Page 59 of Any Duke in a Storm

“Very well.”

“At least you look the part,” he said, sending another heated gaze her way.

Lisbeth frowned as she reached for a pair of gloves. “IsThorin in any kind of trouble as well? Do I need to worry about him?”

“No, and theVauquelinis a legitimate ship with no history of unlawful transport.” He ground his teeth together. “He’s young and being led around by his cock. Trust me, I will flog that idiot for this, especially onthisparticular ship.”

“Is it his?”

His brows slammed down. “It’smine.”

Well then. Now she understood why he was so worked up. If this beauty of a ship was confiscated because of who he was, it would be a tragedy…and a windfall for the Treasury. “Stay out of sight, if you can.” She stopped at the cabin door and smiled at him so seductively over her shoulder that he halted in his tracks. “And do try to keep your temper under control.”

“My temper? Why?”

But she didn’t answer, sauntering down to the cargo hold without a qualm as if she had every right to be there. Her shoulders went back, her spine straightened. Every muscle in her face relaxed into a practiced mien. One of privilege and grace. A countess used to deference, esteem, and respect.

As she stepped into the hold, which was just as lavish as the rest of the ship, she counted three people—two men and one of the infamous inspectresses—in addition to Thorin. There was no sign of Raphael, though she suspected he would be close. None of them were agents she recognized, but that did not mean they would not recognize her.

Playing a dual role was always perilous, the risk of discovery doubled. She cracked open a fan and waved it irritably as she strolled inside.

“Good God, darling, what is all of this hullabaloo? One of my maids said there was some urgency that would delay our disembarking.” She pouted prettily. “You know I cannot be late for my luncheon with my dearest Lina and I must get ready. Mrs. Astor isquiteparticular about punctuality.” The casual mention of the matriarch of one of the most prominent New York families did not go unnoticed.

“Who might you be, ma’am?” the lead agent asked. He was thin-faced with a heavy mustache and had keen eyes.

“Lady,” she corrected with a sniff and a toss of her head. “I amLadyLisbeth Medford, the Countess of Waterstone.”

“Apologies, my lady,” he said.

Thorin’s eyes widened with surprise as she walked right up to him and kissed his cheek, but he caught on quickly. “Uh, darling, these men and woman would like to search your trunks. They don’t believe the gowns are yours and have reason to believe that they are contraband.”

“My gowns?” she scoffed. “Contraband?Good God, the audacity! Heavens, darling, if your father, the Duke of Remington, even knew what horrid treatment we were being subjected to, he would be appalled.” Thorin’s huff of surprise was audible, but he covered that up with a cough.

Perhaps she was laying it on a little too thickly, given the look on the lead agent’s face, but she had to sell the performance for it to be believable. The British peerageas a whole considered themselves superior to Americans, even those with ragged, declining estates, though they were quick to marry into American money if it meant shoring up those very estates. It was despicable, but Lisbeth wasn’t here to make a point about titles and privilege. She was there to save Raphael’s ship.

“This is an outrage!” she cried, fanning herself harder.

“Allow me to handle this, my dear,” Thorin said and turned to the agent. “How can we be of service to you to clear up any misunderstandings? We are en route from Paris. Would you like my fiancée to try on any of these gowns? She is wearing one of them right now, and if I dare say, she is quite ravishing.” He drew up her knuckles and pressed a loud kiss to them. Lisbeth ducked her head as though overcome by his ardor, but she kept a close eye on their unwelcome guests.

A heavy arm slid across her back and curled around her waist, and Lisbeth stiffened at the unexpected intimacy before she guessed that Thorin was trying to shore up their performance. Or not, as she followed his quick sidelong glance to an adjacent room, where she caught sight of Raphael’s surly face.

Thorin might be more interested in provoking his friend.Fiancée, indeed. She wondered idly what Raphael would think of her title…one she hadn’t used in years, though it was very much real. Or more importantly, whether he was, in fact, seething with jealousy at Thorin’s words and proximity. Perhaps she should play along…to sell the thing.

She shot Thorin a sultry smile. “Darling, do not flirt. You know I do not wish to be late because of your mischief. And we cannot embarrass our guests. Do behave.”

“But I do so love to misbehave.” He tickled her side and then kissed her cheek as a savage growl emanated through the space.

“Is there a dog onboard?” the inspectress asked, which made Lisbeth burst into a spate of uncontrollable laughter. Oh, dear God, she couldn’t breathe!

“Just our pet mastiff, Brutus,” she said, nearly wheezing with mirth.

Oh, she really was terrible.

The lead agent nodded and scribbled something in a notebook he carried with him. “Very good, my lady, my lord. There will be no need for you to model these gowns. Is there anywhere we can escort you? A residence, perhaps.”

Lisbeth blinked. She’d underestimated him. He was as sharp as a razor. She didn’t give Thorin the chance to give a fake address. The agent was much too clever for that. This was a ploy to see if they were indeed who they claimed and not convincing pretenders. She gave the only address she knew—the New York residence of her former husband of convenience, the current Duke of Thornbury, on Fifth Avenue. With any luck, the duke and duchess would not be in residence and the staff would recognize her. She hoped.

“That’s so kind of you, sir,” she said. “Allow us to ready ourselves. We shall meet you on the docks posthaste.”

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