door and listened for my footsteps late at night?”
“The house has ears, Miss—”
“So you and—and Ruthie are the Daringtons’ spies ? I suppose you entertained yourselves royally on the eve of my wedding!”
Quentin’s lips quirked. He glanced around them and steered her forward. “We shouldn’t tarry here, milady. I’ve wondered, since the first time I observed your nocturnal journeys, how you’ve remained unharmed for all the years you’ve written your column. At the very least you could’ve been smuggled into one of the nearby opium dens or brothels. Forced into slavery of a sort we don’t want to contemplate. Do we?”
Was that a veiled threat? How did he know of such base establishments along this street, unless he frequented them himself?
Stop it! There go your thoughts, running amok again!
When they reached the next block, her escort slowed his pace. Maria jerked free. She whirled around to block his path, glaring at him. “How long have you known? And what do you intend to do about it?”
With the mist swirling about his angular face, Quentin reminded her more than ever of Jemma’s pet ferret. He stood head and shoulders above her; possessed a corded strength his uniform camouflaged—yet he seemed more amused than menacing. He smiled like a boy who’d discovered the truth behind Saint Nicholas yet still believed the old elf would bring him gifts, if he behaved himself.
This insight pierced Maria’s suspicions: he didn’t seem the type who would shout out Miss Crimson’s real identity from the rooftops. But she couldn’t let down her guard. Couldn’t assume he was more a young, enamored swain intrigued by her dual identity than a threat to her veiled occupation. For if Miss Crimson quit publishing, it would be all his fault that London had lost one of its most celebrated secrets, and that readers could no longer depend on the Inquirer for juicy tidbits about their friends.
She crossed her arms, looking him square in the eye. “Again,” she insisted. “How long have you known about Miss Crimson?”
The tightness around his eyes relaxed. They were within sight of the town house now, and he wanted to chat before they reentered Mrs. Booth’s domain. “Oh, all right,” he said with a half laugh. “While I wasn’t so surprised that your betrothed came for a conjugal visit before his bachelor party—”
“We made enough noise that anyone would know what we were doing,” she recalled with a sad sigh.
“—I was a bit, shall we say…astounded? Amazed?” he continued in a hushed voice. “I had no idea Jude had the—the—”
“Balls?”
“Yes, I—my stars, Miss Palladino!” the butler murmured. Yet he was clearly more fascinated than offended by what he’d witnessed. “To think that you not only write London’s most popular column in the Inquirer , but you have two men in love with you! I stand in awe of—of your sheer allure! Your power over the male gender, and over the Darington twins in particular! Those lucky dogs!”
Maria maintained her stern expression, chuckling inside. “I could have you fired for insinuating such a—”
“Your secrets would be in far worse hands than mine, dear lady.”
The little weasel had her there. Maria could no more tattle to Lord or Lady Darington about this presumptuous butler than she could admit she was bedding both their sons.
Best to remain businesslike; to use that allure to her advantage. She softened her voice. Lowered her hood so her face would be clearly visible. “So what do you want , Quentin?”
Recognizing a shift—an opportunity—McCallum stood tall. “We are in a similar situation, you and I.”
“How do you mean?” She raised an eyebrow, waiting for him to spell it out.
“We both retain our positions at the whim of the Daringtons, which depends upon Jason’s homecoming. He put old Hettrick out to pasture so a younger man—myself—might be his personal servant when he took up residence at the
“The house has ears, Miss—”
“So you and—and Ruthie are the Daringtons’ spies ? I suppose you entertained yourselves royally on the eve of my wedding!”
Quentin’s lips quirked. He glanced around them and steered her forward. “We shouldn’t tarry here, milady. I’ve wondered, since the first time I observed your nocturnal journeys, how you’ve remained unharmed for all the years you’ve written your column. At the very least you could’ve been smuggled into one of the nearby opium dens or brothels. Forced into slavery of a sort we don’t want to contemplate. Do we?”
Was that a veiled threat? How did he know of such base establishments along this street, unless he frequented them himself?
Stop it! There go your thoughts, running amok again!
When they reached the next block, her escort slowed his pace. Maria jerked free. She whirled around to block his path, glaring at him. “How long have you known? And what do you intend to do about it?”
With the mist swirling about his angular face, Quentin reminded her more than ever of Jemma’s pet ferret. He stood head and shoulders above her; possessed a corded strength his uniform camouflaged—yet he seemed more amused than menacing. He smiled like a boy who’d discovered the truth behind Saint Nicholas yet still believed the old elf would bring him gifts, if he behaved himself.
This insight pierced Maria’s suspicions: he didn’t seem the type who would shout out Miss Crimson’s real identity from the rooftops. But she couldn’t let down her guard. Couldn’t assume he was more a young, enamored swain intrigued by her dual identity than a threat to her veiled occupation. For if Miss Crimson quit publishing, it would be all his fault that London had lost one of its most celebrated secrets, and that readers could no longer depend on the Inquirer for juicy tidbits about their friends.
She crossed her arms, looking him square in the eye. “Again,” she insisted. “How long have you known about Miss Crimson?”
The tightness around his eyes relaxed. They were within sight of the town house now, and he wanted to chat before they reentered Mrs. Booth’s domain. “Oh, all right,” he said with a half laugh. “While I wasn’t so surprised that your betrothed came for a conjugal visit before his bachelor party—”
“We made enough noise that anyone would know what we were doing,” she recalled with a sad sigh.
“—I was a bit, shall we say…astounded? Amazed?” he continued in a hushed voice. “I had no idea Jude had the—the—”
“Balls?”
“Yes, I—my stars, Miss Palladino!” the butler murmured. Yet he was clearly more fascinated than offended by what he’d witnessed. “To think that you not only write London’s most popular column in the Inquirer , but you have two men in love with you! I stand in awe of—of your sheer allure! Your power over the male gender, and over the Darington twins in particular! Those lucky dogs!”
Maria maintained her stern expression, chuckling inside. “I could have you fired for insinuating such a—”
“Your secrets would be in far worse hands than mine, dear lady.”
The little weasel had her there. Maria could no more tattle to Lord or Lady Darington about this presumptuous butler than she could admit she was bedding both their sons.
Best to remain businesslike; to use that allure to her advantage. She softened her voice. Lowered her hood so her face would be clearly visible. “So what do you want , Quentin?”
Recognizing a shift—an opportunity—McCallum stood tall. “We are in a similar situation, you and I.”
“How do you mean?” She raised an eyebrow, waiting for him to spell it out.
“We both retain our positions at the whim of the Daringtons, which depends upon Jason’s homecoming. He put old Hettrick out to pasture so a younger man—myself—might be his personal servant when he took up residence at the
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