Page 3 of A Lady Most Wayward
Philippa absently rubbed her fingers over the spot where Olivia’s knuckles had smashed into her cheek. The mark she left was no longer there, but that didn’t stop Philippa from feeling the echo of Olivia’s blow.
She had left an invitation for the despicable woman. One she secretly hoped Olivia refused. Because for the first time in Philippa’s life, she wasn’t sure how to win this particular battle. And that worried her.
‘I’m fine. I’ll be even better once we capture Olivia Smithwick and force her to name the leader of the Devil’s Sons. I grow weary of the chase. I’m ready for the kill.’
‘So brutal. Do you never tire of always being the blade?’ Delacroix pursed her lips and cocked her head to the side. Her dark gaze was far too assessing.
‘The world doesn’t need another soft woman. Not when innocents must be protected from men like the Devil’s Sons.’
‘But you are not chasing a man this time.’ The maid didn’t try to hide her sly smile. ‘’ave you finally found someone worth your interest?’
Philippa’s sexual inclinations were never a topic of conversation, but after so many years together, certain secrets were impossible to keep hidden from her lady’s maid. Delacroix had once made it clear that, were Philippa interested, she would be amenable to extending their relationship into something much more intimate. But while Philippa respected Delacroix’s sharp mind and even sharper wit, her heart belonged to another. She could never betray her lost love by engaging in a relationship with another woman. Even if that woman was someone she respected and admired as much as Delacroix. In point of fact, Philippa hadn’t been tempted by others, though there had been more than just her maid’s offer of companionship over the years. Lusty widows with enough confidence to risk flouting the laws of society, sending messages of illicit invitation, or lady-wives trapped in marriages with no chance of fulfilment making furtive overtures for a more intimate friendship with the Duchess of Dorsett. But no matter how beautiful or tempting these women might have been, her heart was still completely enthralled with her first love, a girl who had been in the grave for over twenty years.
Liza.
The only woman Philippa’s heart ever claimed. The reason she insisted on wearing colours of unending sorrow. Because Liza was lost to her forever, and with her, Philippa’s only chance of finding happiness in the arms of another. Liza, two years Philippa’s junior, was only eighteen when she chose death over endless torture from the doctors running the asylum where her father imprisoned her. And all for the crime of loving Philippa.
Liza was gone, taking with her the light that had once glowed in Philippa’s soul.
Two decades had passed, but sometimes, grief made it feel like mere moments since Philippa’s whole world shattered.
She pushed back her shoulders, clenched her teeth, and reminded herself she was born a fighter. For warriors such as she, love was only ever a dream. Liza’s death taught her to melt loss and pain into the crucible of vengeance. Her late husband only deepened those lessons until she beat her emotions into a blade stronger and sharper than the finest steel. She learned how to wield that weapon with the skill and courage eclipsing any of her male counterparts. Liza’s death allowed Philippa to understand the value of holding powerful men accountable for their sins. She knew their brethren never would.
And she found an unlikely ally in Queen Victoria. The young monarch knew too well the danger of allowing a man complete control. Having grown up under the watchful eye of her mother’s attendant, Sir John Conroy, and being subjected to the cruel system of rules her mother and Sir John devised and named the Kensington System, Victoria had little patience for men wishing to exert their power over her. A few veiled conversations when Philippa was first presented to the Queen at her coronation brought to light a shared kinship between Philippa and the newly crowned monarch. That tentative friendship only grew deeper over the years, culminating in a proposition by the Queen to the duchess. It was an offer Philippa couldn’t refuse. A chance to put her rage to good use while providing purpose to her life. She would do for other innocents what she could not for her sweet Liza. Protect them by any means necessary against power-hungry lords with far too much control. Philippa became the Queen’s first Deadly Damsel.
Now, their small army numbered four more women and their partners, and Philippa was grateful. Tasked by the Queen to take down the vile group of peers orchestrating a flesh trade of maids and orphans from London to Europe was only becoming more dangerous. Each lord they uncovered was more powerful than the last and more deadly.
