The Sins of Lord Lockwood (Rules for the Reckless #6)(10)

“Thank you, I will.” She sipped her own coffee, then wrinkled her nose and reached for the cream. “Now, as for the question of hiring replacements—”

“I’m afraid I can’t let any of the men go,” Liam said. “But if you wish to reassign them to positions that better suit their strengths, by all means, do so.”

She stared. Some trick of the slanting morning light lit the tips of her long red lashes, and illuminated her eyes so they glowed like peridots.

With a jolt, he realized she was not staring but glaring, and quickly made an apologetic grimace.

Christ, he had no idea what face to show her. He was doing his best here to play the affable boy she’d known, but he would slip up; it already felt like a parody somehow. “Forgive me,” he said. “I know it’s inconvenient. But when you come back—say, in the autumn—”

“Oh no, it’s a fine idea.” She took a measured sip of her coffee. “Do tell me, what positions here best suit incompetence and drunkenness?”

He stopped a sigh. Those were the least of the men’s sins. The thieving, gambling, and brawling were at least commonplace flaws. But Hanks, left to his own devices, often dissolved into tears, and refused to leave his bed till dusk. Henneage went into rages: he had broken several chairs a week ago after one of the maids had called him a lazy toad.

He had done it only after the maid left, though, which Wilkins had argued was in his favor. Wilkins was forever speaking up for others, but had no ability to defend himself. Indeed, Liam had once caught him drawing in the flesh of his own arm with a razor, but after a severe discussion, Wilkins had not done it again.

These would look like vices to her. But they were not. They were the relics of survival. At the height of it, Elland had held ninety prisoners. Forty, besides Liam, had survived to the end. Six had died of injuries before leaving Australia, and four more had perished of the cholera in Singapore. Twelve had dropped off later, in ports that welcomed newcomers with vague histories. Of the twenty who had reached England, twelve had returned to their former lives, and the remaining eight, lacking family or resources, lived here—where, as long as they limited their deviancies to those things that harmed nobody else, they were free to remain.

His wife, of course, would not understand any of this. His wife, being a piece of sheltered innocence bred on privilege and swaddled in money, had every reason to expect perfection—in her staff, in her surroundings, in her husband.

“I’ve an idea,” he said pleasantly. “Separate households. Quite fashionable now, actually. The duchess of Buckminster—”

Her teacup slammed into its saucer without a drop being shed. “How free you are with money. One might almost think it were in limitless supply.”

It very nearly was, in her case. But he did not think she would appreciate the observation. “Then hire your own staff,” he said, his voice only slightly frayed by his effort to remain charming, charming, blandly charming: young Lord Lockwood had been a bright-eyed optimist, after all, for whom the whole world had seemed a grand adventure.

“A shadow staff, like the shadow ministries?” Her laughter was sharp. “What a ridiculous idea.”

Young Lord Lockwood, that na?ve and rosy-cheeked idiot, would never have pointed out to his wife that her presence here was her own doing, and if she did not like it, she could leave. Nor would he have observed that their marriage made her money into his, and if Scottish laws wanted to protest, then English courts would crush them.

Young Lord Lockwood had been a fool. He had rested on his laurels, imagining the future would only bring more of them. He had extended endless olive branches to Stephen, mindful of his cousin’s pride, sympathetic to the difficulties of Stephen’s inferior position. He had believed that best intentions would triumph, always.

That callow, idealistic idiot had probably deserved what was coming to him.

“How long do you intend to stay, then?” Liam asked.

“I haven’t yet decided. I have business to settle here—the MacCauleys, idiots, leased the beach that my islanders use to access Rawsey. I offered to buy it outright, but the railway company that leased it . . . oh, it’s complicated. At any rate, I’ve no idea how long it will take to settle the matter. It may go to court.”

“I’m sorry to hear so.” Her skin remained as smooth and creamy as the day he’d first seen her, but her freckles had multiplied. Her freckles had always fascinated him. He had tried to count them once, but she’d been wearing too many clothes.

The memory hit like a fist in his gut.

He found himself staring at her, abruptly transfixed. Transformed, brain evacuated by a fierce, full-bodied, singular pulse of hunger.

Christ. He had forgotten what desire felt like. He’d imagined his appetite permanently blunted by hunger—pain—and now, Colthurst’s toxins.

He’d been wrong.

His senses expanded. He could feel her skin beneath his fingertips, a memory made tactile. He could smell her from across the table: soap, skin, the musk of her. He wanted.

“Lockwood?” She tipped her head. “Are you . . . all right? You look rather . . .”

He clamped his hands on the edge of the table, pressed his fingertips into the embroidered linen. Coffee was what he smelled. Rashers, sausage. He would not touch her. He could not.

“Certainly,” he said. “A bit tired, perhaps.”