If His Kiss Is Wicked. Jo Goodman

torture. I’m thoroughly awake, thank you very much.”

      “My pleasure, sir.”

      “I was being sardonic.”

      “So was I.”

      Grinning, Restell pushed himself upright, stuffed a pillow under the small of his back, and leaned against the bed head. He ran one hand through his pale, sun-bleached helmet of hair, leaving it furrowed and in perfect disarray. “What was the hour when I returned?”

      “Gone three. It was a late night for you, sir.”

      Restell needed no reminder. It had been an age since he’d trolled the gaming hells. He could not recall that he had ever been made so weary by it. “And the hour now?”

      “Not yet eight o’clock.”

      “The hell you say. And I have a visitor?” He had to restrain himself from pulling the covers over his head. “God save me, it is not my mother, is it?”

      “No, sir. Nor any other of your family.” Hobbes skirted the bed and went to the washbasin, his limp hardly noticeable this morning. “I understand she is female, though.”

      “That alone does not account for the hour of her visit. Who is she?”

      “She wouldn’t say. Mr. Nelson asked her for her card, but she declined to give one.”

      “Curious.”

      Hobbes nodded. “I thought the very same.” He set towels to warm at the fireplace, then began whipping lather in a cup for his employer’s morning shave and ablutions. “Do you wish to bathe?”

      “Above everything. I reek of the gaming hells.”

      Hobbes made no comment about this last, though it was true enough. “I’ll see to it.” He set the lathering cup down and crossed the room to ring for assistance. “Will you break your fast here or in the morning room?”

      “Here.” Restell swept back the covers and threw his legs over the side of the bed. He sat there for several moments, head in his hands as though to steady it, then kicked his slippers aside in favor of padding barefoot across the cold floor to the dressing room. “Do you think she’ll wait?” he called to Hobbes.

      “I couldn’t say, sir.” He picked up the warm towels and carried them to Restell. “Does it matter?”

      “She is an inconvenient female. I should like the opportunity to tell her so.”

      “Do you think she doesn’t know? They frequently do, sir.”

      “Then they should try harder to resist their nature,” Restell said sourly. “Have you a headache powder, Hobbes? Satan’s minions are doing a gleeful dance inside my skull.”

      Hobbes made sympathetic noises. “Right away.”

      Restell felt marginally better after he bathed and shaved. He was returned to human form by the time Hobbes tied his stock, brushed his jacket, and the headache powder began to work. Following a leisurely breakfast and perusal of the morning paper, he pronounced himself prepared well enough to receive his visitor in the library.

      He had only just begun to seat himself in the wing chair by the fireplace when Nelson announced her. It was all rather awkwardly done—the announcement because Nelson had no name for their visitor, and Restell’s rise from the chair because he unfolded in a manner reminiscent of a jack-in-the-box. Restell noted that the butler quickly exited the room, but not so fast that he missed Nelson’s lips begin to twitch.

      There was no reaction from his visitor, at least none that Restell could observe. Her features were obscured by a gauzy veil secured to the brim of a leghorn bonnet. He wondered at the affectation. Clearly she was in high mourning, making it known by choosing black as the single color to drape her slim figure, but the veil was not at all in the usual mode. Did she wear it all the time? he wondered, or had she chosen it purposely for this morning call?

      “Have you been offered refreshment?” he asked. Although he had yet to hear her speak, he had it in his mind that she was a woman of no more than middling years. There was no discernible hesitation in her step, and her carriage was correct but not rigid. She was not compensating for some frailty. “Tea, perhaps?”

      She shook her head. The veil rippled with the movement but remained in place. She held her reticule in front of her, at the level of her waist, and made no move to set it aside.

      Restell understood why Nelson had not refused her entry, even at the inopportune timing of her arrival. She was preternaturally calm, possessed of a resigned bearing and purpose that made one suppose she would not be easily turned from it.

      “Will you be seated?” asked Restell.

      “I have not decided.”

      “You have not decided if you will sit?”

      “I have not decided if I will stay.”

      Restell shrugged. “Then you will not object if I attend to my correspondence. You may stand or sit, stay or go, as the mood is upon you.” He gave her no further attention but walked to his desk and began examining the post that had arrived the previous day. He chose a letter with the recognizable seal of the Earl of Ferrin and hitched one hip on the edge of the desk as he opened it. He was peripherally aware of his visitor’s study, but he ignored it in favor of the missive from his stepbrother.

      He read through the greeting and far enough beyond to be assured of the good health of everyone in Ferrin’s household before the visitor interrupted him.

      “I did not think you would be so young,” she said.

      “I am six and twenty. That is not the age you had in mind, I collect.”

      She did not answer this directly. “You cannot have the breadth of experience I am seeking.”

      “You have me at a disadvantage,” Restell said. He let Ferrin’s letter dangle between his fingers rather than set it aside. It was a subtle signal that he would remain engaged only as long as she did. “I know nothing at all about what experience you require. Perhaps if you would begin with how you came to be here.”

      She hesitated, then asked, “You don’t want to know my name?”

      “Would it mean anything to me?”

      “No.”

      “Then it’s not important. You know mine. That seems to be the salient point.”

      “I learned about you from my physician.”

      Restell folded Ferrin’s correspondence as he considered this information. He tapped one corner of the letter against his knee. “Might I know his name?”

      “Bettany. Dr. William Bettany.”

      Restell did not reveal whether or not he was acquainted with the doctor. “And what did Dr. Bettany tell you about me?”

      “Precious little.” Making her decision, she backed into the chair behind her and sat down abruptly. The reticule remained clutched in her gloved hands. “That is, he was not speaking of you to me. I overheard some of what he told my…what he told someone else.”

      “Might I know that name?” Her pause let him know she suspected he might have some familiarity with that person. He let it pass and went to the heart of the matter. “What manner of things did you overhear?”

      “The doctor seemed to think that you had certain peculiar talents that might be helpful to someone in my situation.”

      “Peculiar talents,” Restell repeated. “It’s an intriguing description. What do you suppose he meant by it?”

      “He was speaking of protection. It’s a service you offer, I believe.”

      “Are you quite sure that you comprehended the context. At the risk of offending you, you should know that when a gentleman places a woman under his protection it generally means—”