Page 30 of Their Master

Ten days.

That meant that what Mr. Brown had told her that night was most likely true: Robert was dead.

Robert had been almost twenty years older than her, so she’d never known him well, but he’d been her favorite among her two brothers.

It wasn’t that she didn’t love Etienne—of course she did; he was family—but she could never bring herself tolikehim. He was the sort of person who would pour salt on an open wound if you asked him for a sticking plaster.

Robert had always been kind, if distant, toward her and Moira had looked forward to spending some time with him while she was in England. But as matters had turned out, they’d met only once a month, and then only if there was news to exchange.

And now he was probably dead and she’d never get to know him.

Yet another death to lay atSmith’sdoor.

The vicious thought gave Moira pause. As good as it felt to have a target for her hatred, she knew it wasn’t Smith who’d killed her brother. She knew that from the killer’s own mouth.

But if Smith hadn’t taken her sister to begin with, then Moira and Robert would never have come to this wretched city.

After receiving word about Robert, Moira had sent a letter to the address in Marseilles that Marie had made her memorize.

“Only use it in case of dire emergency. And never use any name except for Lauren de Beaufort.”

Moira had always believed her mother’s insistence on such secrecy had been overly dramatic—was Smith really such a fearsome enemy? But now she realized that her family was facing more than one threat, at least if the mysterious and violent Mr. Brown was to be believed.

In any event, it would likely take time—days, maybe even weeks—before her mother responded to her message. In the interim Moira had barely any money. As battered and scarred as she was, thanks to Mr. Brown, shewasn’t sure whenshe’d be able to seek work again.

Even if she went back to working in a brothel, she’d never again work at a place like Bernina’s. Or Maison Bardot, for that matter. Wealthy, powerful men didn’t want scarred whores, they wanted fresh and youthful. At almost twenty-six she was a long way from dewy, and now she was physically damaged.

Smith spent a fortune on expensive, beautiful whores and was unlikely to want Moira the way she was now, no matter how much interest he’d been showing before Mr. Brown had destroyed her plans.

As much as she’d wanted to stay at Bernina’s—at least to recuperate before returning home to France—Mr. Brown had given her three days to leave London, warning her that she’d meet the same fate as her brother if she lingered.

Thanks to whoever had stolen the small stash of money beneath her mattress, Moira couldn’t even afford steerage passage back to France. She still suspected Julia of taking it even though she’d acted confused when she’d accused her.

In any case, she barely had enough money to pay for another week at Pigeon Court.

Moira looked down at the still-vivid bruises on her wrists as she fastened her sleeve; she was such a mess. How had she not seen Brown for what he was?

She told herself that it wasn’t her fault, that nobody could have guessed such a gorgeous, pleasant, well-spoken man was really an evil spirit masquerading in human form.

After all, look at Smith and how he managed to fool everyone, even Moira—who knew the truth about him—into believing he wasn’t a murderer.

As much as Moira enjoyed physical pain, she’d not liked the sort that Brown had dispensed.

Worse than the pain had been the look in his eyes as he’d methodically broken her—nothing but a blank, blue stare as he’d asked her ‘Why are you here?’ over and over again.

At first, she’d wondered if Smith had sent him.

Moira had told him everything, not withholding any of the truth—about Smith and her sister and her parents—but Brown hadn’t seemed interested. Indeed, he’d looked almost dismissive, as if she didn’t have the information he wanted.

He’d finally stared down with his dead gaze and said, “Go home Mademoiselle Bardot and tell theComteand your mother to enjoy their golden years and give up their plans or they’ll be getting a visit from a man who makes me look like an angel of mercy. You have three days to leave or you will end up just like your older brother. There is nothing left for you in London but an unmarked grave.”

Moira had gone over his words again and again but had found no answer for why their plans for revenge against Smith had attracted the attention of a man like Brown.

More and more she suspected there was someotherplan he was referring to. But what? And why would her mother and father send her here without telling her about Brown or the obviously dangerous people he represented?

Moira simply could not believe this was all about avenging her sister, which meant her parents had lied to her.

That thought was her constant, nagging companion during the days she’d laid in her dingy, cramped room. Was it possible that she’d given up a year of her life for nothing but lies?

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