Sins of a Wicked Duke
Page 5

Face burning, she fell back on the luxurious counterpane. At least she had a night of comfort.
With Evie, no less. Stretching her arms over her head, her thoughts drifted to the duke again.
 Bloody man—men! They could be as depraved as they liked. They could do whatever they wanted. Even if they lacked coin, they could venture out and find respectable work without suffering all the nonsense she endured.
After tonight’s debacle, Mrs. Harrison at the agency would never consider referring her again.
And the only work she could find would be of the variety no respectable woman would contemplate.
 Oh, Da, you never thought I’d sink this low ,did you? Too bad I wasn’t born a man. Surviving would be a spot easier.
As a man, she would be someone who could go about their day and perform their duties without being forced to defend their person. Someone whose presence would not make the women of the household uncomfortable simply by breathing and occupying the same space. Someone who Mrs. Harrison would not turn away.
With a sharp breath, she shot up straight on the bed. Suddenly, the world righted itself.
Everything became clear. The impossible so… possible. If she only possessed the temerity to see it through.
Scooting to the edge of the bed, she stared at her reflection in the vanity mirror. Her eyes stared back, wider than usual, glowing with alarm and…excitement. The amber brown glowed with a hope she had not felt in some years. Not since the first time she was unjustly sacked.
Her father’s voice whispered through her mind again.
 Ah, Fallon, lass. You’ve your father’s mettle.
“Yes, Da. I do,” she whispered, sliding her legs to the floor and moving to the vanity, so accustomed to talking to her father, even all these years after his death, it did not strike her as odd.
Sinking onto the stool, she spread her hair out over her shoulders. So like her mother’s, Da always said. And part of the reason, she suspected, that she attracted such unsolicited attention.
Master Brocklehurst had certainly found fault with it, calling it wanton and sinful. As if she could help the unusual color of her hair—neither red, blond, or brown, but a mélange of all three.
Seized with impulse, she fumbled through the drawers, searching, a grim smile curving her lips.
Her fingers landed on a pair of scissors.
She clutched them in her hand for a while, simply staring at them, the cold steel injecting a sharp bite of reality to the moment. Do you really want to do this? Yes. Her hair had caused her enough grief over the years. She lifted her gaze back to her reflection. But perhaps she could help with that.
Inhaling, she lifted a heavy lock of her hair off her shoulder and began to cut.
“Heavens, what have you done?”
Fallon ran a hand through her short-cropped hair and rotated on the stool to face Evie. Her bare toes brushed the silken tendrils scattered about the floor. Her once waist-length hair now stopped at the back of her neck, just above her shoulders. She shook her head, unaccustomed to the lightness.
“Your beautiful hair,” Evie moaned, touching her own honey brown hair as if it were in similar jeopardy.
“I cut it,” she unnecessarily explained, placing both hands on her knees and hoping that would still their shaking. She still could not quite believe what she had done…or what she yet intended to do.
Evie shook her head and pressed a palm to her temples, her long, elegant fingers jutting from her head. “How did this happen? I only just stepped from the room.”
“You know me. When I make up my mind…” Her voice faded and she shrugged.
Evie motioned to the hair strewn about the floor. “But…why?”
Fallon moistened her lips. “It occurred to me that I wouldn’t have half so many problems keeping a position if I were a man.”
Evie’s brows winged high. Silence hung between them for some moments. Her lips, almost too full for her thin face, worked. “You cannot mean…”
“Why not? Men are paid a better wage. I could save toward a nest egg. It wouldn’t be permanent.”
“You cannot possibly expect anybody to confuse you for a man.”
“I’m tall enough.”
Evie stared pointedly at her chest. “And what about those?”
She glanced down at herself. “The rest of me may be big, but these are not.” One small thing for which to be thankful. “I suppose I can bind them to be safe.”
“You’re still a woman. The way you walk, gesture—”
“People see what they want to see. And when it comes to servants, nobs don’t look too closely.
No one gives footmen or grooms special notice. The problem before was that I could never blend in.” She ran a hand through her shorn hair. “Now I can.”
Evie squinted at her hair. “It looks…brown.”
Reaching behind her, Fallon held up a small vial of skin cream. “I used this. It makes my hair look darker. It will do for now. Until I purchase pomade.”
Evie sank down on the end of the bed, her slim hand circling one of the posts, knuckles white.
“You really mean to do this.” There was admiration in her eyes as she uttered this, but also alarm…fear. The latter drove home just how mad this scheme actually was—it could be Fallon’s salvation or ruin. But what choice remained? Bleak alternatives rose up in her mind, and she shoved them all away. Never. She could never resort to that.
Chin high, she pasted the most encouraging smile she could manage on her face. “Tomorrow morning I shall present myself to Mrs. Harrison at the agency. All will be well. You may depart for your adventure with no concern for me.”
With a sigh, Evie stood. “If you’re to do this, let’s see it done right.”
The rest of the night passed in a blur. Evie first tidied up Fallon’s efforts with her hair and then left, returning shortly with garments bought from the hotel porter. After minor adjustments with needle and thread, Fallon was appropriately attired.
Outfitted in her new clothing, she stared hard at her reflection, gooseflesh breaking out over her skin. “I don’t know whether to be appalled or pleased.”
