Other luxuries had arrived as well. Yesterday, a pile of books and candles had appeared. Today, even more gifts populated the sparse space, as if he’d been visited by magic elves during the night. A rug to soften the marble, a bronze tub for bathing.
When was she dragging all these things out here?
And what did it mean? She clearly wanted him gone, wanted him out of her hair. So why make him comfortable? Why make him want to stay?
Not that he did.
He wanted her in his makeshift bed—or they could use herproperbed; he was not picky—until he deemed the house safe for a lone woman. Or, if their bed sport convinced her to join him in London—all the better. They could enjoy one another there in ease until Hawthorne was entirely mended.
Not delusional enough to believe she’d agree to that. To any of it.
But why? She’d enjoyed their kisses, the orgasm he’d given her.
Was it that neither of them wanted children? As he’d told her, they needn’t worry about that. There were ways around infant inconveniences. She might not be aware, though. He’d simply make her aware.
A knock on the door echoed across the small space.
Caro. He didn’t run for the door. But he didn’t walk either. He flung it open, knowing he wore nothing but trousers, low slung from the lack of braces holding them up. Soon the heat of her gaze would hit upon his chest. And lower. He tightened in anticipation. Now the time to educate her.
Or not.
A pair of giants stood outside the folly. Not Caroline at all.
Felix stepped outside, craning his neck up. “Who the hell are you?”
One of the men, a fellow with shockingly red hair and a gap between his teeth, shoved a wax-sealed letter at Felix’s chest. “From Mrs. Dove-Lyon.”
Ah. Yes.Help had arrived. “Come in, then, gentleman.” Felix quickly dressed while the men inspected his temporary lodgings.
“He’s the viscount?” one whispered.
“Livin’ in a folly?” the other added.
“I can hear you.” Felix finally opened the letter and read. “Freddy Shaw and Patrick Doyle. Who’s who?”
The red head raised a large, beaten hand. “Freddy.”
The other man, with a swollen ear and missing front tooth said, “Patrick. But folks call me Pat.”
“Pat and Freddy, welcome to Hawthorne.” A knot formed in his chest. He’d planned on leaving once the Black Widow’s footmen arrived. She’d have protection now, and she wouldn’t need him. He was done here. “Have you met its mistress yet?”
The men nodded.
Felix returned to the letter, reading, reading—what the… bloodyhell.
“Lady Foxton was off to the village,” Pat said, failing to notice that Felix had balled the paper in his fist. “Seemed distracted.”
“What the hell does she mean?” Felix demanded, shaking the letter at them.
“Which part?” Freddy stuck the tip of his tongue between the gap in his teeth. “Your missus’s foggy brain? I can’t rightly say—”
“Not that. The letter! Mrs. Dove-Lyon.” Felix smoothed the paper out, reading again. “She saysyou’llleave ifIleave. That makes zero bloody sense. I’ve brought you here to stay soIcan leave.”
Pat shrugged. “The Black Widow’s paying us extra to follow her orders.”
Conniving woman. He’d have to send her another letter, tell her in plain words what he thought of her meddling. Yes, at least he was in possession of two bruisers to watch after his wife, the exact sort the widow paid to guard the Lyon’s Den.
But… damn this was a complication. “I need to speak with Lady Foxton. You said she was in the village?”
