Free Master of Sin by Maggie Robinson Page A

words stopped her in her tracks. “I’ll have that piece of paper you hid in your pocket.”
    â€œI beg your pardon?”
    â€œI shall not give it. You looked as guilty as a child caught stealing from a cookie jar when I looked into the room. The note, please.”
    What had she written that would damn her? Feeling mulish, she fished the crumpled list from her pocket.
    â€œ ‘Name?’ That’s all? What does this mean, Miss Peartree?”
    â€œUh, nothing, really. I was going to write down a list of books I wished to borrow from you. So that we were clear that I had them, and you couldn’t accuse me of stealing them.”
    â€œAre you frequently accused of stealing from your employers, Miss Peartree?”
    â€œOf course not. But until I know you better, I did not want to take any chances. Some gentlemen are very particular about their libraries.”
    â€œI am not one of them. I would never begrudge anyone their love of reading, one’s chance to improve one’s mind. I daresay even you could stand some improvement.”
    â€œAnd you as well,” she said dryly. It seemed her quick thinking—lying, really—had saved her from an uncomfortable few minutes. She shifted Marc to her other shoulder. “I’m going to take Marc upstairs for his morning rest.”
    â€œBefore you go, I have another question for you.”
    Gemma sighed. Escape had been too easy.
    â€œWhat is your name, Miss Peartree?”
    She couldn’t help but giggle. “Listen to yourself, sir, and you will have your answer.”
    â€œYour given name, Miss Peartree. I’d like to know it.”
    â€œWhy? You are my employer, Mr. Ross, not my friend.”
    â€œNevertheless.” He stood, waiting. Well, he could wait forever. For some perverse reason, she did not ever want to hear her Christian name from his lips. It would be too intimate. Too dangerous.
    â€œI’m sorry, sir. My name is mine .”
    The look on his face was most gratifying. Singing to Marc up the staircase, she would save her investigation for another day.
    Â 
    The little brat. He’d caught her red-handed pilfering through his things, and somehow she’d managed to make him feel in the wrong.
    And she was perfectly right. Had he expected her to assume all the responsibility for Marc without any respite? Marc had several nursemaids at the villa, and of course there was a raft of other servants seeing to the duca and duchessa. Gull House was a far cry from the luxury the child had known. Its starkness was almost a welcome punishment to Andrew, but Miss Peartree certainly could not have expected such hardship. She’d never stay.
    And that was what he wanted, wasn’t it? One way or another, he would drive her off. He had to. She was a little brown tick burrowing under his skin, growing in importance every day. She was a danger to his resolve for all she was a blessing to his son. The longer she stayed, the more he and his son would come to depend upon her, and then it would be impossible to get rid of her.
    Andrew supposed he should wait to dispatch her at least until her trunk arrived. He couldn’t send her out into the world looking like a ragamuffin dwarf. And if her belongings didn’t come, he’d have to pay to outfit her from the skin out. That wouldn’t be a problem—he had, contrary to her suspicions, plenty of money. More than he could spend in a lifetime here, for sure, even if he bought Marc every toy the child could ever want.
    He sat at his desk composing another letter to Lord Edward Christie. His correspondence could not go out until the next boat came, but it helped center Andrew to write of his predicament. He might never even post these daily diatribes, for he counted on Edward’s goodwill to stock Gull House with the necessities until he found his own man of business. Whom Christie would hire for him, just as he’d hired Miss Pernicious