Page 2 of Touched By a Traitor
Andrew rounded on his surrogate mother, muscles tightening with barely contained frustration. “I want no part in this sordid business.”
“No?” Madam’s words dripped with maternal mockery. “You’ve been an ill-tempered brute these months past. I imagine one evening with a sweet girl like Miss Grace should remedy that disposition entirely.”
“Mother.” The word scraped from his throat like gravel, heavy with warning.
Miss Grace’s composure cracked at last, her eyes going wide with dawning comprehension. “Mother? You’re her—”
“Not by blood,” Andrew cut in sharply. “It’s… complicated.”
Madam’s sharp features softened to genuine affection beneath the calculated exterior. “I found him stealing bread as a scrawny lad. Took him in, raised him proper. Now look at my boy—master of the Sovereign Seas Trading Corporation.”
The change in the woman was instant and electric. Gone was the haunted desperation, replaced by keen intelligence as her mind seized upon this revelation. “The Sovereign Seas? The shipping enterprise?”
Her voice carried a note of recognition and something more calculating.
“Why, yes,” Madam said distractedly as her attention wavered. “Ah, the duke beckons. Do try not to devour each other, children.” With those words, Madam drifted away.
In the vacuum of Madam’s absence, Andrew found himself trapped in Miss Grace’s calculating gaze. The cool disdain had vanished, replaced by something far more dangerous—hope tempered with shrewd assessment.
“Have you reconsidered my proposition, Mr. Creswell?” Her voice took on a velvety tone, though he noticed how her hands trembled slightly as she smoothed her skirts.
“No.”
He turned to escape, but her fingers closed around his wrist like a shackle. The touch blazed between them unexpectedly, and Andrew stared at the point of contact, transfixed by how small and delicate her hand appeared compared to his. Her skin was soft but cold, as if she’d been standing in winter air.
“Please,” she breathed, and the word cracked open something in her carefully constructed facade. “I need your help.I have a plan—something that could change everything. But I can’t manage it alone.”
For just a moment, her mask slipped entirely. He saw not the calculating aristocrat or the woman offering her virtue, but someone achingly young and afraid, clinging to hope by her fingernails. The vulnerability in her eyes reminded him of his own reflection in shop windows during those hungry years on the streets.
“What sort of plan?” The words escaped before wisdom could catch them.
Her eyes darted across the crowded parlor, taking in the various gentlemen who might overhear. “Not here. Is there somewhere we might speak privately?”
Before Andrew could respond, a booming voice cut through his contemplation like a blade through silk.
“Creswell!” Lord Wilson approached with the particular swagger of inherited wealth, his smile as genuine as a counterfeit sovereign. The man’s evening dress was immaculate—black tailcoat perfectly fitted, white cravat tied with mathematical precision, gold watch chain gleaming across his considerable waistcoat. “I’ve been meaning to discuss a rather lucrative opportunity with you.”
Miss Grace withdrew her hand, though the ghost of her touch lingered like a brand upon his skin. “Lord Wilson.”
“I couldn’t help but notice the remarkable growth of your enterprise.” Wilson’s tone suggested he was bestowing a great honor by merely acknowledging Andrew’s existence. “My associates and I would be willing to invest substantially. Say, ten thousand pounds for a quarter share?”
“You’re most kind,” Andrew replied with careful politeness, “but Sovereign Seas isn’t seeking investors at present.”
Wilson’s smile tightened at the corners like poorly stretched leather. “Come now, Creswell. Surely you understand theadvantages of having friends in the right circles? One never knows when the tide might turn against a man.”
“The tide has served me well enough these past years,” Andrew said evenly, though his shoulders tensed at the veiled threat.
Wilson’s gaze slid to Miss Grace with predatory interest, his eyes cataloguing her form with the same calculation he might apply to a prize horse at Tattersall’s. She instinctively shifted closer to Andrew, seeking shelter in his shadow.
“Speaking of treasures… what a lovely creature. If you’re not making use of her particular charms, perhaps I might arrange a more suitable introduction?”
Andrew’s jaw clenched, the muscle ticking beneath his skin. The casual way Wilson spoke of her, as if she were cargo to be traded, made his blood sing with protective fury. Whatever this woman’s circumstances, she deserved better than to be discussed like livestock.
“You mistake the lady’s station, Wilson. Miss Grace is a gentlewoman under my protection.”
The lie rolled off his tongue with surprising ease. Something about her desperate courage demanded his defense, even if he didn’t fully understand why.
Wilson’s eyebrows shot up, a knowing smirk playing at his lips. “Is she indeed? How convenient. Though I must say, Creswell, for a man of your humble origins, you play the gallant protector rather convincingly.” He adjusted his cravat with manicured fingers. “Still, should you tire of the role, my offer for both ventures stands. Good evening.”
