Besides, in truth she did have a strong maternal streak. She looked after her girls, keeping them safe and clean, banishing any gentleman who didn’t know to follow the rules or dared to hurt any of her little chickies. He had no doubt she’d be just as protective of Miss Jane Pagett, and a good thing, that. When he’d received Lucien’s note he should have done as requested and sent one of his best men along with Molly to see Miss Jane safely back to the bosom of her family. But he hadn’t been able to resist the chance to see her in full daylight, to see if her mouth was as kissable. Lucien was going to be very annoyed with him.

He didn’t care. Her mouth was just as kissable as he’d thought. Even more so. She had a cold, her nose and eyes were red and swollen, and she was still the prettiest morsel he’d seen in God knew how long. He couldn’t quite understand why he was so infatuated. It wasn’t as if he’d suddenly developed a taste for quality—he’d had any number of titled ladies and they’d been no better than one of Molly’s doxies. Sometimes even less honest with their favors.

She was no particular beauty, but he’d had plainer girls, prettier girls, taller girls, shorter girls, thinner girls, fatter girls. He’d long ago lost count of the women he’d had—when he’d had the itch there had always been someone available to scratch it.

So why was he suddenly so interested in a little bit of fluff from the upper classes?

She was still wearing the ring. That had been a devilish impulse on his part. He’d known the ring was too small but he’d still managed to get it on her when he’d been busy seducing her with his mouth. A treat like Miss Jane Pagett shouldn’t have to settle for that miserable little piece of shit her fiancé had provided for her.

She was still wearing that as well, though on the wrong hand. Not that he’d given her any choice. If she wanted his ring off she’d have to stop thinking about it, and he could think of only one way to do that.

Scorpion had been right mad at him for tossing away such a valuable piece of glimmer. Too bad. A sad little girl like that needed diamonds more than some over-bred whore like the Duchess of Carrimore. If he got the chance he’d take it off her finger, but he’d do it for her sake and no one else’s.

It looked pretty on her hand. A big, brassy, tacky diamond on her elegant bone structure. He looked at it and thought mine, in a totally irrational spurt of emotion. But she wasn’t, and he certainly didn’t want her to be. He’d just really like to get a better taste of her.

That wasn’t going to happen. She was engaged to someone worthy, and he made it a rule never to interfere with someone’s life simply because he was hungry. She’d be safely deposited at her family home in London, still a virgin, minus the telltale ring, and she could forget all about the blackguard who kissed her in the darkness as he stole diamonds.

And if he had to kiss her to do it, so be it.

Molly was probably telling her all sorts of stories about him. Lies, of course, but he doubted he was going to come off in a good light. It didn’t matter. She’d given him a good long look and hadn’t recognized him, which didn’t surprise him. That room had been pitch-dark, but he had eyes like a cat, and he’d seen her very clearly. She definitely wouldn’t have seen him, and today he’d kept his head down, the cap pulled low so that even if she remembered him she’d have a hard time thinking of her jewel thief as the driver with a rough Yorkshire accent.

It would be a longer trip back. He wasn’t going to change cattle, and there was a limit to which he would push his horses.

And to be entirely truthful, which wasn’t like him, he wanted more time with Miss Jane Pagett. No, he wasn’t going to touch her. That one kiss had been dangerous enough, and he couldn’t afford to get tangled with a young lady of quality. He made it a habit not to despoil virgins or people who didn’t have it coming. Not out of any essential goodness, he told himself. Such things were just more trouble than they were worth.

It was a cold night, and he wondered if Long Molly had remembered to get some warm bricks for their feet. Probably not. He jumped down off the driver’s seat, headed back into the inn, and a moment later came back out with two warm bricks wrapped in wool shawls that he’d had to pay dearly for, opened the carriage door and found himself looking up, directly into Jane Pagett’s face.

He quickly ducked his head, shoving the hot bricks toward her. “These mun keep tha warm,” he said in his thick Yorkshire accent before backing out and closing the door behind him. He cursed. She’d had a good look at him, but that meant nothing. She’d never seen him before in the clear light.

Worse was the good look he’d had of her. Her soft, kissable mouth, her huge brown eyes, his diamond ring flashing on her finger.

He vaulted into the driver’s seat, grabbed the reins and started forward with a sudden jerk, no doubt throwing his passengers into disarray. It was nothing compared to his state of mind.

Maybe he’d better not take his time. He had a certain love of danger, but Miss Jane Pagett put the fear of God into him.

