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“But I was speaking of the maids, my lady. The kitchen boys.”

“The maids are unreliable. The kitchen boys are inarticulate. You, however, are ideal for this sort of thing. Steel yourself, Miss Breedlowe. We cannot know what manner of objectionable thing she may say or do. Better fetch your gloves. And your hat.”

CHAPTER TWO

No. 24 Henrietta Place
Later that same morning

B
ored, tired, and cagey, Trevor Rheese, Earl of Falcondale, hunched over the chessboard, ignoring the game, and wanted.

Wanted privacy, wanted freedom, wanted
out
.

It was a sin to want—scripture was very clear on it:
Thou shall not covet—
but Trevor had been only loosely adherent to scripture in his life, and generally when it aligned with whatever his first inclination might be.

At the moment, he was inclined to want.

It was not broad, his list of wants. He did not wish for wealth or possessions, fame or prestige. Honestly, he did not even care about bloody respect. No, the things he wanted were trifling, bordering on humble. A scant duo of circumstances, nothing more.

Firstly, he wanted to go. To leave. To depart the sodden, sullen, perpetual chill that hung over the islands of Britain like a shroud and to arrive anywhere else in the world. Anywhere except, he was careful to add, the scab-like string of baking rocks known as the Grecian Isles. Even more than he wished to depart England, he wished never to return to the crumbling shores of the Ottoman Empire’s
island paradise,
ever again. Leaving Athens had been only temporary fix; his enemies would search for him in England next. True freedom, he knew, lay anywhere else.

After Trevor left England, his second burning desire was to be
left alone
.

Utterly, entirely, completely alone.

He didn’t want to mingle with people of his own class. He didn’t want to mingle with people of his own country. He didn’t want to mingle with people of
any
country.

He did not want a mistress or a wife or an heir—or even a bloody house cat.

Truth was, he didn’t even want to be earl, but his uncle had succumbed to lung fever before ever taking a wife. It had been his mother’s dying wish that, if it fell to him, he would make some effort toward the estate.

How ironic, then, that when Uncle Peter cocked up his toes, the old goat had been neck-deep in debt. Trevor spent his first month as earl selling his uncle’s assets—the last of which (assuming he could find a buyer) was the Henrietta Place townhouse.

Not much longer, he hoped. Two weeks. Perhaps a month.

Until then?

Until then, he would keep a close watch over his shoulder and pass the time playing chess.

“You are forcing me to think, Joseph.” Trevor gazed at the chessboard, scrutinizing his defense. “Ah, moved the knight? Clever. Remind me not to leave you alone to strategize for longer than five minutes.”

“Who was at the kitchen door?” Joseph asked, smiling. “Cook?”

Trevor shook his head. “No, it was a boy from the market. The cook, I’m assured, has finally come to terms with the fact that he needn’t return, ever again, regardless of any fresh rage that might rise to the surface of his wounded pride.”

“You look for vermin in the market crate?”

The earl sat back. “I did actually, not that it’s any of your concern. I didn’t see you leaping up to receive it.” He slid his queen’s rook across the board. “I think you’re the laziest manservant ever to survive a house-wide sacking.”

“Oh, I’m a manservant now? As in a paid valet?” He smiled again.

“Right. I’ve spoken too soon. A valet would require a pension, holidays, an afternoon off.”

The boy laughed. “I’d claim a proper salary before I bothered with that.”

“Ah, yes. Now I remember why I can’t get rid of you. I don’t pay you.” He advanced his king’s pawn, angling for a kingside castle.

He was just about to tell the boy that he would take the first turn in the kitchen, when a noise split the air. A loud noise. Shrill. The sound of wood scraping against stone.

“What the devil was that?” Trevor’s head snapped back.

“Sounds like something’s split in two,” said the boy, wide-eyed.

“It’s coming from upstairs. The third floor—no, the second.” Trevor stared at the ceiling. “The
empty
second floor. Where there’s nothing left to split.” He shoved from his chair and crossed to the stairway, looking up.

