Page 45 of The Devil in Her Bed
But not marquesses. A man of his station required a full retinue, and a house of this size required constant upkeep. Accounts. Ledgers. Banknotes and bills. Each household often had a steward or at least a solicitor. Someone to keep the paperwork in order, even if a marquess was impoverished.
She found the study as empty as the rest of the house.
Frustrated and intrigued, Francesca slowly made her way back to his bedroom.
He still lay upon the bed, looking angelic, really, in a sinister, star-of-the-morning sort of way.
She drifted to the bedside and leaned her shoulder against the pillar at the foot, studying the enigma before her.
Francesca had never really noticed how perpetually clenched his jaw was until she saw it now slack with slumber. Lord, but he was beautiful in that way men were. Stark angles. Broad planes. Lean muscle.
She shouldn’t be staring. Furthermore, she shouldn’t stay. She feared him so terribly only because she wanted him so much. He was older than she’d first assumed. He had creases branching from his eyes she hadn’t previously noticed. Perhaps because of the flattering lighting, or because… wait. Was that—?
She drifted closer and snatched the lamp from the side table to hold it closer to Drake’s face.
His eyelids danced with dreams, and from the furrow of his brow, Francesca guessed those dreams were troubled. But that wasn’t what kept her gaze locked to his face, his eyes in particular.
Reaching out, she brushed at a gather of substance in the grooves of skin at the edge of his eyelids before examining her thumb.
Powder. The kind ladies used to cover blemishes and imperfections.
Was he so vain? Or…
A groan escaped him, and then something of a protest in his chest. A bark of anger, subdued by his compelled sleep.
“Nothing will make it right. Nothing will bring them back,” he mumbled. “I’ll kill you for what you did… For taking them from me. I’ll avenge…”
Francesca reached into her dress. Extracting her pistol, she aimed it right at his temple. Her finger caressed the trigger, but her hand trembled too much to shoot true.
It didn’t matter. He deserved to be shot.
And she deserved a goddamned medal, as she’d been correct about him from the start.
In his sleep, his Scottish brogue had melted into a proper English accent.
Which meant he wasn’t who he claimed to be, either.
CHAPTERELEVEN
Something had crawled into Chandler’s mouth and died. He forced a swallow over a dry tongue and put his hand to his pounding head, trying to summon what reserves of strength he had to open his eyes.
When had he fallen asleep? What time was—
Francesca.
Consciousness slammed into him with all the weight of a sledgehammer, forcing his lids open.
He looked down the length of his prone body, noting the barrel of the pistol first, and only then the lovely woman attached to the trigger finger. His eyeballs ached as he bounced them from thing to thing, gathering what information he could.
More lamps had been lit. His wardrobe had been gone through, as had the drawers. His wig hung on the arm of the chair she’d pulled up to occupy as she trained the little gun right between his legs.
Bollocks, he’d been caught out.
“Tell me who you are, or I’ll shoot off the very thing that makes you a man.” She extended her arm to punctuate just where her pistol was aimed.
Chandler fought the reflex to jerk his legs closed.
“Did ye drug me?” he rasped from a throat made of wool.
