The Wicked Heir (Spare Heirs #3)(118)

When, after a few minutes, no one came out of the room, she began to relax. She could still hear quite a bit of movement within, and her curiosity won out over caution. Twisting her upper body, she leaned forward until she could take just a quick peek through the crack in the door.

She saw the butler first. He stood with his back to her, thank God, as he rifled through the drawers of a tallboy dresser.

Beyond the butler, Honeycutt was only partially visible where he sat on a bench turned three-quarters away from her in front of a large mirror propped atop a table.

Portia scanned the room for the other man she had heard speaking. She saw no one else in her limited view. It made her nervous, not being able to see where the third man may be. But then her gaze swung back to Honeycutt as he grasped the bottom hem of his coat and drew it up over his head—along with the waistcoat beneath, the shirt, and the neckcloth.

It all came off in one attached piece.

Portia was pondering the reason for such a strange design when her attention was forcefully snared by what had been revealed by the sudden disrobing.

Honeycutt was not a man in his later years.

His upper body was sharply defined by hard, lean muscle beneath smooth, tawny skin. As he lifted his arms to clear the garment from his head, the dim candlelight rippled over the contours of his shoulders and back. There was not a bit of extra bulk or flab. Just taut, agile strength.

“Wot’ll you do, Mr. Turner?”

The butler’s voice pulled Portia back from her momentary distraction. A strange heat bloomed just beneath the surface of her skin as she felt a wave of light-headedness, making her realize that she had stopped breathing. She spun around to press her shoulders to the wall again, grasping her skirts in her hands to draw them in so as not to be seen from inside the room.

She had forgotten herself for a few moments and had gotten frightfully close to tumbling right into the room. Chastising herself for such carelessness, she fought to regain control of her breath. But it was not so easy now that she had the surprising image of Honeycutt’s strong masculine physique stamped indelibly in her mind.

“I’ll pay Hale a visit,” said the low voice with the subtle Cockney accent. “Find out if he knows anything about this girl. Even if he wasn’t involved, Hale may have some information.”

Honeycutt had talked with the intonation of the middle class. This man spoke in a way that brought up impressions of back-alley dealings and midnight capers. There was a depth to his voice, a thread of danger in the low tenor that made Portia’s skin tingle with alarm.

What did the sour little butler call him? Mr. Turner?

An unexpected thought occurred to Portia, sending a wild tingle through her blood.

“Wot costume should I ready?”

Costume?

“Mr. Black, I think. And toss me the face cream, would you? I need to get this beard off.”

There was a pause and the sound of some jars moving about on a shelf. Then a muttered “thank you” as she imagined the butler handing off the requested cream.

Fury welled hot in Portia’s stomach. She had been right to be suspicious. What kind of scam were they running? Had Angelique unwittingly walked them into a fleecing? They had already given Honeycutt—or was it Turner?—a significant purse.

But no. They had been talking about Hale. There seemed to be some intention to investigate Lily’s abduction.

But what about this Nightshade? Why are they not contacting their supposed employer? Or is it possible…

There were several more minutes of shuffling movement as Portia contemplated the situation with rising trepidation. Then there was the distinct sound of water being poured into a basin, followed by the splashes of vigorous washing.

“Wot if Hale don’t know nuthin’?” the butler asked.

Portia tensed. It was a question she had not allowed herself to consider in any depth. The abduction had to be connected with Hale. There was no other logical possibility. No other lead to follow if that were the case.

“Then we made a pretty purse for an hour’s worth of work.”

Portia’s intention to remain hidden in the hall immediately disintegrated. Pushing off from the wall, she burst into the little room. “Like hell you did.”

The butler was nearest to the door, and he gave an obvious start at her sudden intrusion. Portia ignored his shocked glare. All of her attention focused on the man who sat in front of the mirror with a towel draped over his head as he dried his hair. She fixed her furious gaze on his broad shoulders, the fire in her blood rising exponentially.

“You have been hired to bring my sister home, and that is what you will do,” she declared in a commanding tone she had borrowed from her formidable sister Emma. “Am I clear, Mr. Honeycutt? Or is it Mr. Turner? Or should I just call you Nightshade?”

The butler took a swift and menacing step toward her, placing himself between her and the exit. Portia did not acknowledge him, waiting instead for the other man to respond.

At first, Turner did nothing to acknowledge her presence, as though his strange toilet was often interrupted by angry young women. While she watched, waiting with her arms crossed indignantly over her chest, he finished drying his hair. The movements of his arms caused a fascinating bunching and releasing of the muscles across his shoulders and down his back. After a minute of this, as Portia’s mouth went curiously dry, he stood from the bench and turned toward her.