A Much Compromised Lady Read Online Free Page B

his eyes narrowed as he
saw the flaw in her lie. “There is but one obvious question, my
sweet, which is why, if these papers are in Nevin’s reach, does he
not destroy them?”
    Arching an eyebrow, she shot him an
irritating look as if he were a simpleton. “He has the box, not the
papers. And he does not know the trick to the secret bottom that is
concealed there. Lord Nevin’s son hid them there for safe keeping,
but if they are found and destroyed...”
    Her face paled and her mouth tightened, and
the certainty flooded St. Albans that she meant every word she
spoke. But it all seemed too dramatic with this talk of secret
compartments and marriages. Dramatic, but plausible.
    “I have vowed to get those papers, and I
shall. On my father’s memory, I will get them back.”
    “And what if I said I would get them back for
you?” he asked.
    Surprised by himself, he wondered briefly
where that offer had sprung from. Of course he had no intention of
making good on such a promise. It was not even yet a promise,
merely a question. But he did hope that she now would try to use
her charms to persuade him to assist her.
    However, she did not look as if she
contemplated any such persuasion. Folding her arms, she studied
him, her mouth pulled down and a skeptical, assessing look in her
eyes.
    “You? What could you do?”
    For a moment, he thought that he must not
have heard her correctly. He blinked at her as her words sank
in.
    What could you do?
    The scorn in her tone stung like a wasp’s
barb. Of all the...why, the insolent little baggage! Who the deuce
did she think she was speaking to? Some...some upstart baronet?
    Rolling off the bed, onto his feet, he
stalked towards her.
    She fell back, her hands falling loose to her
sides, and sliding behind her. Her eyes widened, as if she had only
just realized her mistake.
    A too sizable mistake , he thought, his
temper barely in check.
    “My sweet misguided Gypsy, either you failed
to gain enough information from these tavern wenches, or you have
not quite grasped my identity.”
    Glaring up at him, she stopped backing up and
stood her ground. St. Albans stopped before her, so close he could
feel her anger flare in an almost tangible aura of heat.
    “Oh, I know exactly who you are! I see your
kind every day. A gaujo who thinks too much of himself, who
has too much time to find himself trouble, and whose idea of help
for anyone is to offer money. Well, keep your coins, gaujo .
Some of us work for what we want!”
    His fist bunched and he only just stopped
himself from taking that elegant neck in his hands to throttle her.
No one, but no one spoke to him in that tone of voice. And no one
had the right to criticize him.
    Keeping his own voice very even and low, he
told her, just so that she would be quite clear and not make this
mistake again, “My dear Gypsy, I am Simon Alexander Derain Winters,
Earl of St. Albans, Baron Winters, Baron of Wexford and Fleet,
Knight of the Garter, and there is damn little I cannot do if I so
please, including get away with murder. Which I shall be happy to
prove to you should you insist on continuing this most unwise
discussion. And if you call thieving work, then no wonder you have
such a misguided view of the world and my place in it.”
    Her glance dropped and thick lashes fluttered
low, but then she looked up again, her dark eyes burning, the gold
in them glinting hot as coals. Uncertainty also shadowed those
eyes.
    Under his abraded pride, regret stirred. In
truth, he did have too much time for trouble, and he did solve a
good many problems with coin. Had he not just been thinking how
much she might cost him? However, that was not, he told himself,
what he had meant when he had asked what he might do for her.
    Blast her, but he would not be acting so
badly if she had not started this all by asking him what could he
do.
    He was the Earl of St. Albans. He had been
from the day he was born, since his father was wise enough to break
his neck before