Page 24 of Their Master

“Somewhere else.” His gentle but firm smile made it clear the subject was closed. “It is a hard life you have chosen.”

Moira shrugged. “Most work for women is hard.”

“I cannot argue with that,” he said, his response surprising her. “Did you choose your career or was it forced on you?”

It wasn’t a question Moira expected. Men in Paris knew exactly who Moira Bardot was and who her family was, so nobody had ever asked why she did what she did.

Until leaving home a year ago Moira herself had never considered it odd that her mother expected her children—male and female—to enter the family business.

But the longer she lived away from Marie and Maison Bardot, the more she realized her upbringing had been unusual, to say the least.

Hadshe chosen to become a demimondaine?

Moira hadn’t made a conscious decision, or any decision at all. She’d just done what her siblings before her had done.

But if she had a child—not that she had any plans in that direction—she would want something better for him or her. Whoring was lucrative work, but it was not the sort of future she’d want for somebody she loved.

She looked up from her thoughts to find Smith watching her intently, making her aware that she’d allowed her mind to drift. Again.

“I wasn’t forced into it if that is what you are asking. Besides, it has—”

Moira realized that she’d been on the verge of admitting that the lifestyle paid enough for her to eventually retire when she recalled that she was supposed to be hiding from gambling debts.

He lifted an eyebrow. “It has—”

“It has been a good enough life,” she finished lamely. “A woman doesn’t have many choices other than marriage or domestic service.” She gave him a mocking smile, “But wait—those are really the same thing, aren’t they?”

He chuckled. “So, not a devotee of either marriage or scrubbing chamber pots. Well, I can’t say that I blame you.”

“You are not married?” she asked, even though she knew the answer.

“Would I be here if I were?”

Moira laughed.

“So cynical for one so young,” he chided, setting aside his glass, and reaching for her. “Let’s see if I can’t do something that will make you more… optimistic.”

Chapter 7

John Sheffle—the man Smith had engaged to investigate Moira Dunsmuir or Catherine Duvalle or whoever she was—was an annoying bastard, but he was an astounding ferret when it came to acquiring difficult-to-come-by information.

Smith had hired the man after he’d gone to Moira seven nights in a row. That was the same day he’d finally admitted that he was, without a doubt, smitten. He was nowhere close to sated even after a week of gorging. If anything, he’d become more interested in her with each day that had passed.

Despite his resolution not to engage another live in lover, he’d decided it was time to look into Moira’s background as he suspected that he would soon be making her an offer.

Right after hiring Sheffle, he had needed to go to Glasgow on business and had been kept longer than expected. A week away from Moira had given him a bit of perspective on his current obsession, but it hadn’t dampened his enthusiasm for her in the least: he wanted her—exclusively. At least on her part.

Provided Sheffle had discovered nothing disagreeable, he’d be offering her a carte blanche sooner rather than later.

But Smith had much more in mind than a simple sexual arrangement.

That morning meeting with Edward all those weeks ago—when they’d discussed Edward’s adopted child—had planted a seed. The seed had sprouted and grown during the days he’d been away from home with plenty of time to think. The eventual fruit of that seed had surprised even Smith.

Today he would learn what Sheffle had found out—and whether Smith could have what he wanted: Moira.

“What do you have for me?” Smith asked after he’d curtailed Sheffle’s monologue about a carriage accident he’d encountered that morning.

Sheffle slid a grimy leather portfolio across Smith’s desk.

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