An elegant name for an elegant woman. An elegant woman who was his housemaid.
“Very good.” Except Eleanor wasn’t a suitable name for a junior servant. Eleanor was a queen’s name. It brought dangerous, powerful women to mind. “What are you doing in my library, Trim?”
By rights, he should call a housemaid Nell, but with her slender neatness, Trim suited her so well.
“If I tell you, you’ll dismiss me.”
He kept his expression neutral. “I’ll dismiss you if you don’t.”
She leveled that direct stare upon him. “I couldn’t sleep, and I wanted something to read. I always return the books, my lord; you have my word.”
A housemaid who rifled his bookcases and offered her word? She became more extraordinary by the minute. “You can read?”
“Yes, sir.” In a show of deference that didn’t convince, she lowered her eyelids. Years in the political bear pit had taught him to read people. He was sure of two things about the trim Miss Eleanor Trim. One was that deference didn’t come naturally. The other was that somewhere in this odd conversation, she lied.
“So what did you choose?” She hadn’t carried a book when she’d run into him at the door.
“Nothing appealed. May I go, my lord? I’m on duty early.”
“Do I need to search you to see if you’ve stolen anything?” She could be a master criminal bamboozling him into complacency. Except he didn’t feel complacent. He felt alive and interested as nothing had interested him in months.
Temper lit her eyes. She didn’t like him questioning her honesty. “I’m not a thief.”
Ah, the false docility cracked. He hid his satisfaction. “How can I be sure?”
“You could check the room for anything missing, my lord.”
“I might do that.” Abruptly his sour mood descended once more. What the hell was he doing flirting with a housemaid in the middle of the night? Perhaps his political advisers were right about him needing a break.
He bent to pick up the candle the girl had dropped when he’d barged in on top of her. He lit it from the branch and passed it across, then unlocked the door. “You may go, Trim.”
She raised the candle and surveyed him as if uncertain whether this dismissal was good news or not. Her curtsy this time conveyed no ironic edge, then she backed toward the door. “Thank you, my lord.”
“For God’s sake, I’m not going to pounce on you,” he said on a spurt of irritation. It niggled that for a different man living in a different world, the thought of pouncing on the delectable Miss Trim was sinfully appealing.
Her eyes flashed up and he saw that beneath her drab exterior, she was fierce and strong. He awaited some astringent comeback. Instead she dragged the door open and fled.
Wise girl.
Blast, blast, blast.
Exhausted, angry, disgusted with herself, Nell collapsed onto the narrow bed in the small room that had become hers a fortnight ago. She buried her head in her hands.
Why, oh, why did the depraved marquess have to catch her searching his library? And when he did, why on earth hadn’t she behaved like a proper servant? Until now, she’d managed to hide any rebellious impulses under a subservient mask. If she’d been humble and silent, he’d have sent her away, instead of finding her of surpassing interest.
But she’d just been so furious to see him alive and well, when her beloved half sister had died in such shame and misery. Caught by surprise, she’d forgotten to play the circumspect domestic.
And now she’d attracted his attention.
She didn’t want to arouse James Fairbrother’s curiosity. She wanted to find the diary that proved his offenses, then leave Alloway Chase and pass the matter of Leath’s destruction over to the Duke of Sedgemoor, his sworn enemy. A woman of her humble background would get nowhere, taking on such a powerful man. But the duke could use the book to blackmail Leath into behaving himself, or publish the details and expose the marquess to trial by public opinion.
Nell hoped he chose the second course. Lord Leath deserved general condemnation.
In her bedroom at Mearsall, the plan had appeared straightforward, once she’d come to terms with the exalted status of Dorothy’s lover. A check of her stepfather’s old newspapers had confirmed his lordship’s presence at a house party in Kent, around the time Dorothy fell pregnant. Leath had been near enough to seduce Dorothy. Given her deathbed confession, that was enough evidence to convince Nell to pursue the marquess’s downfall.
As Dorothy had promised, discovering the location of the marquess’s family seat had been easy. It had also been surprisingly easy finding employment as a housemaid.
She’d set herself a daunting task, but she’d made a promise to someone she loved—and she was angry. The idea of this devil ruining more innocent girls like Dorothy made her want to scream with rage. She’d left Mearsall to seek the diary and other evidence of Lord Leath’s sins. If she failed in Yorkshire, she’d find work in his house in London and continue her quest there. However long it took, she’d make him pay for his crimes.
But now that she’d met the marquess, nothing seemed so clear-cut. After that oddly charged encounter downstairs, her heart still galloped like a wild horse—and her mind whirled with bewilderment.
Dear heaven, when his wicked lordship had locked the door, she’d nearly collapsed with horror. She was alone in the middle of the night with a lecherous monster. She’d never imagined that her quest might involve physical risk.
Cursing her naivety, she’d prepared to fight off the hulking brute.
Then the marquess had confounded every fear. Apart from catching her to stop her escape, he hadn’t touched her.
Which was … puzzling. And troubling.
She’d sensed his interest. At twenty-five, she wasn’t a green girl, and she knew what it meant when a male leveled that prickling, intense concentration on a woman. Yet he’d kept his distance and remained remarkably polite, given her barely concealed insolence.
In her mind, Lord Leath had always been a caricature of a villain. But tonight, once she’d realized that he wouldn’t leap on her—and she’d realized quickly despite that unwelcome awareness—he’d proven much more real. And much more alarming.
Immediately she’d noted his cleverness, his calmness, his confidence. All worked against her. The man in the portrait in his mother’s apartments was big and powerful, with a personality that threatened to burst from the frame.
In the flesh, he’d been … more.
He wasn’t a pretty man, by any means. But there was beauty in that tall, strong body and that craggy, individual face with its beak of a nose and heavy