Olivia knew the identity of the final link in this rusted chain. The head of the triad that ruled the Devil’s Sons. The Crow. Philippa meant to get that name from Lady Smithwick at any cost.
She refocused her attention on Delacroix. ‘The only thing that interests me aboutthatwoman is the information she can provide.’
‘Thatwoman. There is a saying in France, you know. You cannot truly ’ate someone if you ’ave not first loved them. When you speak of this woman, I see the fire of ’atred in your eyes, but is that so dissimilar from the ’eat of passion?’
Philippa glared at her maid in the mirror. ‘There is a saying in England as well, Delacroix. A maid with too many opinions will find she is a maid no longer.’
Delacroix’s gallic shrug expressed more than words ever could. ‘’ave it your way. I shall keep my thoughts to myself. But it wouldn’t kill you to talk about your feelings every once in a while.’
‘And it wouldn’t kill you tostoptalking about them. Starting now. Goodnight, Delacroix.’ Philippa blinked, schooling her features to remain carefully blank. Delacroix was right about love and hate being two different faces of the same coin. But Philippa held neither love nor hate for Olivia.
More like lust and loathing, which is a different currency altogether.
That was a penny she kept rubbing between her fingers each time their paths crossed. Infuriating as it was to admit, Philippa was attracted to Olivia. While she had felt the whispers of desire before with other women, never had it lingered in her blood, sinking into her bones, infiltrating her thoughts at the most inopportune times. Knowing they were enemies did nothing to dull the sharp edges of her awareness when the fair-haired beauty invaded Philippa’s space. Highly inconvenient, but her borderline obsession with the woman she needed to hunt wasn’t something she was willing to admit to herself, let alone her already too intuitive lady’s maid.
‘Goodnight, Your Grace. I ’ope you are able to sleep without a certain blonde vixen ’aunting your dreams.’ The smug maid smirked as she sashayed out of Philippa’s bedroom, softly closing the door behind her.
‘Really. Between Delacroix and Stokes, I get no respect. They seem to forget it is I who pay their wages.’ Philippa stood, brushing her hands down her robe in brisk flicks. Restlessness stole through her like the warning howl of wind before a storm. Glancing at her bed, she knew sleep was impossible tonight.
Far too many thoughts crowded her mind, and an edgy need for movement tightened her muscles. There was only one solution. With the servants all sent to bed and her butler, Stokes, long since retired to his own chambers, the ballroom would be completely empty.
‘I love fighting in the dark,’ Philippa murmured as her feet led her through the echoing halls. This wouldn’t be the first night Philippa trained until the sky began to lighten with dawn’s arrival. It wouldn’t be the last night she tirelessly wielded sword, dagger, and cudgel, practising the steps of life’s most dangerous dance. Her insomnia was a carry-over from youth, but after years of battling with her body’s refusal to succumb to sleep, Philippa knew the best solution was to accept her restless spirit and soothe it with movement. After hours of physical exertion, she would be so weary, she might find a few moments of sleep.
Tonight, she would train with the katana and wakizashi swords. She had been studying the Niten Ichi-ryu method of sword fighting for close to a decade. It required complete focus, and all other thoughts, even those of a cursedly beautiful marchioness, had no room to cloud her mind if she were going to give her blades the attention they demanded.
Fluidity, adaptation, rhythm, control.
She repeated the mantra silently as her body flowed like water over stones, the blades an extension of her arms, effortlessly cutting through imagined foes. Her fascination with other cultures’ battle techniques had allowed Philippa to learn fighting patterns many English noblemen were not expecting. The teachings of Miyamoto Musashi – originator of the Niten Ichi-ryu method – emphasised taking the offensive and controlling a fight from the onset. Strategies no man expected from a lady, especially a duchess. It gave Philippa another advantage in her war against opponents who were often bigger and sometimes stronger, though rarely more skilled.
Philippa moved across the ballroom floor, her steps light and sure, sweat dripping as she discarded her banyan. She fought in only loose silk pants and a flowing sleeveless top that allowed her limbs complete freedom.
