Page 44 of Their Master

Smith only had the one painting in his study—the portrait of him. It had been mesmerizing and she’d had a difficult time not staring. It was an excellent likeness, but the expression in his eyes had been haunting and wild—not a look she’d ever seen on his face.

Luke opened a door at the end of the hallway, banishing Moira’s thoughts with the room beyond.

“My goodness!” Her eyes skittered around the room—jumping from the goldleaf and purple velvet furniture to the six towering armoires, finally settling on a huge bathtub shaped like a clamshell.

“It’s quite spectacular, is it not?” Luke said.

“I’ve never seen anything like it.”

“I believe Mr. Smith had it specially made.”

“And does he use it often?”

Luke gave a startled laugh. “Never. At least not that I know of.”

“I suppose he had it made for Charles,” she couldn’t help fishing. From what she’d heard about Smith’s former lover this sort of room would have appealed to him.

“Er, yes, that is true.” Luke looked nonplussed that she knew about Charles.

Moira had hoped the question might make him open up on the subject, but it appeared that Luke was not a gossip.

“I thought we might start with a bath before I show you your rooms and the rest of the house.”

“That sounds wonderful.”

Luke turned a bronze handle and water came gushing from the swan shaped tap.

He turned to her and gestured to the large room around them. “This room separates your chambers from the master’s. Mr. Smith suggested you treat it as your dressing room, although there is a smaller one of those on the other side of your bedchamber, if you wish.”

The room reminded Moira of the boudoirs that were still popular among the wealthy in France. Although she’d never seen a seashell bathtub.

“May I undress you?” Luke asked.

“Of course.”

He commenced to remove layer after layer of clothing like a man who’d had ample practice, quickly getting her down to her corset, which she’d worn for the first time since her beating, albeit much looser than usual.

Moira was accustomed to female servants babbling while they waited on her but Luke was cut from different, quieter, cloth. If he thought anything about her scars and bruises, he kept it to himself.

“Have you worked for Mr. Smith long?” she asked once she was down to her chemise.

“Almost two years,” he said, dropping to his knees to remove her shoes and stockings.

That meant he’d been living there through Smith’s last lovers—Charles and Joseph Leather. He probably had all sorts of interesting tales to tell, if she could only winkle them out of him.

“How many servants live here?” she asked.

“I think perhaps twenty—although that doesn’t include the men who come each day. They don’t live here.”

“Men?” she asked, even though she knew Smith employed bodyguards around the clock.

Luke stood and then began to pluck the pins from her hair. “Guards accompany Mr. Smith whenever he leaves the house and there are always four here—two at each entrance—whether he is here, or not.”

“Goodness, that sounds… excessive.”

“There have been attacks on his person.”

“Ah. His work must be dangerous.”

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