“No wig this time?” she asked, not that she was brokenhearted to go without one. The dashed things were itchy.
He shook his head. “You got lucky this time. The girl has your coloring. Just toss that little pillow under your dress and that should be enough.” Rose had pulled this scheme enough to know that these disgusting sorts of men never really remembered what their ladybirds looked like, especially when she was just a lowly maid. Keep her eyes down and feign the nervousness she didn’t feel. It was too easy.
Rose and Uncle Felix spent the rest of the drive talking strategy and where they would meet up after she had the money in hand. And there was no doubt she would have the money in hand. With a solid backstory and an earl that would be eager to stifle yet another scandal, she was sure that he would be eager to toss her the blunt and send her out of his house as quickly as possible.
Uncle Felix let out a low whistle as the hackney drew up to Lord Newburry’s large house in Grosvenor Square. Rose knew this house well. It was, in her opinion, the most beautiful house in that elite part of town. More than disappointing to realize that it belonged to such a coxcomb. “A fine ken, that one!” he said eyeing the three-story home with lifted brows.
“Too bad a fine gentleman does not own it.”
“Aye! But if he were some stand-up fellow, you’d never let us con him out of his coins. So I say it’s a good thing he’s an ugly customer.”
She lifted a brow. “I’m not so sure that Miss Bellows would share your sentiment.”
Uncle Felix looked away as Rose quickly stuffed the small pillow under her dress and managed quite impressively to squeeze the thing under her stays. She looked down and assessed that it was an accurate size baby bump for a woman who would only just begin to show. Perfect.
Uncle Felix gave her his usual good luck wink before she stepped out of the carriage and watched him ride off in the hackney. The two kept very little contact while she was on a job. Everything was safer and easier when she worked alone. Once she was finished with Lord Newburry, she would hire another hackney and meet Uncle Felix at Hopewood Orphanage. Rose tried to disregard the feeling of warmth that the thought gave her, but it was useless. It had been far too long since she’d been able to visit the children and she was eager to know how her little urchins were getting on. But for now, she needed to keep her mind on the situation before her.
Rose took in a deep fortifying breath, patted the small pistol strapped to her thigh for good luck, and mentally recited what she needed to know back to herself. She gripped the handles of her leather valise and started up the massive front staircase. The wind whipped at her silly bonnet so forcefully that she had to put her hand on her head to keep it from flying away. She noted her own slow and steady breaths as her half-boots clicked over the front stone steps.
At one time, her breaths would have been fast and her chest would have felt tight. But not anymore. Not today. Nerves and sensibilities had fled her long ago. She cleared her throat and squared her shoulders at the imposing black door before reaching for the brass knocker and placing three solid raps.
Chapter 2
“Oliver, why the devil do you insist on plaguing me at this ridiculous hour?” asked Carver, giving his friend a look he hoped was intimidating.
Unfortunately, Oliver was his oldest friend and now seemed immune to the look.
Oliver just smiled the trademark smile that had won him the nickname of Charming amongst the debutantes of the ton. “I think the word you were looking for was visiting.”
“No,” said Carver. “A visit sounds far more pleasant than you showing up in my bedchamber at eight o’clock in the morning to tell me you’re going out of town. You act more like a deuced wife every day, Olly.”
Since they were rarely ever apart, the running joke amongst their friends and family was that he and Oliver more closely resembled an old married couple than friends. It was sadly true.
Oliver smirked. “Someone has to do the job.”
“I don’t think I like the idea of you being the one to fill it.” Carver finally sat up and tossed his feet out of bed.
It would be wonderful if Oliver showing up in his bedchamber before noon was a rare occurrence. But it wasn’t. Ever since they had met at Eton ten years prior, the blasted man had been showing up in his bedchamber before Carver had the opportunity to open his eyes. How he managed to slip past his butler, Jeffers, Carver would never know.
Carver motioned toward the servant’s bell hanging on the wall. “Pull the cord, will you?”
Oliver put his hand over his heart and feigned a deeply remorseful expression that was too put-on to be sincere. “I hope you’re not getting up on my account! I’ll only be here another minute.” Doubtful.
Oliver could talk more than a girl freshly launched from the schoolroom. Carver rarely minded, unless it was eight o’clock in the morning and he had the devil of a headache and a body that felt as if it had been trampled by a herd of cattle as he did just then.
Oliver’s eyes fell to Carver’s torso, and he winced, sucking in air through his teeth in the sound of a hiss. “Blast, man. Your rib looks broken.”
Carver looked down at his bare chest. He had been too exhausted from his fight the night before to do anything other than shed his shirt and fall into bed. Exhaustion was good. When he was exhausted, he slept. And when he slept, he was given a break from his memories. Although, more than not those same memories found their way into his dreams.
He tenderly touched his ribs. Severely bruised but thankfully not broken. He made a quick assessment of the rest of his body: bruised ribs, a cut above his right eyebrow, swollen and torn knuckles, and at least a dozen other minor injuries; but otherwise not terrible. It had been the best match he’d fought all year. Jackson was right when he warned that it would be Carver’s most difficult fight so far. He had almost lost. Almost, he thought with a cocky smile.
But then he stood up and felt very much like a crumpled piece of paper unraveling and some of his smugness left him. “Not broken. But very nearly,” said Carver. “Brooks was a better boxer than I’d given him credit for.”
Carver had been boxing nearly every day for the past three years and never once had he fought anyone who had displayed to such advantage as Mr. Brooks. Jackson—the owner of Gentleman Jackson’s Boxing Saloon—said he was sure he would make a champion out of Brooks. Which is the same thing he had been telling Carver since he walked into his boxing academy his first year living in London. But unfortunately for Carver, it would never be able to be anything other than a hobby—and a distraction. He was the oldest as well as the only son of his father—The Duke of Dalton—and as such was his father’s heir. Nobility could not be professional boxers. Or, so he was told by his tender-hearted mother in attempts to keep him from showing up with cuts and bruises all over his body.
Oliver shook his head slowly while eyeing the offending rib again. “Blast. I can’t believe I missed it. Heard you fought your best fight yet.”
Carver took a shirt from his wardrobe and gingerly pulled it over his head, noting that everything on him hurt. “You could have seen it for yourself if you would stop trying to be a Bond Stree