He’d grown accustomed to this during his years in Greece—sounds, scrapes, things that went bump in the night. Barely a week went by without the sleep-robbing sound of an argument, the shrieks and clatter of a raucous party, or, perhaps loudest of all, the
clunk-clunk-clunk
of something heavy and stolen being dragged up the stairs.

But they were in Mayfair now. Unexpected, jolting noises were out of place. Likely, it was nothing—a rodent or a bird flying against a window—but the hairs on the back of Trevor’s neck still bristled. He frowned at the ceiling, straining to hear.

“Perhaps you missed one of the maids,” Joseph said, trailing him to the stairs. “When you sacked everyone.”

“We’ve been alone in this house for nearly a week, Joe. No one has been missed.”

An unsettling second sound screeched from above. Next, a bump.

“Bloody, bleeding bother,” Trevor said under his breath, climbing the stairs, while keeping his eyes on the landing. “What now?”

“I told you the house would be haunted,” Joseph said.

“Yes, and I told you I couldn’t think of a less likely dwelling for the supernatural. Ghosts, I’ve been told, seldom congregate in light-filled rooms, swept clean, and devoid of all furniture. Nowhere to hide.”

A new noise—this one, unmistakably human—wafted from above. A sigh. Followed by a whimper. And then laughter.

Brilliant. Someone was
laughing
on the second floor.

Someone female.

He paused and held out a hand. The boy stopped.

“Maybe this was the spirit’s home, before we stripped it,” Joseph whispered, “and now it’s cross because we carried away all its possessions.” He crept up another step.

“Yes, and how bitter it now sounds. Laughing in the . . . I believe it’s in the music room.” He shoved off the top step and walked lightly down the landing, poking his head into each room as he went.

The noises, now a clatter of footsteps and banging—Was someone opening a window?—were loud and most certainly coming from the music room. The
fully enclosed
music room. One of many rooms with no direct access to the outside. Because they were thirty bloody feet off the ground.

He swore, cursing this burden, the newest in the long line of burdens he’d encountered while settling his uncle’s estate. The sounds and ruckus had stopped, naturally, now that they had bothered to have a look, but he motioned for Joseph to stay behind him.

Moving deftly, he fell against the wall behind the door. He nudged his head around the jamb. He scanned the room.

Nothing.

Four walls. Dusty floorboards. No furniture, because they’d hauled it off to auction last week. Not even a footstool remained.

Slowly, he edged back. Had they imagined the entire thing?

A window was open, he saw, its drapes fluttering in the morning breeze. That was odd and suspicious.

He stepped toward it.

And collided squarely with a girl.

No, not a girl.

His scrambling fingers felt a fully formed woman, curved and supple. She stilled under his grip for half a second, feigning docility. He craned to get a look at her, and she darted to the right. He grunted and lunged, snatching her back.

They tangled—arms against elbows, her hair in his face, her hands swatting—until finally he clamped down. He jerked the two of them back behind the door, muzzled her mouth with his palm, and scanned the room again.

Still vacant.

She’d been standing behind this very door; it was why he hadn’t seen her before. He’d have lost his thumb for such carelessness in Greece.

“Joseph! It’s a woman. Doubtful she’s alone. Check every room in the house. Mind yourself.”

The boy appeared in the doorway, wide-eyed, and Trevor jerked his head. Joseph nodded and darted away.

Trevor checked the room again. It was empty and silent except for her muffled struggle and the drapes snapping in the breeze. Carefully, he loosened his hold to crane around and have a look at her.

Bad idea.

In one glance, the room blurred and blinked and then dissolved entirely away. His whole consciousness became a pair of alarmed green eyes staring back at him.

He stumbled backward a step, taking her with him, and bumped into the wall.

She had hair the color of honey. The struggle had pulled it from a complicated knot on the top of her head, and now it fanned over them both. He felt it against his cheek.

She was young, but how young? Twenty-four? Twenty-five? No older than that, certainly. Well cared for, too, with a creamy complexion and small nose, long lashes, smooth hands. She smelled like a florist’s cart. She looked him directly in the eye without a moment’s hesitation.

