Chapter 31

Supper? Entering the brightly-lit hall, Cass knew one thing. This was going an awful lot better than she'd hoped, although what she'd hoped for, she wasn't sure.
She had the phial secure in her sleeve. It would be no trouble to administer it over a quiet brandy, and then search. It was a big house and the papers could be anywhere. In the library. A bedroom. The attic. She tried to keep her gaze from wandering across the checkered floor. A damnable habit but there it was.
Of course, she'd vowed never to steal again. It wasn't just sad to be forced back on her word, when she and Ruby had taken all the trouble of plunging into the Thames and paying a fortune to all sorts of people-the undertaker, in particular, had demonstrated the greed of a sty of pigs--it was appalling. There was no if about this though. She wasn't sleeping with him.
He strode to the library door, again with that slightly uneven gait, as if there was something wrong with his leg. "The papers are in here."
Going an awful lot better? Was that really what she'd thought a second ago? This was brilliant. The rooms, the bureaus, the cabinets, this saved her rifling. The vow it let her keep.
"You can satisfy yourself by seeing I have them. And have looked them out." He pushed the door open. "And then-"
Then? Attaching a smile to her face, she glided across the checkered floor. Why, then, she'd use the phial. It was why she'd brought it. So why suffer any pinprick pang, especially when bits of her still burned from her brief bodily contact with him outside the coach?
Nothing wrong with his leg, was there, when he'd taken that shovel from her. Or yanked her down the coach steps? Before she started feeling even a pinprick of pity, maybe she should remind herself of what was important here? That-now she knew where the papers were-was on emptying the contents of the phial into his drink and bolting with them.
"Then, of course, Charlie may bring in the bags you seemed to have difficulty believing were there, Lord Hawley," she said.
Blatantly handsome though, wasn't he? Black coat and trousers. Maroon neck-cloth. The intensity of his gaze making it all the more dangerous despite the soft candlelight playing on it.
Oh, she could rid herself of the albatross she'd made of virginity and have him. Herself, who wore that albatross of necessity given it wasn't just thieving dens Starkadder ran but brothels, and only the fact no one had seen her face had kept her out of one. But she wasn't going to.
"Over there, Miss Armstrong. On the table."
"But of course. Thank you."
She swept into the room itself. She wouldn't want him thinking she'd stared at him after all. She fingered the top box with her gloved hand. Then she edged off the lid. Now, at last, she might find out something. That was what she was here for.
In fact maybe she could find it before they had supper, before she had to use that laudanum at all. Why not? The truth. The truth was here somewhere. She plunged her hands into the dusty box.
"Tomorrow." Devorlane Hawley caught her wrists. "There's no need to make it quite so obvious you want that more than me."
"I'm sorry?" Cass jerked up her chin. She was wearing gloves, wasn't she? She didn't want to look to make sure, but it didn't feel like it. "Well, I don't think we should pretend, Lord Hawley, this is anything less than a transaction. Or that I'm consenting to being ruined by you for any other reason."
"Ruined?" His sensuous mouth curved faintly. "I daresay it's better than being hung. Though I must say, you speak of yourself very highly, for someone accustomed to living cheek by jowl with men's pockets. Ruining themselves in every way it's possible to be ruined. But if you'd like to come upstairs, supper awaits."
Under other circumstances the stinging nature of the casual remark would have made her blood boil. Why let him provoke her when it was plain as the brass clasps on the box there-sixpence the lot-the thing he despised her most for wasn't what she was? Or that she had airs about herself. It was his desire for her despite it. He could disguise it-try to-as much as he wanted. What had just burned her skin was passion's very breath.
Maybe that lineage chart there, not supper was what she wanted, she had the means at her disposal to deal with him. By morning she and the papers would be far away.
"But of course, your command is my absolute wish."
Assuming an air of the confidence she wasn't about to let sink from her in any kind of waves, she followed him back into the hall and up the stairs.
Of course she didn't know what she was going to do should the papers prove less than useful. Fortunately there was such a thing as coming back. Not as herself, it was true. She'd need to find another disguise. One he wouldn't see through.
One thing was clear, now that the doors stood like silent sentinels on either side of her. The marble busts of the first and second dukes too-worth nothing except to members of the Hawley family. Who the hell would want them? Code orange it was. Coming back in disguise.
He paused.
"I've chosen this chamber for you. Charlie will soon bring your bags."
"Yes, of course. How kind of him and you."
She shrugged, thunderingly aware of him standing next to her as he clicked the door open on the fire-lit room he had chosen to install her in. Not at all unpleasant, firelight streaming on golden brassware sitting in the hearth, the cream shades of the Argand lamps-two guineas a piece-bathing the room in a soft glow. Chrysanthemums in ornate Chinese half guinea vases. Cushions that had been plumped halfway to death. Of course, the bed had been turned down. A scene set for seduction. Too bad.