Evie nodded behind her, face slack with astonishment. “If I had not assisted you with the transformation, I would never believe it.
“I actually _look _ like a man,” she breathed.
“Well, you can _pass _ for one at any rate,” Evie offered. “Or rather a boy.”
“A young man,” Fallon amended, smoothing a hand over her slicked-back hair, pleased that the red-gold hue was scarcely visible. It simply looked an average brown.
“Yes. Perhaps seventeen or eighteen. Thank goodness for your height.”
Fortunately, the narrow shape of her face stopped her features from appearing too soft or delicate. She had never been an apple-cheeked maid. Her features had been too strong, her jaw a bit too square.
Evelyn cocked her head to the left side, her expression thoughtful. “Still, you are a _pretty _ man.”
“I’ve seen pretty men before.” Fallon nodded, whether to convince herself or Evie, she couldn’t say. Half the men about town aspired to look as she did—a veritable dandy. The ones who gave her grief over the past two years had certainly been prettier than herself.
For some reason, the Duke of Damon’s face floated before her. Definitely _not _ a dandy. The angles of his face looked carved from stone. Nothing soft or _pretty _ about him. And he had been taller than her. Not like any gentlemen she had known before. Men of his ilk were not the sort found sipping tea in drawing rooms. Her lips twisted. He likely haunted bordellos and other unsavory establishments. Banishing the wicked man from her thoughts, she surveyed her new self.
Propping a hand on her hip, she strove for a manly pose. “And what name shall I give myself?”
Chapter 4
Sick dread curled dark fingers around her heart as she stared down at the slip of paper shaking in her hand, then back to the house before her. On the other side of an ornate, Spanish iron gate stood a three-storied townhouse of white Caen stone. Another quick glance at Mrs. Harrison’s quickly scrawled words and the bronze address plate confirmed there was no mistake. The world had stopped turning. Flown off its axis. She stood at the threshold of 15 Pottingham Place. The Duke of Damon’s home. The very residence she vowed never to enter.
She hovered there for some moments, recalling the dreadful man. The wicked gleam in his eyes as his tongue laved another female’s nipple. Wretch. Did she really wish to place herself in his sphere?
 Only you’re not you. He’ll never look twice at you now.
With a decided nod, she pushed open the gate and circled around to the back and knocked on the servants’ entrance. She required a roof over her head tonight. She couldn’t afford to be choosey.
Moments later she sat in the spacious kitchen, a plate of biscuits before her and the oddest-looking butler she’d ever clapped eyes on interviewing her for the position of footman.
Fallon had worked in enough households to form certain expectations. One of which included butlers looking…well, butlerish. But should she feel any surprise? His master hardly seemed concerned with propriety. Like many an aristocrat who believed himself above reproach for no other reason than the position granted him at birth. Bitterness churned inside her, tightening her chest as she thought of her father, dead on a distant island. All because of Lord Hunt’s selfish whim. Blasted blue bloods always did whatever they pleased. Rot the lot of them.
The butler looked her over critically with one good eye—a discerning blue eye as stark as the black eye patch covering the other eye.
She forced herself not to fidget, not to show the least sign of anxiety even as that single blue eye seemed to strip away her garments and see her—the real her. Or at least she imagined he did.
This was the moment. If anyone sniffed out her deception it would be here, now, with this man.
Ironically, the discerning one-eyed butler.
“Mrs. Harrison referred me.” Unnecessary to volunteer—as he held the letter from her in his hands—but she did so anyway, feeling the need to fill the silence. She held her breath, waiting.
After a long moment, Mr. Adams leaned forward in his chair and selected a biscuit from the plate. “Excellent biscuits,” he called over his shoulder to the cook, a thin woman who stood at the stove stirring a pot with a sinewy arm. Great stains of sweat marked the armpits of her dress.
The woman grunted in response.
Mr. Adams fixed his eye on Fallon again, his expression sober, considering. “What do you think of young Francis here, Martha?”
Evie had decided on the name, thinking the closer to her own the better. Yet hearing him speak the name, she had the impulse to look behind her.
The cook gave a second grunt in response.
“My thoughts exactly,” he answered vaguely. Lifting a napkin, he dabbed at his mouth with a fastidiousness she would not credit a dangerous-looking one-eyed man. Butler or not.
Fallon looked helplessly between the butler and the cook. It had been a relatively simple matter to impress Mrs. Harrison. The woman had not questioned her too closely regarding her references—all fabricated, of course. The older lady had gushed in response to Fallon’s flirtations, happy to send her on an interview this very day, proving what Fallon had suspected all along. Men had it better.
Mr. Adams broke out in an easy grin. “Well, lad, I think you might be just the thing we’re looking for. You even appear the size of our last footman. His livery should fit you well enough.” The butler puffed out his chest. “Might be a bit antiquated to some, but this is a ducal household. All the footmen wear full livery.”
Fallon nodded, smiling, but strangely, she felt no relief. A properly enthusiastic response failed to slip past her lips. She had achieved precisely what she sought. Why did she suddenly feel as though a noose had settled about her neck? A flash of the duke’s dark head bent over the woman’s bare breast flashed through her mind, and she knew why. If she reflected long enough…she could almost imagine his hot mouth closing over her breast. Her belly clenched.