The Duke Meets His Match (The Infamous Somertons #3)(9)

“Little liar. Your body trembled at the first touch of my lips. And even if you were as frigid as a block of ice, I would still insist you leave Lord Sefton be.”

“You may be a duke, but you are not a gentleman.”

“There’s no room for chivalry in war.”

“And is this war?”

“Only if you don’t obey.”

Blue sparks flashed in her eyes. “So be it, Your Grace.” Whirling away, she snatched her cloak from the settee and walked out of the room with a swirl of skirts. He heard her footsteps down the marble hall, and a moment later, the front door slammed closed.



Michael followed Chloe at a discreet distance until he saw her climb into a hackney at the end of the street. At least she had the good sense to tell the driver to wait. He imagined her slipping through the servants’ entrance at Huntingdon’s home, or knowing her audacity, she may attempt to climb through one of the windows.

He curled his lips into a smile. He wouldn’t put anything past Chloe Somerton.

Michael returned to the library, poured himself another whisky, sat in the chair, and stretched his booted feet before him. Sleep would elude him tonight, as it did almost every night since he’d returned from the war. A memory of his friend, Sefton, rose before him, and Michael absentmindedly rubbed the thin scar beneath his chin. They’d met as homesick boys at Eaton and had disliked each other at first until Michael had defended twelve-year-old Sefton from the school tyrant. Michael had won the fight, but he’d received the scar. Thereafter, Sefton and Michael had become best friends, and they’d gone on to Oxford before joining the army.

Michael sighed. He sipped his drink, savoring the expensive alcohol, hoping it would numb him enough to get a few hours respite.

His thoughts returned to the lady.

He picked up her discarded glass on the end table, and lamplight flickered off the cut crystal. He envied the glass where her lips touched. He envisioned her full pink lips parting for his kiss, the smooth, expensive whisky on her tongue.

The possession of her mouth had nearly brought him to his knees. He hadn’t expected the flare of lust from one simple kiss.

Had he been wrong about her? Could she be sexually innocent?

Highly unlikely.

He’d seen her pick pockets with quick, skillful fingers. She was a consummate actress and skilled at deception and thievery.

He’d first seen her on Bond Street when he’d accompanied his brother, Everet, on the way to the shoemaker’s for a new pair of boots. Everet had spotted a friend from Oxford and had stopped to speak with the man. Michael had waited nearby as pedestrians entered shops and wandered along the busy street. Couples chatted, and a hawker selling fresh baked rolls called out, selling his wares outside a bakery. It was a pleasant spring afternoon, and people were out enjoying the fine weather and the wares of the London shops.

Then he saw her.

Her pale hair was pulled back in a bun and she wore a faded blue dress. Her clothing was simple, certainly not that of a wealthy lady but of the working class. A shopkeeper, most likely. She was smiling and the sun glinted off her golden hair, and when she turned to face him he was struck by a pair of the bluest eyes he’d ever seen. She was charming. Lovely.

And young.

She was carrying a basket with what looked like cakes of paint and brushes. An artist? His gaze followed her as she wove through the crowd. He noticed she was following a pair of dandies, gentlemen with flowered waistcoats, ridiculously high-pointed collars, and beaver hats. The men were strutting about like arrogant peacocks, reveling in the attention from the passersby. The lady kept two or three paces behind them. Subtle, very subtle. Anyone else watching would never have thought she was following the pair, but Michael was a military man, and he knew a well-practiced maneuver when he spotted one.

Then she bumped into one of the dandies, blushed prettily, and anyone watching would think that was the end of it. But sure enough, her slender fingers snuck into a flowered waistcoat and pulled out a handkerchief. With a flick of her wrist, the stolen good was tucked into her basket. He watched, absorbed, as she efficiently pilfered three more items from well-dressed gentlemen. Two additional handkerchiefs and a snuffbox.

Damn, she was good.

Then Everet had called his name, distracting Michael. An instant later, he had turned back, but she had disappeared into the crowd.

Fascinating.

He’d never attempted to summon a constable. From the look of the dandy’s fine clothing, when he discovered his handkerchief missing, he would think he dropped it in the street or forgotten it at home in a chest of drawers cluttered with dozens of similar handkerchiefs. Either way, it would be no hardship to the man’s purse.

The other men looked just as wealthy. Michael had felt a stab of sympathy for the bloke who had his snuffbox taken, but for some reason, he had not notified the man or the authorities. Something about the girl was compelling, enchanting, and he hadn’t wanted to see her shackled and dragged away by a hardened, unsympathetic constable.

Michael had thought of the lady thief for days afterward. He’d returned to the same spot on Bond Street several times over the next two weeks, hoping to spot her, but she’d never appeared. She’d slipped through his fingers then, only to show up now, five years later.

Chloe’s life circumstances may have changed, but her unscrupulous past remained a part of her. Instead of filching handkerchiefs or other belongings from wealthy men, she planned to snag the young Earl of Sefton and his fortune.