The Bride's Necklace. Kat Martin

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      Tory rose early the following morning, yawning behind her hand, her eyes puffy from the little sleep she had managed to get last night. Mostly, she had tossed and turned, torn between embarrassment and thinking what a fool she had made of herself in Lord Brant’s study.

      Dear God, what must he think of her, allowing him such liberties? She certainly hadn’t been raised to behave that way. Her mother and father, as well as the years she had spent at Mrs. Thornhill’s Private Academy, had taught her to behave like a lady. Whatever weakness had come over her, Tory vowed it would not happen again.

      With that resolve, she made her way up the servants’ stairs to the main floor of the house. She must check on the housemaids, see that the wardrobes were dusted and freshly lined with paper. She needed to see to the candle supply and be certain there was a sufficient amount of writing paper and ink.

      She was passing through the entry when Timmons rushed up with the morning paper tucked beneath a short, stout arm.

      “Ah, Mrs. Temple. Would you mind terribly? I’ve a quick errand to run and I’m a bit pressed for time.” He handed her a copy of the London Chronicle. “His lordship likes to read the paper while he takes his morning sustenance,” he said as he dashed to the door, leaving behind the paper, and Tory with the job of seeing that his lordship got it.

      And here I was hoping I would never have to face him again. Tory sighed. Hardly realistic if she wished to retain her position. At least after last night, he knew she had no interest in becoming anything other than his housekeeper.

      Timmons’s bald head flashed in the sunlight as the door closed behind him, and Tory headed for the breakfast room, a cheery salon done in shades of yellow and blue overlooking the garden. Perhaps the earl wouldn’t yet be there. If she hurried, she could leave the paper beside his plate and not have to see him.

      She walked toward the door, opening the paper as she went, making a quick perusal of the headlines. Tory froze two paces outside the door.

      Baron Harwood Arrives in London, Tells Strange Tale of Robbery and Attempted Murder.

      Her heart jolted to a screeching halt, as did her feet, then started beating in a heavy, sluggish rhythm. According the Chronicle, the baron had received near-fatal head injuries during the course of a robbery at Harwood Hall, his country estate in Kent. His attacker had inflicted a great deal of pain and rendered him temporarily incapable of memory. He had only just recovered enough to proceed to London in search of the villain responsible for the deed.

      There was mention of the valuable pearl necklace that had been stolen but no accusations against his stepdaughters. It appeared the baron valued his reputation far too much to stir up that sort of scandal. Instead there was simply a description of the two young women he believed responsible for the crime. Unfortunately, the descriptions fit her and Claire to a T.

      At least I didn’t kill him, Tory thought with relief, then wondered with a trace of guilt if perhaps it would have been better if she had.

      Just then the door to the breakfast room swung open and the earl strode out. Tory jumped, jammed the newspaper behind her back and forced herself to look up at him.

      “Good morning, my lord.”

      “Good morning, Mrs. Temple.” He looked down at the table. “Have you seen my morning paper? Timmons usually leaves it on the breakfast table.”

      The paper seemed to burn her fingers. “No, my lord. Perhaps it is in your study. Shall I go and see?”

      “I’ll go.” The minute he turned and started walking, she hurried away, hiding the newspaper in her skirts, hating to deceive him yet grateful the exchange between them had been so matter-of-fact.

      At least part of her was grateful. The other part resented the fact he could look at her as if he had never pressed her up against his tall, hard-muscled body, never kissed her lips, never slid his tongue inside her—

      Tory broke off, aghast at the train of her thoughts. She was a lady, no matter her current position—not one of the earl’s scarlet women. And thinking about last night was the last thing she wanted to do. Determined to put the incident behind her, she headed upstairs to find Claire, to warn her sister of the article in the paper.

      Leaving London would undoubtedly be the safest course. But they had yet to receive their next pay and what they had earned so far would barely get them out of the city.

      In the end, she decided the best plan was to remain where they were, hiding virtually in plain sight, hoping no more articles would appear in the paper or that if they did, no one would equate the baron’s odd tale to their appearance in Lord Brant’s household.

      Tory shuddered, praying no one would. Not only would she find herself tossed into prison, but the baron would, at last, have complete and utter control of Claire.