Page 95 of The Hunter
So be it,she thought, listening to the peals of laughter filtering from down the hall where Jakub entertained the Blackwells’ delighted toddler with their nanny, a bawdy woman named Gemma.
This whole thing had begun in blood. The moment Chief Inspector Morley had returned her glove, stained with Agnes’s blood, and recited the horror of her dearest friend’s death, Millie must have known the bloodshed was not over. For years she’d been waiting, wondering if the man who’d left Agnes’s womb on the cobbles of London would return for her.
Or for her son.
She’d taken steps to make certain he wouldn’t, done what she’d had to do. Every step culminating in this arrangement with Christopher Argent. That cold, tortured, beautiful, lethal…
… Blind, irritating,stupidman.
He’d been silent to the point of infuriating when he’d scooped her and Jakub into his carriage after their late breakfast and deposited them at the Blackwells’ Mayfair mansion with terse instructions not to leave Dorian Blackwell’s sight. Of course, the Earl and Countess Northwalk had been delightfully accommodating, but the intensity of the morning, and the life-altering events of the previous night, had left Millie feeling drained and irritable. Helpless, and maybe a little bit rejected. This was all so new to her, this ledge upon which she balanced. One wrong move, one bad decision, and her heart could be broken or lost… and so could her life.
“Miss LeCour… Millie, are you all right?” Farah held the teapot poised in the air, her delicate features a picture of patience and concern.
“I’m sorry.” Millie summoned a brilliant smile. “What were you saying?”
“I was asking if I could refresh your tea.”
“Please.” Holding out her cup, she added a dash of genuine apology to her voice. “I didn’t mean to be rude. I suppose I’m still having a hard time believing my luck. I never imagined I’d be a guest of the illustrious Lord and Lady Northwalk.”
Farah, dressed in lavender and lace, her hair and eyes as stunningly light as Millie’s were dark, sent her a perceptive glace from beneath pale lashes. “Don’t you mean theinfamousLord and Lady Northwalk?”
“I prefernotorious.” A shadow stirred from the giant leather chair that had been pulled next to the fire, whereby Dorian Blackwell, thenotoriousBlackheart of Ben More, effectively hid his features behind a book.
Millie wondered if he held the book that close to spare her his startling visage, or because he could only read out of his one good eye. Millie had heard he lost the use of his other one in the Underworld War, and that it had lost all pigment, but the earl was now wearing an eye patch, and she had a hard time telling if she was disappointed or relieved. Even with the patch, Blackwell’s features were frightening enough. His one good eye seemed to ritualistically and ruthlessly assess and calculate. She felt as though only after a few moments in his company, he knew all her secrets, understood her weaknesses, and could dismantle her body and mind if he had the notion. He was large and dark as the devil and just as handsome, or would be if not for the permanently sardonic expression.
That all changed when he looked at his astonishingly angelic wife. Millie had liked Lady Northwalk immediately, and after watching her interact with her adoring, almost obsessive husband, all suspicion about Farah’s involvement with Christopher dissipated like the smoke of a snuffed candle.
“Yes, my love, you’ve succeeded in making yourself notorious, haven’t you?” she teased. Farah set the teapot down and offered Millie the sugar. “It’s so amusing that you should express your sweet sentiment, because I was only just examining my good fortune at hosting the one and only Millie LeCour, London’s darling of the stage.” She took a dainty sip. “Won’t all of society be green with envy when I tell them I had your exclusive company to tea?”
Millie beamed at her, then let her smile die in slow increments. “I only wish… that we’d become acquainted under different… better circumstances.”
“As do I.” Farah’s small, compassionate smile was artlessly genuine. She’d have made a terrible actress, and that endeared her to Millie quite a bit. “But I hope you feel safe and comfortable here, until Argent comes to tell us you and your lovely son are out of danger and takes you back with him.”
Millie stared down into her tea, her other gloved hand squeezing into a fist, mirroring the action of her heart. “I don’t think he’ll take me back with him. Once he… once everything is all said and done I think our… arrangement will be over. Our contract settled.”
The heart that felt strangled by a squeezing fist now dropped like a lead weight.
Gently, Farah set her teacup down and regarded her with the same excessive curiosity she had when she’d seen Millie and Jakub for the first time. “How long have you had an… arrangement with Argent?” Her arrested expression belied the casualness of her tone.
“Farah,” Dorian rumbled.
“Oh, I don’t mean to pry,” Farah rushed. “It’s only that I’ve known Argent for a few years now and I must admit this is unprecedented. He must be very fond of you and your son.”
Lord Northwalk turned his page with a forceful gesture and cleared his throat.
“I don’t mind the question,” Millie murmured. “I’ve only known Chr—Mr. Argent several days.” Though it did seem like a lifetime. Or perhaps the last time she felt as though she knew herself was a lifetime ago.
“He is handsome, isn’t he?” Farah asked conspiratorially. “And, despite being a bit phlegmatic, he really is charming at times.”
“As charming as a typhus epidemic,” Millie quipped into her teacup.
Blackwell’s book seemed to give a strangled snort.
“Oh dear.” Farah’s golden brows, a touch more golden than her pale hair, drew together. “Are you cross with him?”
“Of course she’s cross with him,” said the book. “He’s an idiot.”
“Are you reading, or having this conversation with us?” Farah asked her husband.
