The Devil in Her Bed by Byrne Kerrigan

Author:Byrne, Kerrigan
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: St. Martin's Publishing Group
Published: 2021-03-09T00:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

With a traumatized sort of numbness, Francesca dressed in the detached tent and wobbled out into the night. Her carriage awaited her in the drive next door, the ruins of Cecelia’s old manor. The rebuild of Miss Henrietta’s School for Cultured Young Ladies had already broken ground, but the last of the rubble had yet to be cleared away.

London seemed darker tonight. Quiet and eerie, with the muffled, biting chill of the winter. Or perhaps that was just how she perceived it.

Perhaps she saw in the atmosphere what swirled about inside. She was both a tempest and wasteland after tonight. A storm with nowhere to blow.

But she’d achieved her goals, hadn’t she? She’d infiltrated the enemy, and seduced their leader. If she was stalwart, she could break them. So long as she didn’t break first.

The gas lamps didn’t seem gold tonight, but pallid and wan. They cast more shadows than light, and she kept a firm grip on her knife in case she might need it.

When strong hands grabbed for her and pulled her behind the solid stone security fence of Cecelia’s property, she had the blade out and at a male throat in an instant.

“Frank, darling,” Alexandra said gently. “I’d consider it a personal favor if you didn’t stab the father of my child.”

Francesca wrenched herself out of the Duke of Redmayne’s grasp and scowled up into his scarred, satirical features. “I’ll slice the pretty side of your face if you presume to grab me again,” she snapped with no veracity whatsoever to the threat.

“You’re welcome.” The split in his lip showed as his close-cropped ebony beard parted to reveal one of his rare smiles. He pointed at a post, one she might have walked into if he hadn’t have redirected her.

She scowled at it, refusing to thank him while he was being smug.

“I expressly forbade you two from spying on me,” she scolded the Rogues, refusing to let them know how knee-wobblingly glad she was to see them. “And then you bring these brutes to muddle things up? If I’m discovered because of you, I’ll be so bloody cross I’ll—”

Cecelia threw her arms around her as if she were a long-lost sister. “We were so worried, Frank.” She might as well not have whispered, as the rasp of her voice carried through the night at a regular pitch. “All these people and no lights.”

They turned to watch the last few people disperse into the night like Mayfair ghosts. “I’ve never seen the like. What is going on over there?”

Francesca backed up, right into Ramsay, who wisely stepped back and allowed her to steady herself.

Ramsay, a famous celibate before Cecelia, touched no woman but his own.

Francesca assessed the four faces glowing at her expectantly from what little light shone through the clouds.

Should she tell? Should she confess to Ramsay that the Lord Chancellor was dead, arguably at her command?

As she searched each of their faces, she thought of power. These were powerful men. Redmayne held one of the oldest ducal titles in the realm.

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