Free Mistress by Midnight by Nicola Cornick Page B

to her thighs, perhaps, with the material sliding over her like a seductive caress. The neckline of her gown plunged low and a diamond brooch sparkled between her breasts, accentuating the deep V-shape. Tom said the first thing that came into his head.
    “You should not wear jewelry like that around here, especially after dark. You are asking to be robbed.”
    She laughed. She did not seem remotely offended. “Good advice,” she said. She leaned closer. Tom could feel the heat of her skin. “All my jewelry is paste,” she whispered. “I sold the proper stuff years ago.”
    A counterfeit lady in more ways than one, Tom thought. He took a step back and tried to concentrate.
    “How may I help you, ma’am?” he asked.
    She liked the courtesy. A small smile played about her lips. “I hear you’re the best,” she said.
    Tom smiled back. “That depends on what you want.”
    Her gaze swept over him comprehensively, making her needs quite explicit. “I’ve yet to meet a man who did not claim to be the best at everything,” she murmured.
    “I’d rather be an expert in one thing than master of none,” Tom said. He held the chair for her then slid behind his desk. “I don’t believe you introduced yourself,” he added.
    Her eyes gleamed. “I prefer not to do so.”
    Tom shrugged. He had her measure now. She was a spoiled little rich, and possibly titled, girl, who had been indulged—or neglected—when younger and as a result had run wild. She was used to getting her own way and she was probably nowhere near as sophisticated as she pretended. He wondered what her parents or guardians were thinking to give her so much freedom to get into trouble. But then, she was not so young that she should not know better and the moral guidance of gently bred young women was not his affair.
    “So how may I help you?” he repeated.
    She gave him a sideways glance from slanting cat’s eyes. “I…need you to find someone for me.”
    “Man or woman?” Tom said.
    She bit her lip. “It’s a child.”
    “Yours?” Tom asked.
    Her look poured scorn. “Please! I’m not so careless.”
    Tom was not sure he believed her. He could quite easily see her falling from grace as a young girl and being parceled off to give birth secretly. The baby would be given away, the matter hushed up. It was a story he came across often enough, secrets and lies, his bread and butter.
    “Very well then,” he said. “If not yours, whose?”
    “The Duke of Farne’s.”
    Tom almost snapped his quill in half. “I beg your pardon?”
    She frowned at him. “I want you to find Garrick Farne’s child.”
    “Garrick Farne doesn’t have any children,” Tom said.
    “Precisely.” She put her head on one side, looked at him. “I thought you were supposed to be good at this?”
    “All right,” Tom said. “You’re alleging that Garrick Farne has an illegitimate child whose existence he has suppressed—for whatever reason—and you want to find out who the child is and where he or she is?”
    She inclined her head. “That is correct.”
    “Why?” Tom asked.
    She fidgeted. “I did not think I was required to explain my reasons to you. I thought I only needed to ask. And to pay.”
    Strictly speaking she was correct, Tom thought. He took plenty of jobs for the money and asked no questions, but in this case he was curious.
    “Humor me,” he said.
    She looked at him, sighed. “Look, my name is Harriet Knight and I am—I was —the late Duke of Farne’s ward.”
    So this, Tom thought, was the woman Merryn said Garrick Farne had thrown out of his bedroom. He looked at the clinging silk gown, the straining breasts and the knowing glint in her eyes. Perhaps the rumors about Farne were true, Tom thought, that he had buried his heart with his wife, that he had renounced the reckless libertinism of his youth and that he lived like a monk. A man would have to be made of stone not to have some sort of physical response to Harriet Knight.
    “Why do