Free Unbuttoning Miss Hardwick by Deb Marlowe Page A

taken them from the brink of mayhem to laughing and clapping each other on the back, vowing to buy each other a pint at the end of the day.’
    Braedon blinked. ‘How the hell am I supposed to do that?’
    ‘I don’t know!’ Keller looked him over. ‘You’re the Marauding Marquess, for God’s sake! You’ve sniffed out enemy supply dumps and strategic secrets all over the Continent. Sniff out a solution for us now. Or at least use that air of arrogant command.’
    The door was thrown open. It hit the wall with a crash and rebounded as two men pushed their way through, their voices raised in argument. The
stuccatore , his hands waving, cursed wildly in Italian. The carpenter shouted his protest that he could not even understand what it was he was accused of. Keller waded in and even Billings raised his voice as he tried to restore order.
    Braedon stared at the ascending chaos and silently cursed Hardwick. Arrogant command? He’d rather snatch up one of the multitude of weapons lying about and scare the devil out of the lot of them. Struggling for control, he sank back down to perch on the desk. He had not stooped to using a weapon to intimidate since his brother was alive and living at Denning, nor felt such impending rage.
    Connor. Hardwick. Shocking to think that they might have so much in common. And yet his brother had been an expert at hiding nasty surprises inside shiny packages. Hardwick had gone about it differently, concealing all the bright, appealing bits of herself behind grim efficiency, yards of forbidding material and a row of formidable buttons.
    A rustle distracted him from his resentment and the rumpus before him. He still held the letter in his hands. He tore it open and began to read.
    His fists clenched tighter, the further he read. This was the final straw. Weeks of restraint and control gave way before a great, rushing wave of anger. Skanda’s Spear—confirmed on England’s shores? Pursued by a host of collectors? Damn Hardwick! Bad enough that the finishing of his wing was descending into disarray. He needed her to help him obtain that weapon. He needed her expertise, her resources, the network of contacts that she’d inherited from her father and expanded on her own.
    He must have that spear, had to have it as the centrepiece of his collection. No one could understand what it meant to him, how everything he’d heard of it resonated within his soul. It was as if someone centuries ago had looked into the future and seen how this particular weapon would stand as a symbol of all of his victories, his triumphs over the layered and varied darkness of his life.
    He felt swamped by a familiar, hated feeling of frustration. Truly Hardwick was Connor’s doppelgänger , promising him that which he most wanted, then snatching it away.
    He tossed the letter aside and stood, deliberately hardening his heart. By all that was holy, he’d never, in all of those years, allowed Connor to beat him. He’d be thrice-damned before he let Hardwick do so. She’d made him promises. Damned if he wasn’t going to make sure she kept them.
    Without hesitation he ploughed through the cluster of quarrelling men. Surprised, they fell back and fell silent.
    The stuccatore aimed a querulous remark at him in Italian.
    ‘Yes. Where are you going, my lord?’ Keller asked.
    ‘I’m leaving you in charge, Keller. This collection is missing two important pieces—I’m going to fetch them both.’
    * * *
    Chloe left the printer’s shop, a beautifully realised sample invitation in her pocket and a smile on her face. She stepped out, heading for the Strand and the confectioner’s, her last stop for the day. As she went she withdrew a list from her pocket and consulted it. Satisfaction, thick, warm and comforting, wafted over her. Plans for Lady Ashton’s birthday ball were proceeding well. This might be the most unusual, the most talked-about event in years, but it was going to happen without a hitch. She was well ahead