Page 7 of My Dark Duke

"Is that you, Mary?"

The voice was thusly accompanied by the body of another young woman, wrapped tight against the cold night in a thick coat. The interloper cast Miss Smith a worried glance as she assessed the situation, before landing her hostile gaze upon Sebastian.

"Is everything all right?" she queried, in a voice hinting that should everything not be all right, that it was Sebastian who would pay the price.

"No." Sebastian adopted his most charming manner—a chore, for as a rule, he was never charming. "Miss Smith has had her basket stolen by a footpad. I came to her assistance but I was unable to apprehend the ruffian. She is now refusing, rather stupidly, my offer to reimburse her the moneys which were stolen."

The interloper, who at first had been rather taken aback by Sebastian's smooth, Etonian accent, now looked him up and down from top to toe. Her eyes, Sebastian noted, were shrewdly calculating the cost of his coat of superfine, his Hessian boots, and the beaver hat upon his head.

"You should let the man help you, Mary," she advised, having evidently decided that Sebastian could well afford to act as Miss Smith's saviour.

"I have no wish to be helped by His Grace," Miss Smith shrugged, moving away from Sebastian to link her arm through that of her friend. "Come, Sally, I wish to warm myself by the fire. Good evening, Your Grace."

Miss Smith tugged her friend away, in the direction of the boarding house, leaving Sebastian with a sense of loss, which he quickly quashed with a feeling of irritation.

Silly chit, he thought, as he turned on his heel; to refuse a magnanimous offer of assistance.

Sebastian gave an irritable sigh, as he stalked back to his carriage to await the return of Higgins. After a few long minutes, the footman returned, his nose red from the cold.

"Begging your pardon, Your Grace," the young man said, apologetically, "but I could not find the lad. Reckon he's back in St Giles by now."

"Thank you, Higgins." Sebastian waved a lazy hand. "That is much what I expected. There is no magic that could trump a footpad's ability to disappear into thin air. Now, back to your post, and tell the driver I wish to visit one of my clubs. White's should suffice."

Higgins nodded and closed the carriage door, leaving Sebastian alone to stew in its dark recesses. He was vexed. He was irritated. He was thoroughly put out by Miss Smith's refusal of his assistance.

And, he realised with a wry smile, he was also extremely aroused.

His blood coursed through his veins, he felt an ache of desire within his belly, and—he snorted with laughter, once he realised it—his breeches bulged with longing for the vexatious Miss Smith.

Perhaps the chit was right not to trust my intentions, Sebastian thought, as the carriage wound its way through the night. True, he wanted her safe, but what safer place was there for the young woman than under his protection—and between his bedsheets?

CHAPTER THREE

LILLIAN GAVE Asigh of relief as she neared home. Her day had been long, and the walk from the West India Docks even longer.

Her feet within her sturdy boots ached, along with her lower back, and she longed for the respite of her bed in Mrs Harrod's Boarding House.

As she finally reached the corner of Gracechurch Street, Lillian stiffened in awareness. She would not, as had happened the previous night, allow herself to fall victim to any villainous footpads—not that she had much left for them to steal.

The memory of the previous night rose in her mind's eye, as she traipsed along the footpath, which was lined with uniform, brown-brick houses. The thief had come out of nowhere, snatching at her basket with great skill, though Lillian had unconsciously held on to it for dear life—a fool's errand, for she had found herself shoved to the ground for her efforts.

For a moment, Lillian allowed despair to overwhelm her, as she recalled that the young lad had made off with everything she held dear. Not just her coin purse, but her mother's locket, and the leather-bound Bible which her father had gifted her last Christmas.

Mrs Harrod ran a respectable establishment, but she had warned all her girls not to leave any valuables in their rooms, and Lillian had duly obeyed. She regretted her choice to lug that heavy book around London every day, now that it was lost to her forever. And it was not just the loss of a dear father's gift which worried her, but the fact that her name—the name of a murderess—was written upon the inside jacket.

If anyone were to recognise her, she thought, before pushing away that ice-cold thought.

She was being fanciful, she assured herself; there was no one who would think to link the hardworking Mary Smith with Lillian Hamilton. No one would ever think that the daughter of a Reverend—himself the second son of a Baron—would ever deign to live in a boarding house for women, and eke out a living working in the purser's office of a shipping company.

Lillian paused at the steps of Mrs Harrod's, readying herself for the stream of questions which she was certain the inquisitive Scotswoman would throw at her the moment she walked through the door.

However, as Mrs Harrod answered her knock, she was not brimming with questions, but instead with excitement.

"You should have warned me, lass," she hissed, as she steered Lillian down the hallway toward the parlour room. "I only had some dry Madeira cake to offer him; had I known he was coming, I would have baked some fresh shortbread."

"I—what—who?"

Lillian had no idea what it was that the neat, little Scotswoman was speaking of, but as Mrs Harrod pushed open the door of the parlour room, comprehension dawned on Lillian.

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