Eve’s mind teemed with curiosity. He is not, what?

“Mother,” the duchess greeted. Eve dipped another curtsy for her employer, the Countess of Lavery.

“Mrs. Nelson,” the older woman said without preamble. “Will you please sit?” She gestured to the seat Eve previously occupied and then claimed the delicate ivory settee opposite her.

Both mother and daughter stared on in silence. Eve, however, had long grown accustomed to quiet. She was the daughter of a lieutenant colonel who had ingrained into his only child the skills that ultimately went with the military—tenacity, adaptability, and the ability to maintain silence.

Prepared for the enumeration of her responsibilities, she was, instead, stunned by the countess’ words. “It is my understanding you followed the drum.”

Her heart stopped and a sickening dread slithered around her insides. In crafting false references for employment at the agency, Eve had shown her father’s ruthlessness and presented herself as a war widow. There was far more kindness shown a hero’s widowed wife than a traitor’s spinster daughter. She searched the countess’ features for any hint of accusation or knowing that an Ormond sat before her, but her eyes revealed nothing but curiosity.

Eve cleared her throat. “I did, my lady. I followed the drum in the Peninsular Campaign—”

The Duchess of Devlin gasped and slapped a hand over her mouth. From over her palm, her eyes formed perfect circles. Oh, God, she’d said too much. Eve firmed her shoulders and braced to be shown the door.

“Do you know anything about my son, Mrs. Nelson?”

At the unexpected question, she slowly shook her head. As a girl, her father regaled her with tales of their family’s battle with the Raynes. Beyond those stories of long ago, she knew nothing about the people before her. “No, my lady.” As it was, most young women being interviewed and assigned employment were not afforded the details of the lofty employers whose households they’d been assigned.

Tears filled the other woman’s eyes and she blinked. “My son fought in the Peninsular Campaign. He was taken from the fields of Talavera...” With the countess’ words droning on in her mind, Eve focused on breathing. Oh, God, this was to be her penance for her family’s sins. The constant reminder of war and warfare, and her father’s treachery, even in the countryside, there was no escaping it. Her family had betrayed the Raynes, not once, but twice. And with my presence here, a third time. “And he is not the same,” Lady Lavery finished.

Because of my father. Nausea roiled in her belly and she swallowed hard to keep from casting up the contents of her stomach. How many soldiers and their families suffered because of the greed and crimes of her own sire?

“He is angry,” the duchess put in quietly. “He barely speaks.” Her throat worked. “Except to order people coldly about and hurl obscenities.” Well, having moved freely among soldiers for the better part of her life, Eve was more at home with that rawness and realness than the polite affairs she’d attended through the ballrooms of Europe.

“He has run off nearly all the servants. The only members of the staff remaining are our oldest, most loyal souls.” She struck the air with her wildly gesticulating hand. “Even the remaining servants will not enter his chambers but to bring his food and tray, and...” The countess ceased her nervous prattling and coughed into her hand. “I hope to find a servant who might not only care for his chambers but also read to him, and...” The lady’s lips pulled in a grimace. “Talk to him.” Lady Lavery covered her eyes briefly with her palm. “I should not be leaving for the London Season,” she murmured. Her daughter claimed her fingers, giving them a squeeze.

Eve stared, momentarily transfixed by that foreign bond of mother and daughter. Her own mother died giving life to her. She’d never known anything but a gruff, military-minded papa.

The countess continued speaking. “My son is...was—” She grimaced and gave her head a shake.

She stored enough secrets and silence to rival the Home Office that she’d no business to even a jot of curiosity about that slight, telltale movement. And yet, intrigue stirred for this dark family with their sad expressions and unfinished sentences. “May I speak freely, my lady?” she asked quietly.

“You do not want the post,” the countess blurted.

Eve cocked her head. She’d no right to the post, but wanted, nay needed it, anyway. It proved with her self-serving presence here, how very much of her blood she shared with her dead father. “I—”

“I more than understand,” the older woman interrupted. “I can offer you greater wages,” she continued, wringing her hands together. “Or mayhap—”

“My lady,” Eve said, blending gentleness with that slight command, in a tone she’d heard her late father use with countless soldiers. “I am not a young miss. I’m a woman of nearly thirty. I’ve...seen war.” Memories trickled in of picking her way around a battlefield slick with blood, helping those men who could be helped. Their cries and shouts of agony pealed around her mind.

