Chapter Three
‘What do you make of the little nun?’ Quinn lounged on his great canopied bed and watched Gregor checking doors, windows and hangings in his usual obsessive search for assassins and escape routes. ‘Do stop that, Gregor. If there’s a fire, I will climb out of the window. I do not expect any other danger in this house except from the hazards created by my late uncle’s collection. And when we get to London it is likely to be pistols at dawn, not knives at midnight.’
‘Nun?’ The other man turned back from the wardrobe he was investigating. He spoke English with a heavy accent, but no reluctance, nor was there any sign of subservience in his manner now. It amused Quinn to observe his friend changing roles as the fancy took him or circumstances demanded. Gregor was enjoying teasing the servants and he was baffled by Quinn’s indifference to his new title. ‘That is no nun.’
‘No?’ Quinn sketched the scraped-back hair, gestured down his body as though to show the plain black gown, then mimed a wimple over his head. ‘What is she, then, because I am damned if I can tell?’
‘Trouble,’ Gregor grunted. Satisfied with his search, he settled into a huge carved chair. ‘A virgin. They are trouble always.’
‘You think she’s an innocent?’ Quinn stirred himself enough to lever his long body up on his elbows and peer down the length of it to look at the other man. He was not so sure. Those sidelong looks from under the heavy lashes, the pretty shows of deference combined with a slight pout—those were not the little tricks of an innocent.
‘She looks at you as though she has no idea what to do with you, but she would be quite interested to find out, if only she dared,’ the big Russian said.
Quinn snorted and flopped back on the pillows. ‘Jupiter and Mars, but I am tired. She is worried I am going to throw her out, that is all. And she is not used to the likes of us, my friend. I should not have fed her wine.’
‘You do not want her? I would like her.’
‘Offer her your protection, then.’ Quinn closed his eyes and told himself that it was too late, and he was too tired, to go downstairs and start rummaging in the library. Those books would still be there tomorrow. As for women, the blonde intrigued him, stirred certain fundamental male responses, but she would still be there tomorrow as well. Women usually were, and this one was not going anywhere.
Now was a good time to enjoy being clean, fed, relaxed. It was a couple of weeks since he had last had a woman, but deferred pleasures were usually sweeter for the contemplation. Like revenge. The urge for that was stronger here, in his great-uncle’s house.
London would give him both.
‘She is frightened of me, although she tried to hide it,’ Gregor’s deep voice observed, cutting through his attempts to doze. ‘Her eyes, they have fear in them when they look at me. I like my women willing.’
‘And she is not afraid of me?’
‘She is aware of you. And what is the word, almost the same?’
‘Wary?’
‘Da. Wary. Puzzled. You are not what she expects a nobleman to be like. And, of course, you are prettier than me, so she looks more at you.’
Quinn reached out a hand, took hold of a pillow and slung it in Gregor’s direction. It was hurled back with considerable accuracy. ‘Go to bed and stop thinking about women,’ he said, catching it. ‘Have they given you a decent room?’
‘A servant’s room, in the attics. It will do.’
‘You are certain?’ Quinn opened one eye and contemplated the motheaten bed canopy above his head. ‘I can ring and have you moved to a luxurious apartment like this one. It would only take an hour or two to clear a path to the bed.’
‘Tomorrow, perhaps. We have worried them enough today,’ Gregor said as he got up and stretched hugely. ‘They do not know what to make of us, they are fearful—or the little nun is fearful—and we shocked them with our bath.’
‘I am not going to splash about in two inches of scummy water in a tin bucket,’ Quinn said. ‘We made certain the women were out of the way, didn’t we?’
‘The women are sad that they did not see us and the men are jealous because we are so magnificently made,’ the Russian said with a wicked chuckle. ‘Like stallions.
Good night, lord.’ He closed the door behind him just as the second pillow hit it.
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Quinn lay still for a moment, then heaved himself up with a grunt, stripped off his clothing, tossed it on to a chair, blew out the candles beside the bed and fell back naked on to the covers in one continuous movement.
England. England after ten years, and now the dishonourable Mr Ashley was the fourth Baron Dreycott of Cleybourne in the county of Norfolk. A title he did not want, an estate he did not care about and, no doubt, a list of debts that would make no impression on his personal fortune. But all the hazards and discomforts of two months of travelling, all the squalor of a Channel crossing in the teeth of a late gale, all the grime and chaos of London, were worth it for the treasures in this house. And there was the added savour of the stir he would cause when he set about establishing himself in London.
Revenge. Quinn savoured the thought. Lies, arrogance, cowardice; three things he detested, three sins he intended to punish. It had not mattered so much for himself; he had been away and out of it. But Simon had suffered for his defence of his great-nephew and that was a score to be settled.
But he had waited ten years for vengeance; dreams of that could wait. As he dragged a sheet over himself and let sleep take him, he recalled the other thing he appeared to have inherited along with the title and the estate and the books. The wary little nun was an intriguing puzzle, because whatever else she was, she was not a housekeeper, he would bet his matched Manton duelling pistols on it. No, perhaps not those, he might need them.
Lina was doing her very best impression of a housekeeper the next morning, complete with a large apron that she wore like armour against the two disturbing male intruders.