Page 67 of Rules for Heiresses
He hadn’t been able to get out of the house fast enough. The brazen little chit had had the audacity to bow to him, every single tooth on display in the biggest mockery of a smile he’d ever seen. In truth, he’d wanted to laugh the minute he got into his carriage. He was tempted to relent, but his mandate was for her own safety. She was much too obstinate and impulsive for her own good. Suddenly, he frowned. She would listen, wouldn’t she? She wouldn’t dare disobey, not when he’d made his position clear. He thought back to her sneaking into the study and bit back a growl.
Courtland stood, nearly kicking over his chair. “Apologies. I have to go.”
“Trouble in paradise?” Sommers asked, drawing him back to the present moment.
“What?”
Sommers laughed. “A man only gets that look on his face for one thing in my experience and that’s a woman.”
“No. You’re mistaken.”
Grabbing his gloves, hat, and coat, Courtland practically ran from the club, summoning his carriage and gritting his teeth all the while.
He’d told Sommers a lie.
His departure hadeverythingto do with one infuriating, meddling, defiant little harpy.
* * *
“Quick, Waterstone,” Ravenna hissed. “You’re supposed to be the greatest spy among spies, and you’re fumbling like the greenest lad of all time.”
“Ashvale will strangle me if he finds out that I’ve involved you.”
“Then hurry up!” she said. “And I involved you, not the other way round, so if anyone’s getting murdered, it’s probably me.”
“I’m the man and I should know better.” He flinched at the look in her eyes. “I meant I’m the operative, that’s all, not that you’re female or don’t know your own mind.” With a sigh, he shook his head and focused back on the keyhole. “Button it, Waterstone.”
Huddled outside Sommers’s rooms at Claridge’s, Ravenna bit back a grin as she watched her husband’s trusted friend carefully working the lock of the hotel room with the key. She was tempted to shove him aside and do it herself, but she didn’t want to aggravate him, considering his reluctance to let her come along in the first place.
Earlier that morning, she’d wheedled Peabody for the information on the duke’s whereabouts, and then followed Courtland herself in a nondescript hackney to see that hedidhave a luncheon meeting with Sommers. Even though she was concealed by her Mr. Hunt disguise, the American man had made bile churn in her stomach, especially when she’d nearly bumped into him. She’d feel much happier when he was behind bars where he belonged.
And when she’d caught a glimpse of Waterstone exiting the building not a moment later, she’d had a stroke of brilliance. She’d buttoned her thick cloak and tossed her top hat to a street urchin with a grin. He’d sell it for a mint. Feigning sudden illness while running into the earl further down the street had been easy, though she was quite sad she’d lost her bonnet in an unexpected wind gust.
Waterstone had frowned—it was an usually beautiful,windlessday, but had nodded nonetheless. Predictably, he’d offered to see her safely home in a hackney, after she made a quick stop to deliver a parcel to a friend that was of the utmost import. It wasn’t until they were on the corner of Brook and Davies Streets that Waterstone had caught on when Claridge’s came into view. It didn’t help that her illness had miraculously abated and that she wore men’s garments beneath her cloak.
“What are you doing, Your Grace?” he’d demanded.
She’d grinned. “Reconnaissance. Are you with me? Sommers is with Ashvale. I nearly crashed into him in front of White’s.” She’d grinned at a narrow-eyed Waterstone.
“This is not a game, Duchess.”
She’d tossed her head. “I can get his key. Trust me.” He’d gaped at her, but she’d surged forward. “What better opportunity is there to search his rooms while he’s with my husband. At least let me try before you dismiss my ideas.”
“Ashvale will have my head.”
“What the duke doesn’t know won’t hurt him.” She’d waggled her eyebrows. “Tick, tock, my lord, or I go in without you.”
“Fine,” he’d capitulated with a sigh. “But if you are successful in retrieving the key, you do exactly as I say when I say.”
Which had led them into the fancy hotel, whereupon Ravenna had tottered in and pretended to be the loud and utterly obnoxious Mrs. Sommers whose husband had gone to some gaudy men’s club called White’s and shuttled her back here like a sad, unwanted lump, andoh, weren’t husbands the absoluteworst? It’d been absurdly easy to get the mortified clerk to hand over the key, just to stop her from wailing and causing more of a scene.
Ravenna had hidden her grin. No wonder women made such excellent spies. Tears and vapors made for unbeatable subterfuge. Biting her lip to keep from crowing with victory, she’d handed the iron key to a stunned Waterstone, who wore a suitably astonished expression.
“Where on earth did you pick up an American accent?” he’d asked, once they were out of sight.
“Why, from my husband, darlin’,” she’d drawled. “He’s a real peach.”
Ravenna hadn’t been able to ask the clerk where the room was located as that would have been much too obvious, but finding out the room number had proved remarkably simple after the earl spent a few minutes charming a housemaid. When he’d returned with a triumphant smirk of his own, Ravenna had shot him an admiring look for his persuasiveness, to which he’d rolled his eyes and turned red, while muttering, “Part of the job.” Finally, they’d arrived on the third floor at the requisite suite of rooms, only to have the key not turn properly.
