. She had told Claire the note had simply been a misunderstanding, that the earl had written midnight but meant midday and that he had merely been interested in discovering whether she and Tory were happy in their jobs.
It was an utterly ridiculous story, one that only someone as completely naive as Claire would believe. Tory felt guilty for the lie, but thanked the Lord that her sister had accepted it and put the matter to rest.
Since that night, she saw the earl only when they chanced to pass in a hallway. Each time he was exceedingly polite and reserved. Maddeningly so, Tory secretly thought.
In his study, the chessboard sat forlornly in the corner, and whenever Tory saw it, she battled the urge to move one of the pieces, to challenge him again. She didn’t, of course. She knew where that would lead and the road was one that could only end in disaster.
Then this morning, at the bottom of today’s London Chronicle, a reference was made to the search still being conducted for crimes against Baron Harwood. Fortunately, Tory made this morning’s newspaper, like the last, mysteriously disappear.
Still, she wondered how much longer she and Claire could continue hiding in Lord Brant’s household. They were madly saving every farthing should the need arise for a hasty escape, but the longer they were gainfully employed, the more money they would have and the better their chances of getting safely away.
And there was always the slim hope the baron might tire of his search and simply return to Harwood Hall, or that he might believe they were hiding somewhere in the country. Tory prayed each night that happenstance would occur.
In the meantime, the earl had left word that he would be having a small dinner party that evening. The guest list included his cousin Sarah and her husband, Lord Aimes; Colonel Pendleton of the British War Office; and Lord Percival Chezwick. The Duke of Sheffield was also invited, along with Dr. and Mrs. Geoffrey Chastain and their eldest daughter, Grace.
The last name on the list gave Tory’s heart a jolt. She knew Gracie Chastain. They had attended finishing school together. At Thornhill’s, Gracie had been her dearest friend.
That seemed eons ago. Another time, another life. After the baron had forbidden her return to school, Tory had heard little of Grace beyond an occasional letter. With the troubles facing her at home, Tory’s replies had been sluggish at best and the friends had drifted apart.
Still, Grace would know her immediately, even in her dreary housekeeper’s uniform. Tory would have to make a point of staying well away from the dining room.
“Ah, there you are, Mrs. Temple.”
Tory stiffened at the sound of the familiar deep voice coming up behind her. Taking a steadying breath, she turned to face the earl.
“Good afternoon, my lord.”
“I just wanted to check, make certain you have everything in order for tonight.”
“Yes, my lord. I was just making out the place cards.”
“You understand how the guests should be seated?” He seemed so aloof, so distant, as if he had never had the slightest interest in her at all. She wished her interest in him would fade as quickly.
“The guests should be seated by rank, my lord.”
He nodded. “Then I shall leave the matter in your hands.” Turning, he walked away. Tory watched him disappear down the hall, trying not to notice the width of his shoulders, the long legs and graceful way he moved. She tried to ignore those strong hands and the memory of them caressing her breasts, stroking over her nipples. She tried not to think of the overwhelming pleasure he had made her feel.

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