“Two pounds, sixteen. For coal.”
More than they had in the coffers. And if November was any indication of what was to come, the winter would only get colder. Anger and frustration and panic threatened, but Mara swallowed back the emotion.
She would regain control.
She reached for the duke’s terse note, turning the paper over and going for her pen, dipping the nib carefully in ink before she replied.
￡10.
She returned the note to its envelope, heart in her throat, full of power. He might dictate the terms, but she dictated the price. And ten pounds would keep the boys of MacIntyre House warm for a year.
She crossed out her name on the envelope and wrote in his before handing it back to Lydia.
“We’ll discuss the bill tomorrow.”
Chapter 5
A dressmaker. He’d brought her to a dressmaker.
In the dead of night, as though it was a crime to buy new gowns.
Of course, in the dead of night, creeping through the back door to one of Bond Street’s most legendary modistes, it did feel a bit criminal. As criminal as the shiver of pleasure that threaded through her as she brushed past him into the sewing room of the shop, unable to avoid contact with him—big as an ox.
Not that she noticed.
Nor did she notice that he was far too agile for his size, leaping up and down from carriages, opening doors—holding them for her entry with quiet smoothness—as though he were a ballet dancer and not a boxer.
As though grace had been imparted to him in the womb.
But she refused to notice all that, even when her heart pounded as the door closed behind him, his bulk crowding her further into the room, its half-dozen lanterns doing little more than cast shadows around the space.
“Why are we here?”
“You needn’t whisper. Hebert knows we are coming.”
She cut him a look. “Does she know why?”
He did not meet her eyes, instead heading through the shop, weaving in and out of the empty seamstress stations. “I would imagine she thinks I want to dress a woman and I’d like to keep the situation secret.”
She followed. “Do you do this often?”
He stopped, and she nearly ran into the back of him before he looked over his shoulder at her. “I’ve little reason to keep women secret.”
A vision flashed, young, handsome Temple full of bold smiles and even bolder touches, tempting her with broad shoulders and black eyes. He needn’t keep them secret. No doubt, women fell over themselves to assume the role. She cast the thought aside. “I don’t imagine you do.”
“Thanks in large part to you,” he said, and pushed through a heavy curtain into the dressing room, leaving her to follow.
She should have expected the reminder that his life had been something else before it was this. He’d been the son and heir to one of the wealthiest, most revered dukedoms in Britain. And now he might still have the wealth, but he spent it in shadows. He had lost the reverence.
Because of her.
She swallowed back the twinge of guilt she felt at the thought, and instead hovered at the exit. “When do I receive my funds?”
“When our agreement is fulfilled.”
“How am I to know that you will keep your word?”
He considered her for a long moment, and she had the keen sense that she should not have questioned his honor. “You shall have to trust me.”
She scowled. “I’ve never met an aristocratic male worthy of trust.” She’d met them desperate and angry and abusive and lascivious and filled with disgust. But never honorable.
“Then you should be grateful that I am rarely considered aristocratic,” he replied, and turned away from her, the conversation complete.
She followed him into the dressing room of Madame Hebert’s, where the proprietress was already waiting, as though she had nothing better to do in all the world than stand here and wait for the Duke of Lamont to arrive.
His words, still echoing in her ears, proved true inside the salon. She wasn’t here for the Duke of Lamont. She was here for one of the powerful owners of London’s most legendary gaming hell.
“Temple,” Madame Hebert welcomed him, coming forward to rise up on her toes and deposit kisses on both of his cheeks. “You great, handsome beast. Were it anyone else, I would have denied the request.” She smiled, the pleasure in the expression matching the tenor of her rich French accent. “But I cannot resist you.”
Mara resisted the urge to wrinkle her nose as a chuckle rumbled from Temple’s chest. “You cannot resist Chase.”
Hebert laughed, the sound like fine crystal. “Well, a businesswoman must know where—as you English say—her bread is buttered.” Mara bit her tongue rather than ask if Temple hadn’t sent a fair number of customers in the dressmaker’s direction himself. She did not care to know.