13

Pawlfrey House was a disaster, Miranda thought as she followed Mrs. Humber’s sturdy figure up the first wide staircase, then another, down one long hall until the surly woman finally stopped, turning to look at her out of mean little eyes.

“We don’t employ many servants here, Lady Miranda,” she said in starched accents. “I’ve told the upstairs maid to bring up bathwater but of course the master’s needs come first, and he always requests a hot bath on arrival. It may be some time before your bath is ready.”

Miranda smiled at her sweetly. “Then perhaps you ought to show me to the master’s room and I’ll avail myself of his bath.” She said it mainly to see the shock on Mrs. Humber’s face, but in truth it seemed an excellent idea.

“Your bathwater will be up directly,” Mrs. Humber growled, pushing open the door to the bedroom. “Make yourself at home.”

Miranda stood in the doorway for a long, miserable moment. She could hear the housekeeper’s heavy footsteps thudding down the corridor—she was willing to bet the old besom walked with a lighter tread when Lucien could hear.

She laughed beneath her breath. She could just imagine his reaction if he came up to his room and found her disporting in his bath.

No, she wasn’t quite ready to fight this war on that level. Because she’d be naked, and she had every intention of putting that particular battle off as long as possible, if not forever. Would revenge against the Rohans be worth living with a cheerful idiot? She wasn’t certain Lucien would think so.

She was loath to step across her threshold. The room was dark and gloomy, even with the fire. It smelled like mouse droppings and mildew, and she sighed. The first thing this place needed was a good cleaning, and if Mrs. Humber didn’t employ enough servants she’d have to see that they found more.

She crossed to the tall windows, pushing open the faded curtains to look out into the rainy afternoon. A cloud of dust rewarded her efforts, and she began to cough, waving away the motes. She glanced over at her bed, wondering if it were equally untended, but it appeared that at least there were fresh sheets and pillowcases. Probably because Mrs. Humber expected Lucien to share that bed with her.

Fat lot she knew.

The room was damp and chilly despite the fire, and she doubted she’d find any help from the limited servants. At least there was wood piled beside the fireplace, and she leaned down and loaded more logs onto the grate. Really, they ought to be burning coal. It was easier to load and lasted a great deal longer, but perhaps the wretched old house wasn’t equipped for it. After a moment she was rewarded with a merry blaze, and she dragged a chair closer, warming her hands and bare feet.

The look on Lucien’s face when she’d taken off her shoes had been priceless. He’d hidden it almost immediately, but she’d been looking for it, and she’d almost crowed in triumph.

It was nearly pitch-dark when two burly men carried the copper bathtub into the room, followed by a maid with a bucket of hot water. If she was going to have to rely on the one maid and that small bucket the tub would be filled by next Christmas, but she gave them her best smile and thanked them, and was rewarded, at least by the young maid, with a shy smile.

“Should I close the curtains, miss?”

One of the older men cuffed her. “She’s called ‘my lady,’ you dimwit.”

The girl’s face flooded with color. “Oh, miss … my lady, I beg pardon. I’m just the kitchen maid—I’ve never been called upon to serve a real lady before.”

“Never mind,” Miranda said kindly. “What’s your name?”

“Bridget, my lady.”

“Well, Bridget, why don’t you help me sort through my clothes while these strong men bring up the rest of the hot water.”

“That’s not our job,” the bully began, but then he saw the look on her face and swallowed. “Yes, your ladyship,” he said, and practically bowed out of the room, closing the door behind them.

Bridget laughed. “He’s a right brute, is Ferdy. He’s Mrs. Humber’s cousin, and he thinks he’s in charge around here, when he’s only a groom. But he’s strong, and she uses him for the heavy work.”

“Then he’s perfectly suited for hauling heavy tins of water.”

“Should I close the curtains, my lady? It’s an ugly night out there.”

“Very carefully. They’re full of dust and I almost choked to death when I opened them.”

Bridget looked horrified. “Oh, miss … er, your ladyship, I’m so sorry! We hadn’t much notice you were coming, and Mrs. Humber is that difficult. She doesn’t like it when his lordship brings a female up here.”

There was no reason that should feel like a blow, and Miranda weathered it beautifully. “Does she disapprove on moral grounds? Because his lordship and I plan to be married.”

Bridget shook her head, and Miranda could see a nasty bruise on the side of her neck. Probably thanks either to Mrs. Humber or her henchman, Ferdy. “That’s not it. I think she fancies him herself.”