Sins of a Wicked Duke
Page 6

She swallowed back an unladylike snort of disgust—or rather, an ungentlemanly-like snort. She gave a small tug at the hair brushing the back of her neck. A little late for second thoughts now.
“Come, Francis, I’ll show you to your room and summarize your duties.
Mr. Adams shoved one more biscuit into his mouth and shoved to his feet. “Splendid biscuits, Martha. Send some up on his lordship’s tray when he wakes.”
Fallon glanced at the sunlight pouring through the kitchen window. Typical slothfull blue blood.
Well past noon, and still asleep.
“Our lord has an incorrigible sweet tooth.” Mr. Adams’s lips twitched and he angled his graying head, giving Fallon a nudge in the ribs as they departed the kitchen. “In fact, incorrigible might be the best word to describe him.” He winked his one good eye. “A bit of the ladies’ man. And he enjoys his drink. And the card tables.”
 Incorrigible. Fallon sniffed and thought back to the man in the carriage, a woman on either side of him. Incorrigible seemed to adequately sum him up—or better yet, insatiable. Of course, the butler failed to mention his master’s penchant for orgies among his list of vices.
Mr. Adams paused on the steps, his single eye narrowing. Too late, Fallon realized she perhaps sniffed too loud.
“A good servant holds his tongue and looks the other way, if you gather my meaning.”
Ah. That was the formula for a _good _ servant, then? She fought down a wry smile. No wonder she kept getting sacked.
He continued. “His lordship is one with a taste for…indulgences. You’ve likely heard his moniker bandied about Town. Since his recent return, tongues have been wagging.”
At Fallon’s blank look, he elaborated, “The demon duke?”
The demon duke? She nodded. Apt.
The butler’s gaze grew shrewd. “I hope you won’t find any objection to working for such a man, lad.”
The question was posed. A test. She thought for a moment. Did she object to working for such an incorrigible toff? She stopped short of rolling her eyes. Had she known any other sort? Working in the guise of a man—no longer a female deemed easy pickings—it should not matter one whit to her how incorrigibly her employer lived his life. A footman, she would fall beneath notice.
Safe in obscurity. As she preferred.
“Who am I to object?” Fallon waved a hand. “I’m but a humble servant.
“Indeed,” Mr. Adams murmured. Hesitation lurked in his eye. “We are all loyal to His Grace. It is our privilege to serve him.”
 Privilege?
“I hope you will come to feel the same way.”
 Loyal? To that libertine? She stared hard at Mr. Adams, failing to understand how such a wretch could inspire loyalty among his staff. Fallon knew firsthand that servants did not have to like their employer to perform their duties. In her experience, that was rarely the case.
Perhaps his behavior had been truly singular. An uncommon incident that she had the misfortune to witness. Even as she thought this, she dismissed it. She knew his type. Her father had worked for such a man. A wicked, amoral man who got away with anything…even murder.
Mr. Adams halted on the stairs and faced Fallon, his one eye unblinking. “We’re both men here, Francis, so I’ll be blunt.”
Fallon squared her shoulders, nodding, trying to look manly and grim at the butler’s sobering tone.
“We look the other way over the master’s escapades and clean up after him in the morning. And we don’t prattle about it outside these walls.” Mr. Adams motioned a gnarled finger at the narrow walls of the stairwell. “Or to the women of the house. No use offending their delicate sensibilities.”
 Delicate? Ha.
“His Grace’s reputation is sullied enough without us bandying about what goes on under this roof? Understand?”
Where had she landed herself? Sodom and Gomorrah?
Fallon gave a brisk nod. “Of course, Mr. Adams.”
As long as she had a warm meal and bed and funds enough to save for a place of her own—a genuine home—she could do near well anything. Mr. Adams turned and resumed his ascent.
Fallon followed.
Chapter 5
Fallon smiled and stretched herself beneath crisp sheets. For a long moment, she listened, enjoying the sound of her hard-won silence.
Her gaze skimmed the four walls surrounding her. A table, dresser, wardrobe. All superior pieces of furniture for a servant’s room. And hers. All hers. For however long she resided here at any rate. A room of her own. Solitude. Not since Da died did she have a room of her own…or the blessed peace and silence that came with it. She would not fool herself into believing this was home. Home was permanent. Lasting. Something no one could take away. Something she vowed to one day claim for herself. Still…it was a marked improvement.
A far-off screech shattered the early morning. Voices reached inside her room, pulling her upright.
“She’s mad! Get her away from me! Help! Help!”
Morning light scarcely bled through the curtains of her room. Sliding out of bed, she hastily dressed in her livery, stopping long enough in front of the dresser mirror to apply pomade to her hair and tie it at the back of her neck before securing the scratchy wig in place. Wig secured, her femininity was even less discernible.
Outside her room, the din grew. With one hand on the door’s latch, she bit her lip, contemplating whether she should remain in her room. Hide. She had settled in so late yesterday, she had yet to make the acquaintance of all the staff and could not stop her shiver of nervousness. Someone might uncover her deception…perhaps the master himself, if he was about. Another shiver coursed through her. Unlikely. At this early hour, he would still be abed.
She would have to face her new world sooner or late. Sucking in a deep breath, Fallon pushed open the door and stepped into the corridor, immediately discovering that she was not the only one roused from bed.
