Page 165 of Dukes for Dessert

She wrinkled her nose. “What an odd friendship,” Nor did he have friends. “You and Herbie are an unlikely pairing.”

Who in hell was this Herbie fellow? He ran the name through his mind, the partner to this thief who’d wrestled the great family relic from his wall.

She paused once again. “Do you intend to help?”

“Help?” He sent an eyebrow arching up.

Her color deepened. “I understand you didn’t come to clean the Devil’s den.” Despite himself, his lips twitched. “And of course I know it was my fault, however, I’d be grateful if you helped me tidy this, please.” The armor-clad thief expected him to clean?

Silently, he went to a knee beside her and began picking up shards of glass, setting them into the urn. If a single member of his staff, family, or acquaintance saw him, they’d have him committed to Bedlam. In silence, he and the bold miss picked up shard after shard, in a tight, yet companionable silence. He stole a glance at her as she diligently cleaned his floor, dropping the larger shards into the urn. Feeling his gaze, she stopped and looked up.

“What?” She was a fearless, unrepentant thing.

He jerked his chin at her costume. “And what are you supposed to be?”

“A shepherdess.”

He passed a dubious stare over the lady.

She grinned. “I’m merely teasing.” She waved a particularly jagged piece about and he leaned away from the lethal shard, not entirely sure the lady thief didn’t also intend murder that night. “I’m Joan of Arc.”

Of course she was. Except, unlike that honorable, gallant defender, this one was, well, dishonorable. “You have me intrigued,” he said on an icy whisper.

She stilled and picked her head up, with but a handbreadth of space between them. “I do?” And close as they were, he detected the trace of rosemary and sage that clung to her, as though she’d danced through a garden before infiltrating his home.

Damian paused and captured a black curl that had tumbled over her brow. He tucked it behind her ear and the lady’s breath caught. “I gather you’re stealing the sword.”

“Broadsword.”

He looked at her askance.

“I’m stealing the broadsword.” She frowned. “Well, I am not stealing it.”

He’d learned long ago to live life in absolutes. Either she was or she wasn’t. There was no shade of in between. “Aren’t you?” What would the lady call her sneaking into a man’s office and filching a family artifact from his wall?

She bristled with indignation. “I suspect Herbie didn’t take time to explain the situation to you, which is very like him. He was not at all comfortable with this rescue.”

Rescue?

She glanced about, searching for interlopers, seeming to forget he’d turned the lock. “The Devil Duke stole it.” Her soft whisper floated up to his ears.

“I beg your pardon?” he barked. Damian didn’t give a jot about the legend and lore around the sword. He did, on the other hand, care a good deal about her casting aspersions on his family’s actions.

The lady was either too cracked in the head to detect outrage, or was something of a lackwit, for she failed to show any hint of nervousness. Then, any person who’d steal into his home, all to abscond with his personal property was likely a combination of the two. She nodded emphatically. “Precisely. Stole it. Nicked it.” Purchased it for a significant sum. “Made off with it.” Had it turned over to his care by that Ormond fellow. She paused. “Or his vile ancestors did, anyway.” She looked to the sword, her expression serious, and then raised her eyes to his once more and firmed her jaw. “It is my family’s sword.”

By God. It could not be. One of them wouldn’t have the audacity to dare enter his home and yet the lady’s knowledge of the history and interest in that weapon made sense. “What is your name?” he demanded. Because only one other family had maintained a claim, an erroneous claim to the revered artifact. And this plump, dark-haired siren was not—

“Theodosia,” she pointed to the sword. “And that, sir, is the Theodosia Gladius.”

Well, Lucifer’s army. It would seem she was.

A Rayne.

* * *

The laconic, not at all smiling, mostly scowling gentleman certainly didn’t seem the type Herbie would keep company with. And certainly not the type of gentleman the shy, always-nervous, young viscount would best in a wager. Oh, she wasn’t judging the viscount unfairly. She’d sat across from Herbie in a game of whist and faro on a number of scores to know his exact abilities. Yet this man exuded a primal vitality not reserved for the mere mortals of the world such as Herbie, and all others she’d known.

More than a foot taller than she, the powerful stranger’s muscle-hewn frame bespoke power and strength. Even through the black mask obscuring the stranger’s face, Theo appreciated the hard, chiseled planes of his cheeks. She detected the glint of intelligence in the gentleman’s ice blue eyes and was left to wonder as to what the gentleman would look like with the disguise removed.

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