“If there are others,” he managed to say, “do not think of alerting them.
Not. One. Word.
”

She tried to speak, soft lips moving under his palm, but her words were muffled by his hand.

“A simple nod of the head will do,” he told her. “Are you alone?”

Instead of answering, she bit him. Not deeply, but hard enough to startle. His hand jerked, and she used the moment to yank her head to the side.

“If you please,” she said, breathing heavily, “you’re suffocating me. I’m not at all given to screaming. It is not necessary to—”

“Are. You. Alone?”
he ground out, leaning over her.

“I’ve come with my maid,” she said to the wall.

What sort of intruder was accompanied by a maid?

“If you please,” she said, “you’re hurting my shoulder.”

“Where is she?” he demanded.

“Where is who?”

“The maid
.
”

“My maid is not dangerous. She’s barely five-feet tall and nearly sixty years old. And she is nowhere. She has gone back into my house.”

“Your house? How did she manage that? This is
my
house, or did you lose your way and break into the wrong one? Ow!”

Her boot made piercing contact with his instep. “Look,” she said, struggling, “clearly, there has been a misunderstanding, but you cannot possibly think that I can harm you; you’re twice my size. Please, sir!” She ground her sharp heel deeper into the side of his boot. “You really can let me go. When I am unrestrained, I absolutely can explain.”

Let her go?
He looked down at his hands. His brain had been so preoccupied with her face that he had nearly forgotten about her body.

Nearly.

She felt warm and soft and alive. The fabric of her jacket was stiff, but he clearly felt contours. Firmness here, softness elsewhere. Dainty elbow, delicate wrists and fingers.

Reluctantly, he released her, his fingers skimming the expensive wool of her traveling suit as they took the long route to fall away.

“Thank you.” She gasped, stumbling out of his arms. She yanked down the hem of her jacket and whipped her hair over her shoulder.

“Who are you?” he demanded.

“I am Piety Grey,” she said, recovering enough to offer a dazzling smile. “Of New York City. Recently relocated to London. To Henrietta Place. I have bought the house next door.”

She stuck her hand out, like a man intending to shake.

He stared at it, not quite sure what to do. She quickly retracted it. “But perhaps you don’t shake hands upon first meeting in England.”

“Falcondale,” he replied, reaching out his hand. Her gloveless palm felt small and cool. It was, perhaps, the first time he acknowledged the quality of the palm of someone else’s hand. He shook.

“We do, actually, shake hands in England, although typically not . . . Well, I can’t really say. I’ve been away for quite some time, and even before I left, it was never my focus.”

“Falcondale?” she asked. “As in the earl?
Lord Falcondale
?” She flung her arms wide. “But I was led to believe you resided in your country home this time of year.”

“You were led to believe what?” His voice cracked.

“It was in the contract,” she said. “Surely you remember. The solicitors went back and forth in order to get the dates correct. My arrival in London was to be timed with your departure for the country.”

He stared at her blankly.

“It is
me
, your lordship,” she prompted. “The woman who will be renovating the house next door? What a pleasure to meet you! And on my very first day in London.”

While he struggled with that statement, she affected more smiling, solicitous head nodding, and hand clasping. All of it was a little too joyous and felicitous and delighting. Trevor took an uneasy step back.

“I suppose it is obvious that I have found the doors and the shared passage.” She gestured to the wall behind her. “I’m sorry I didn’t introduce myself first by way of your front door. I never would have stumbled to your side of the wall if I had realized what I had found. I thought it was a closet.”

“Closet?” he repeated.

“There,” she said, pointing again.

Trevor swiveled his gaze like a tourist, sightseeing in his own home. In a far corner, a small door stood ajar in the shadows. She crossed to the small door, explaining, “It appears exactly the same on my side. Like storage, no? I thought, how lucky for me, another closet. But it wasn’t. It was the passage.” She smiled at him. “Our passage.”

Our
passage?

He gaped at her. “I’ve never seen that door before in my life.”

“Oh,” she said, and her smile went a little off. “Well, it’s inconsequential, really, compared to our larger agreement. By the time I vacate your house, it’ll be nailed up, tight as a tomb, and you may go on ignoring it.”