hang his master’s things, apparently feeling no great need to await her reply.
Pru battled with an acute misery that warred for sovereignty with shame. She was such an unwanted stranger here. This didn’t feel like her house.
Nor did it feel like her life.
And the man at the foot of the stairs wore more of a mask now than he ever did as the Knight of Shadows.
He just looked at her with those alert, assessing eyes. She’d begun to feel that even his silence was an investigative technique. A weapon he used against her.
An effective weapon, at that.
Because she felt wounded. Bruised.
But then, everything about him was weaponized. The smooth, composed movements of his powerful limbs, hinting at a controlled brutality. The precisely cut layers of his hair, the perfectly pressed creases of his suit, and the carefully manicured elegance of his hands.
Hands that could manipulate just as much pain as pleasure from a person.
There were men who radiated menace, danger, or violence. But her husband hid all that and reserves of so much more behind the cool, placid lake of his façade.
He was the danger you never saw coming until it was too late.
“You’re…home,” she observed, cringing at the daft bloody obviousness of her statement.
He addressed her with a curt nod, his eyes breaking away from her for the first time, allowing her to breathe. “I was just informing Bart I’ve a meeting best conducted here rather than the office.”
“An Earl, I heard.”
His mouth twisted ruefully. “A courtesy title, but yes.”
“Is there anything I can do to help?” She hoped she didn’t sound as pathetically eager as she felt.
“Not especial—” he looked sharply toward the door and cursed under his breath, his expression turning pained.
Pru hurried down the remainder of the stairs. “What is it?”
“He didn’t come alone.” Agitated, he took three steps away from her and thrust his fingers through his hair, smoothing it back. “I’m in no bloody mood.”
“Did he bring his solicitor?” Pru guessed, wondering if he meant to interrogate the man without one.
“Worse.” A beleaguered breath hissed out of his throat. “He brought his wife.”
Pru brightened at the prospect of female company. She was acquainted with very few Countesses and even if the woman were difficult, she likely couldn’t hold a candle to Prudence’s own mother.
“I’m quite finished,” she declared. “I can entertain the Countess while you conduct your interview.”
A frown pinched his brow. “Finished with what?”
“No,” she laughed. “I’ve attended finishing school with excellent marks. I know how to receive someone of her station.”
“Oh.” Surprisingly, his frown deepened. “Well that will be of little consequence to Farah.”
An instinctive little needle of discomfort pricked her. Farah? Not Lady Northwalk?
The bell chimed and Bart materialized from behind them to answer.
Her husband faced the door with the grim determination a battle general might face an onslaught of marauders. “I suppose it would be cruel not to tell you that Farah used to work as a clerk at Scotland Yard. I’ve known her for nigh on a decade.”
“Why would it be cruel to—?”
“Because Blackwell is certain to mention that I asked her to be my wife.”
Chapter 11
“Carlton Morley, you unforgivable rogue!” An angelic beauty with a coronet of silver-blond ringlets swept into their grand entry in an energetic flounce of mauve silk. “When Dorian told me you’d taken a wife, and under which circumstances, I nearly collapsed.”
Pru stood blinking at the uncommonly lovely woman in open-mouthed dismay as Morley stepped forward to receive her light kiss on the cheek.
They knew the circumstances of their marriage? All of them?
Even Miss Henrietta’s garden?
“You forget I know better,” Morley replied in a voice infused with a charm he’d never bothered to apply with Pru. “You’ve never fainted in your life.”
The appearance of Farah’s husband had Prudence forcing herself to unclench her fists. She’d have to accept his hand, and it wouldn’t do to have her palms bleeding from where her nails had dug.
“This is my…wife, Prudence Good- er Morley.” He said the word wife as if it tasted strange in his mouth. “Prudence, might I introduce Lady Farah Blackwell, Countess Northwalk, and her husband, Dorian, the Earl.”
“Technically my son is the Earl,” Blackwell said. “I’ve titles enough, and I actually earned all of them.”
Of course! Prudence recognized him now. This was Dorian Blackwell, the Blackheart of Ben More. Who could care to be an Earl when you were once the King of the London Underworld?
The man was monstrous large and dark as a fiend. Despite the eyepatch, his gaze was keen and