crept up from his high, white collar. “Have you no sense of loyalty?”
“Have
I
?” She leaned into his space, fighting the urge to poke his starched chest. “It is not I who sold secret formulas to an outside partner. A matter about which I am certain the members of the board would love to learn.”
His large Adam’s apple bobbed. “Now, Mrs. Smith, you cannot possibly believe that I would—”
“I can, and I do.” She gave him her best Poppy glare, as effective on liars as it was on sisters. “You are the only one who handles the production of my personal perfume. It is not to be created for mass distribution, and you know it.”
“I cannot presume to understand—”
“Then I will put it to you plainly and use small wordsso there is no misunderstanding.” Her hand curled around his lapel, and the fabric crackled beneath her fist. “Another woman was wearing my perfume. You will tell me to whom you sold my formula, and in return, you may keep your position and my services. Or we will proceed by another route. Believe me when I say that such a course will not be to your advantage, Mr. Abernathy.”
Sweat pebbled down his brow as he gave her a stiff nod of agreement. Daisy smiled sweetly.
“The name, if you will, Mr. Abernathy.”
“Oi! You’ll wrinkle the silk.”
Ian spared a glance at his valet who was busy brushing his waistcoat as if Ian had lit it on fire instead of merely buttoning it in haste. The young man was worse than a nanny. “Talent, you do realize that I have dozens more?”
Talent scowled. “Oh, right, which makes caring for one’s things such a tiresome exercise.” Carefully, he pulled out Ian’s evening coat and helped Ian into it. “Hell, you’ve got forty cravats, as befitting a spoilt marquis, why not burn the one you’re wearing now? Save me the trouble of cleaning and ironing.”
Ian closed his eyes and wondered for what must be the hundredth time why he’d agreed to let Talent be his valet. And then remembered that the blasted lad hadn’t taken no for an answer. Bruised and battered within an inch of his life, the youth had been found literally on Ian’s doorstep ten years ago. And while Ian would have gladly employed young Jack Talent for other tasks, for the lad had the makings of an excellent spy, Talent hadn’t wanted what was offered. No, the man simply wanted a home, a place with the others.
It was the one reason Ian could not reject. Damn if thelittle bastard didn’t know it, Ian thought irritably as he adjusted the cravat Talent had just tied, earning another growl of disgust. It was a petty little victory in the war that was the state of Ian’s wardrobe. The laughable part was that society often touted Ian as a natty dresser, when really it was Talent’s insane and exacting standards that had Ian dressed to the nines and a leader of fashion.
“I think you’re cracked to go to Lena,” Talent said when Ian strode to his cabinet and pulled out a glossy wooden stake. “She’s just as likely to have your bollocks for dinner as help you.”
Ian thumbed the point of the stake. Not quite sharp enough. He pulled out the sanding block. “You think I’m incapable of defending myself?” The idea was laughable.
For once, Talent looked aghast. “Course not. Only, well, she’s ungodly.” With a shiver, Talent crossed himself. Talent’s piousness, as it were, had the tendency to rise up when he wanted to dole out a lecture and to go completely missing when it proved inconvenient to his own needs.
Ian laughed then. “You, my young friend, are the proverbial pot calling the kettle black.” Ignoring Talent’s scowl, he blew over the tip of the stake and wood dust swirled golden in the air. “We creatures are all ungodly in the eyes of humans, and they would likely have your bollocks on a spit if they knew what you were.”
“They’d have to catch me first,” Talent muttered as Ian slid the stake into his boot. “Just watch your back, all
“Have
I
?” She leaned into his space, fighting the urge to poke his starched chest. “It is not I who sold secret formulas to an outside partner. A matter about which I am certain the members of the board would love to learn.”
His large Adam’s apple bobbed. “Now, Mrs. Smith, you cannot possibly believe that I would—”
“I can, and I do.” She gave him her best Poppy glare, as effective on liars as it was on sisters. “You are the only one who handles the production of my personal perfume. It is not to be created for mass distribution, and you know it.”
“I cannot presume to understand—”
“Then I will put it to you plainly and use small wordsso there is no misunderstanding.” Her hand curled around his lapel, and the fabric crackled beneath her fist. “Another woman was wearing my perfume. You will tell me to whom you sold my formula, and in return, you may keep your position and my services. Or we will proceed by another route. Believe me when I say that such a course will not be to your advantage, Mr. Abernathy.”
Sweat pebbled down his brow as he gave her a stiff nod of agreement. Daisy smiled sweetly.
“The name, if you will, Mr. Abernathy.”
“Oi! You’ll wrinkle the silk.”
Ian spared a glance at his valet who was busy brushing his waistcoat as if Ian had lit it on fire instead of merely buttoning it in haste. The young man was worse than a nanny. “Talent, you do realize that I have dozens more?”
Talent scowled. “Oh, right, which makes caring for one’s things such a tiresome exercise.” Carefully, he pulled out Ian’s evening coat and helped Ian into it. “Hell, you’ve got forty cravats, as befitting a spoilt marquis, why not burn the one you’re wearing now? Save me the trouble of cleaning and ironing.”
Ian closed his eyes and wondered for what must be the hundredth time why he’d agreed to let Talent be his valet. And then remembered that the blasted lad hadn’t taken no for an answer. Bruised and battered within an inch of his life, the youth had been found literally on Ian’s doorstep ten years ago. And while Ian would have gladly employed young Jack Talent for other tasks, for the lad had the makings of an excellent spy, Talent hadn’t wanted what was offered. No, the man simply wanted a home, a place with the others.
It was the one reason Ian could not reject. Damn if thelittle bastard didn’t know it, Ian thought irritably as he adjusted the cravat Talent had just tied, earning another growl of disgust. It was a petty little victory in the war that was the state of Ian’s wardrobe. The laughable part was that society often touted Ian as a natty dresser, when really it was Talent’s insane and exacting standards that had Ian dressed to the nines and a leader of fashion.
“I think you’re cracked to go to Lena,” Talent said when Ian strode to his cabinet and pulled out a glossy wooden stake. “She’s just as likely to have your bollocks for dinner as help you.”
Ian thumbed the point of the stake. Not quite sharp enough. He pulled out the sanding block. “You think I’m incapable of defending myself?” The idea was laughable.
For once, Talent looked aghast. “Course not. Only, well, she’s ungodly.” With a shiver, Talent crossed himself. Talent’s piousness, as it were, had the tendency to rise up when he wanted to dole out a lecture and to go completely missing when it proved inconvenient to his own needs.
Ian laughed then. “You, my young friend, are the proverbial pot calling the kettle black.” Ignoring Talent’s scowl, he blew over the tip of the stake and wood dust swirled golden in the air. “We creatures are all ungodly in the eyes of humans, and they would likely have your bollocks on a spit if they knew what you were.”
“They’d have to catch me first,” Talent muttered as Ian slid the stake into his boot. “Just watch your back, all
Similar Books
