Page 9 of The Truth About Lord Stoneville
She glanced to Freddy, who looked as if he might faint. Then she met Lord Stoneville’s gaze. “Very well. We have an agreement.”
Chapter Three
“Excellent,” Oliver said, releasing a breath. Until that moment, he hadn’t been sure he would prevail. Any woman brave enough to thrust a blade at him was unpredictable at best, and dangerous at worst. “On the count of three, we both release the sword. All right?”
She nodded, her blue gaze dipping to where her hand gripped the hilt.
“One. Two. Three,” he counted.
The sword clattered to the floor.
Instantly, Porter and Tate seized the stripling she’d called Freddy. When the chap let out a cry, she whirled toward them in alarm. Oliver bent to retrieve the sword, then handed it off to Polly, the brothel owner, who carried it to safety.
“Bring him in here,” Oliver ordered, nodding toward the parlor as he caught hold of Miss Butterfield’s arm and urged her in that direction.
“You needn’t manhandle me,” she hissed, though she didn’t fight him.
“Trust me, Miss Butterfield, you’ll know when I’m manhandling you.” He stopped before a chair. “Sit,” he commanded, pushing her into it. “And try to restrain your urge to attack people for half a moment, will you?”
“I was not—”
“As for you,” he growled at her companion, “give me the satchel that caused all this furor.”
“Yes, sir . . . I mean, my lord.”
Oliver took the satchel from the young man, whose face was drained of all color. Clearly, he lacked his companion’s fierceness.
The satchel appeared ordinary—made of decent leather, with the usual brass fittings. Though it contained a number of banknotes, that didn’t necessarily mean the lad had been trying to steal it. Most thieves would have removed the money and left the satchel, if only to keep from alerting anyone.
“Where did you get this, Tate?” Oliver asked.
“At the pawnshop round the corner. I bought it months ago.”
When Miss Butterfield snorted, Oliver shot her a dark glance. “You claim that it belongs to your fiancé?”
“If you’ll check the lettering,” she said loftily, “I daresay you’ll find his initials, ‘NJH,’ stamped on one side, and the words ‘New Bedford Ships’ on the other. I had it specially made for him myself.”
“Did you now?” Though she was right about the lettering,it didn’t prove much. A couple of clever Newgate birds would have scouted the item before attempting to steal it. They would already know what was engraved on it.
Still, this pair didn’t seem like Newgate birds. They dressed too well for that, in what looked like deep mourning. New Bedford was in America, and they were definitely American, judging from their accents.
That might account for the chit’s boldness. He’d always heard that American women were saucy. But saucy was one thing; bold enough to brave a brothel and put a blade to a man’s throat was quite another. They might merely be a higher class of thief. If so, wearing black was a nice touch. Who would suspect a woman in mourning of anything criminal?
Especially one who was so very pretty. Tendrils of strawberry-blond hair framed her lovely face beneath her bonnet of raven silk and crepe. She had a pert nose, freckled cheeks, and a mouth made for seduction. He skimmed his gaze down her form with the expert eye of a man long used to undressing women. Beneath the heavy fabric of her redingote, she clearly had a body made for seduction, too, with lush hips and lusher breasts. Exactly his sort.
Hmmm . . .
Perhaps he could use this situation to his advantage. He’d had little luck this week in finding a whore acceptable enough to further his plan.
He turned to Porter and Tate. “Release the lad, and leave us.”
“Now see here, my lord, I don’t think—” Porter began.
“They’ll get their just deserts,” Oliver asserted. “You won’t have cause for complaint.”
“And what about my satchel?” Tate pressed.
“Yoursatchel!” Miss Butterfield shot to her feet. “How dare—”