A horde of servants scurried down the corridor. She was scarcely spared a glance as she filed into step with them, clambering up the servants’ stairs. Excited murmurs filled the air, the steady drone of voices a backdrop to the loud shouts carrying from the second floor.
“What’s he done now?” a maid giggled behind her hand, bright eyes dancing.
“Might have something to do with the tart he brought home last night.” Another maid cheerfully volunteered, blushing when she caught Fallon’s stare.
At that blush Fallon recalled herself—she was not Fallon anymore but Francis. Francis. The name tripped through her head in a silent mantra. She squared her shoulders and joined the rest of the servants hanging their heads over the railing to watch the spectacle below.
Mrs. Davies, the housekeeper Mr. Adams had introduced her to yesterday, waved a broom overhead and chased a woman attired in a scarlet evening gown down the stairs. Large melonlike br**sts jiggled, nearly spilling free of the indecently low-cut bodice.
“Out! Out with you, you thieving trollop!”
Several of the servants tossed down encouragement to the housekeeper, and jeered insults to the disheveled female.
Fallon turned her head slowly, eyeing the stretch of servants on each side of her before looking back down. Despite their neat and tidy appearances in starched livery, she felt as though she rubbed elbows with a bloodthirsty mob that stood witness to an unsavory execution.
Cheers went up when the housekeeper bounced the broom off the woman’s head. The hapless creature shrieked and grasped her head, fingers desperately trying to disentangle the broom’s straw from the snarled mess of her hair.
“Teach you to steal his lordship’s silver!”
“Mrs. Davies! What are you doing?” Mr. Adams’s voice boomed from the marble-floored foyer far below. Hands on his narrow hips, he watched the display with less humor than the rest of the staff.
“Call the watch, Mr. Adams! We have a thief in our midst.”
“Mrs. Davies. That is His Grace’s…guest.” Even as he spoke, his single eye traveled over the woman with disfavor.
“Guest, umph! He didn’t invite her to rob him blind, did he?”
Suddenly, a deep chuckle rolled over the air.
Fallon froze, a tremble skating through her as she and the dozen other servants turned and strained to gain a better view of the man bearing that sherry-warm voice.
Caught in the web of that masculine laugh, she brushed a hand over her wig, satisfied at the feel of it atop her head. He certainly would not know her. She hardly knew herself when she looked in the mirror. Still, she felt her shoulders sink in an attempt to melt into the throng of servants.
“I’m scarcely blind, Mrs. Davies,” the familiar voice said, the velvet sound knotting Fallon’s insides.
The brassy-haired female on the stairs looked up. With one hand pressed to her heaving bosom and the other still clutched to her head, she pleaded, “Damon, darling! Help me! Tell this witch to cease beating me.” She cut a vicious stare to the housekeeper. “Surely she has a cauldron to stir.”
The servants hissed and booed at the remark.
Mrs. Davies’s face burned an unbecoming red. “Your Grace! Surely you did not give leave for this…person to rob you.”
Fallon followed Mrs. Davies’s gaze—and that of everyone else—to the renowned Duke of Damon.
And her breath caught.
Attired in nothing more than buff-colored trousers, he stood at the top of the landing.
Broadmuscled chest bare for all to see. A wicked serpent tattoo covered the top half of his chest, winding its way onto his shoulder. Shocking. She had never seen the like. And on a duke, no less.
His dark hair, nearly as long as her own, fell in straight lines around his face, brushing the muscled curve of his shoulders. He more resembled a pirate than gentleman. Her gaze flew back to his body—his chest and that wicked multihued serpent that seemed to dance and writhe above one flat brown nipple.
Her gaze crawled over the rest of him, eying the thin dark line of hair disappearing into his trousers. The sight made her face flame and she had to remind herself that she was supposed to be a man and not someone affected by such a sight. Not like the many blushing maids surrounding her.
“Celeste,” he drawled. “I wondered where you disappeared.” Humor rumbled in his deep voice.
He dragged a hand over his chest, the motion slow, indolent and somehow…sexual. “I woke up to a cold bed.”
“Would you please tell this beast of a woman to stop beating me?” she snapped in exasperation, swiping a hand at Mrs. Davies’s ever persistent broom and trying to grab it.
“I caught her stealing the silver, Your Grace.” The housekeeper delved into her apron pocket and waved the evidence before setting each item on a step—a candlestick, creamer, and caster.
“Celeste.” The duke clucked his tongue, gray eyes dancing with devilry. “And I thought my company was reward enough for you.”
“Darling, dearest, I would never steal from you.” Celeste implored with her eyes.
“Lying whore,” one of the maids at Fallon’s side snickered.
A sudden pounding tread filled the air. “Your Grace! Your Grace!”
An aggrieved-looking man joined the duke on the landing, flushed and breathless, his face reddening even further at the duke’s state of undress. His gaze darted around like a wild bird, widening, she presumed, at the sight of so many people gathered to witness the sordid spectacle.
With a deep breath, he lifted his chin high above his severely starched cravat and smoothed two hands down his dark plum-colored jacket, as if the single motion composed him.
“Who is that?” Fallon whispered to the maid beside her.
The pretty maid slid her gaze to Fallon, her brown eyes warm with interest as she answered,
“That popinjay is the valet, Mr. Diddlesworth.”
“Please, Your Grace.” The valet waved his hand in a small, elegant circle and executed a deep bow. “Let me assist you back to your chamber. I’ve laid out a lovely Pashmina jacket with a silk vest—”