A Scandalous Lady by Rachelle Morgan Page B

was seventy if she was a day, and had obviously been roused from her bed.
    â€œYes, milord?” came the housekeeper’s monotone query.
    â€œMiss Jervais requires a meal, a bath, and suitable clothing, s’il vous plaît. ”
    â€œI do not have bugs,” she repeated to him, hating the tears of humiliation stinging her eyes. “I don’t smell, neither!”
    He spun her toward the maid by the shoulders and gave her a gentle push. “Go with Millie. She will see to your comforts.”
    The housekeeper curtsied, then guided Faith by the arm toward a doorway. Faith cast one last glare at the baron’s insufferably rude sister before allowing herself to be led away.
    Once out of earshot, Devon rounded on him. “Troyce, have you gone mad? What do you mean, bringing that filthy creature into this house?”
    Troyce slid his attention from the doorway into which Millie and Faith had disappeared. Only a blind man would have missed seeing the deep wounding in her eyes at the welcome she’d received from the Duchess of Brayton. Only the respect he’d always held for his sister compelled him to explain at all. “I’m short on household help, and she has agreed to work for me. It’s as simple as that.”
    He headed for the library to quench a sudden craving for a nightcap. He should have known that he would have a shadow.
    â€œWhat did you do, drag her out of the Thames?”
    She had no idea how close her guess, Troyce thought, reaching the sideboard. “She encountered a bit of trouble outside a tavern on the docks, and I offered my assistance.” He uncapped a fluted decanter. “And that’s the end of it, Devon.”
    Heeding the warning in his tone, her own pitch dropped to a more courteous level. “Tell me that you at least made an appearance at the Countess of Haversley’s ball before embarking on your little”—she flipped her hand—“errand of mercy.”
    A healthy dose of the last of his father’s Napoleon brandy spilled into a crystal goblet. “I had a more pressing engagement.”
    â€œYes, I can see that. Gallivanting from pub to pub, consorting with riffraff, dragging that filthy . . . guttersnipe into your home like a common Samaritan . . .”
    Troyce turned to look at his sister with thinly concealed impatience. At thirty-one, a year older than he, she was still a strikingly beautiful woman. Glossy black hair neatly braided, flawless ivory complexion, and trademark blue-gray eyes of a de Meir. . . .
    Unfortunately, the vibrancy had gone out of her years before. So, apparently, had her compassion. “Would you have preferred I left her to fare on the streets?”
    â€œBetter there than here! Heed my words, brother, she will rob us blind.”
    The remark had Troyce throwing his head back with laughter. “Oh, but Devon, dearest, have you not heard? There is nothing left to rob.”
    â€œWhich brings us back to my point. The season is nearly over, West. By this time next week all of the eligible ladies will have been betrothed.”
    â€œI can only hope.”
    She all but stamped her foot. “How do you expect to make a successful match when you continuously avoid opportunities to find a suitable wife?”
    Troyce barely restrained a sigh. “I’ve told you before, I have no interest in taking a wife—suitable or otherwise.”
    She stiffened her spine and sniffed in displeasure that plainly said that she didn’t appreciate his mocking a topic near and dear to her heart. Namely, seeing him tied to an heiress.
    â€œYou are being unreasonable—not to mention derelict in your duties. It is well past time you settled down and set about securing a legitimate heir.”
    â€œAs opposed to an illegitimate one?”
    â€œDo not even jest about that!”
    Troyce fought the urge to rake his hand through his hair and laughed instead.