“Mrs. Nelson?” the duchess’ query, laced with concern, wrenched her back to the moment.

Eve’s neck heated at that revealing weakness. “I’ve heard things no lady ought to hear.” Sounds of dying a death far darker than any curse words strewn together could be. “I’ve no intention of abandoning my post,” she said with a firm resolve. She’d no choice.

A slow smile wreathed the lady’s gaunt cheeks and she came to her feet. “Come, then, allow me to show you to my son’s chambers and introduce you.”

She fell into step behind the Duchess of Devlin and Countess of Lavery. By the employment agency and Captain Raynes’ family’s own admission, he’d run off numerous servants before her. Eve, however, had faced angry men, bitter soldiers, and ruthless warriors. How difficult could one gentleman be?

Chapter 3

The infernal rapping resumed.

Bloody hell, would they not leave already? This staccato beating however, more cheerful and quick than all the previous knocks. Obviously that happy rhythm came in knowing whichever bloody kin stood on the opposite side of that door would soon be free of this place.

His mother. His father. Theo and her husband, the Duke of Devlin. He’d entered Lucas’ chambers two times. That was two times too many since his return nearly one year earlier.

“Lucas?” his mother’s voice more lively than he recalled, in the whole of his eleven months home cut through the wood panel. “I would like to introduce you to Mrs. Nelson.”

Lucas ran his scarred palms down his face. The servant was, in fact, a her. And the her was named, Mrs. Nelson. If he were capable of laughing, he’d have managed a sharp bark of amusement at being saddled with a maid named for one of the most honorable, triumphant military commanders. But laughter had died long ago.

“I am opening the door, Lucas,” his mother called more loudly.

Did she fear he’d be relieving himself in the chamber pot as he’d done the time she’d sent a young maid around? Alas, propriety and politeness, and all that had once made him a charming rogue, had been jaded by life; from darkness far worse than death and dying upon the battlefield.

The faint murmur of voices on the other side of that panel gave him the faint hope that, mayhap, they’d go off and leave him the hell alone. Alas, he should have known by the hell that was living the folly in hope.

“Lucas,” his sister greeted, moving forward, her steps more hesitant than they’d ever been. And that unease matched in her eyes. When he’d left, Theodosia had been a mischievous romantic believing in the lure of the Theodosia sword, an artifact she’d been named after. She now stood before him with those miserably sad, pitying eyes.

His gut clenched. How he despised that bloody emotion; he’d been subjected to it the moment he’d been set free from the French. Suffered through it when he’d been carried to his parents’ Kent estate. Shut away in his rooms was the only hint of freedom he’d know.

Deliberately averting his stare, he turned his head and took in the tall woman who stood alongside his mother in the doorway. This was the servant they’d turn his care over to now? So thin, a strong gust could knock her down, the woman had dull brown hair, drawn tight at her nape. That only accentuated her brown eyes, impossibly big in her pale face. His lip peeled. How vastly different the somber, severe woman was than the beauties he’d left behind in his wake.

Then, the lady wasn’t here to plead for his kisses or a spot in his bed, but rather to tidy his rooms and bring him meals he’d long ago ceased to taste. “Is this the woman here to empty my chamber pot?” he asked, his voice gravelly, when it once had been smooth and effortless. Lucas hung his arm over the side of the bed and picked up the chipped porcelain pot. “No need, yet,” he taunted.

His mother and Theo’s gasps blended in like horror.

Mrs. Nelson, however, angled her tall, willowy body dismissively. She flicked an assessing stare over him and then as though she’d found him wanting, looked around the room. Her gaze left no spot untouched; lingering on the drawn curtains and then returning to the chipped chamber pot. “There are far greater matters demanding my attention in these rooms than your chamber pot, Captain. Particularly an empty one.”

Lucas froze. Surely he’d imagined that insolence? Surely this stranger who’d entered his rooms hadn’t the courage, let alone the audacity to challenge him? People avoided his eyes, they walked, nay ran in the opposite direction. They did not stand with the proud, regal bearing better suited a battle-hardened warrior than an unattractive woman, certainly near her thirtieth year.