"Not so fast, sweetheart." He grabbed her wrist and jerked her to a halt. "You're a skinny wench, but you'll do for a quick blanket hornpipe."
It was easy to show terror. Tugging to get away, Kit wailed, "Please, sir, I'm a decent girl."
"There will be a gold guinea in this for you," he said with boozy cheer. "Maybe two if you do a good job of keeping me warm." He pulled her into a disgusting, port-soaked embrace.
Fighting would be useless against a man twice her size. She forced herself to relax, though she kept her mouth closed tightly against the attempted invasion of his tongue. Taking her stillness as compliance, he mumbled,
"That's better, sweetheart," and moved one hand to her breast. "Show me how warm you are."
She took advantage of his relaxed grip to break away. She had made it to the door and was halfway into the corridor before he caught her again. "Like to play, do you?" he said jovially. "You're livelier than you look."
Panicking, she shoved violently at his chest, knocking him off balance. He clutched at her to save himself from falling, and succeeded in dragging her to the floor with him. They ended sprawled across the doorsill with then-heads in the hall, Harford on top. As Kit gasped for breath, he pulled at her bodice, ripping it halfway to her waist. "Much nicer than I expected," he said huskily. "Maybe I'll make that five guineas."
She had feared many things of this night, but casual rape by a man who didn't even know her name was not one of them. Terrified, she tried to scream, but her cry was cut off by his mouth.
Suddenly, his imprisoning weight was gone and she could breathe again. Above her a cool voice said, "The young lady doesn't seem interested, Harford."
Kit looked up to see a tall, blond man pinning her attacker to the wall. Though the elegant newcomer seemed to be exerting no pressure, Harford was unable to break free.
"Mind your own business," Harford panted as he tried unsuccessfully to free himself from the blond man's grip. "She's a chambermaid, not a lady. I've never yet met a maid who wasn't flattered when a gentleman wanted to mount her."
"I think you've met one tonight. It would be one thing if she was willing, but it's bad form to rape your host's servants," the cool voice said with gentle reproof. "Candover would be most upset if you succeeded, and you know what a good shot he is."
The words penetrated Harford's drink-sodden brain. "I suppose you're right," he said grudgingly. "A scrawny maid is hardly worth fighting a duel over." The blond man released him, and he shuffled into his room with a yawn. " 'Night, Strathmore."
Kit stiffened. Dear God, her rescuer was Lucien Fairchild, the Earl of Strathmore. A man called, in whispers and after a wary glance in all directions, Lucifer. He and several of his rakish friends were collectively known as the Fallen Angels. She had not known that he was a Hellion.
Yet he could not have been more gentlemanly when he offered her a hand up. "Are you all right, miss?"
Wondering if she had gone from the frying pan to the fire, she took his hand and scrambled to her feet. "Y-yes, my lord."
When she looked into his face, she felt shock of a different kind. Like his namesake, Lucifer, the earl blazed brighter than mortal man. If vice had ruined him, it did not yet show in his face, but his green-gold eyes held the weariness of a man who had seen the flames of hell. She hoped that he was not her enemy, for she guessed that he would be a deadly adversary.
His grip tightened on her hand. "What's your name?"
She was so shaken that she automatically said, "Kit," before she remembered that she had joined the household as Emmie Brown. Furious that she had revealed her true name, she turned her error into a stammered, "Kit-Kitty, my lord."
His gaze ran over. "Perhaps you would be worth fighting a duel over, Kitty."
Realizing that her torn bodice had almost completely bared one breast, she cringed back and used her free hand to pull the ripped fabric over herself.
He immediately released her hand. Reverting to his former detachment, he said, "Get yourself a cup of tea and go to bed, Kitty. A good night's sleep and you'll be fine."
Though she would like nothing better, she said, "I haven't finished my work yet, your lordship."
"The rest of the guests can sleep on unwarmed sheets tonight. I'll explain why to the duke so you won't be punished." His gaze went over her again. "Tell the housekeeper to assign someone older to this particular task the next time a hunting party visits. Now get along with you, Kitty. And for your own sake, learn to sharpen your claws."
Glad to obey, she ducked her head and scuttled away like a girl who had been frightened out of her limited wits. It required no acting skill at all. She turned the corner of the hall and took refuge behind the door that concealed the servants' stairs.
Once she was safe, she sank onto the top step, set down the tools of her trade, and buried her face in her trembling hands. There were half a dozen more men whose rooms she should have searched, but she didn't dare continue. Apparently the party downstairs was breaking up early, and if she met another randy guest, she might not be lucky again.
Furiously she cursed herself for having accomplished so little. She had hoped to learn something that would narrow her search, but it had taken several days to arrange to be hired as a chambermaid and the hunting party was almost over. Tomorrow all of the guests would leave, and she had learned nothing.
Stiffly she got to her feet, feeling the bruises she had acquired when she had hit the floor. She might as well leave tonight, for she would be unable to learn anything more. Emmie Brown, unsuccessful chambermaid, would vanish. The housekeeper would merely mutter about the difficulty of getting good help and say good riddance.
As Kit climbed the dark steps to the tiny attic room that she had never slept in, she swore that she would do better.
She had no choice, for failure was unthinkable.
As he ambled down the corridor toward his room, Lucien thought about the vagaries of nature. The chambermaid was a simple country girl, a vulnerable innocent who was none too quick of mind and who had the bowed shoulders of someone ashamed of her height. Yet for an instant he had seen her face in profile, and it had the purity of a face on a Greek coin. Perhaps that was what had attracted Harford. No, the man probably hadn't noticed; the Honorable Roderick was not the discriminating sort.
Putting the maid from his mind, Lucien entered his bedroom, stripped off his cravat, and bent to build up the fire. Then he settled in a wing chair and contemplated the low flames while his mind gnawed at a random assortment of facts, trying to find some pattern. He was making no progress, so it was a relief when a quiet knock sounded at his door. He called, "Come in."
He was not surprised to see that his visitor was the Duke of Candover. He and his host had had no chance to talk privately during the hunting party. The duke entered carrying two glasses and a decanter in the crook of his arm. "You were so busy analyzing the other guests that you scarcely touched your port, so I thought you might like some brandy before going to bed."
Lucien chuckled. "Very thoughtful, Rafe. I suppose you were also hoping to learn why I asked you to invite such a motley crew to Bourne Castle on short notice."
"Always glad to place my ducal splendor at your service, Luce, but I'll admit I'm curious about what you're up to this time." The duke poured brandy for both of them, handed one glass over, then took the chair on the other side of the fire. "Is there any other way I can help your investigation?"
Lucien hesitated as he decided how much to say. When necessary, he had enlisted old friends, including Rafe, in his intelligence work, but he never did so without good reason. "Not this time-you're a little too respectable. It would look odd if you did anything more than invite the men I'm interested in for a casual hunting party. Speaking of which, thank you for obliging me. Arranging invitations to the famous Bourne Castle has enhanced my status with the Hellions."