Sins of a Wicked Duke (The Penwich School for Virtuous Girls #1)(13)

A far-off screech shattered the early morning. Voices reached inside her room, pulling her upright.



“She’s mad! Get her away from me! Help! Help!”

Morning light scarcely bled through the curtains of her room. Sliding out of bed, she hastily dressed in her livery, stopping long enough in front of the dresser mirror to apply pomade to her hair and tie it at the back of her neck before securing the scratchy wig in place. Wig secured, her femininity was even less discernible.

Outside her room, the din grew. With one hand on the door’s latch, she bit her lip, contemplating whether she should remain in her room. Hide. She had settled in so late yesterday, she had yet to make the acquaintance of all the staff and could not stop her shiver of nervousness. Someone might uncover her deception…perhaps the master himself, if he was about. Another shiver coursed through her. Unlikely. At this early hour, he would still be abed.

She would have to face her new world sooner or late. Sucking in a deep breath, Fallon pushed open the door and stepped into the corridor, immediately discovering that she was not the only one roused from bed.

A horde of servants scurried down the corridor. She was scarcely spared a glance as she filed into step with them, clambering up the servants’ stairs. Excited murmurs filled the air, the steady drone of voices a backdrop to the loud shouts carrying from the second floor.

“What’s he done now?” a maid giggled behind her hand, bright eyes dancing.

“Might have something to do with the tart he brought home last night.” Another maid cheerfully volunteered, blushing when she caught Fallon’s stare.

At that blush Fallon recalled herself—she was not Fallon anymore but Francis.Francis . The name tripped through her head in a silent mantra. She squared her shoulders and joined the rest of the servants hanging their heads over the railing to watch the spectacle below.

Mrs. Davies, the housekeeper Mr. Adams had introduced her to yesterday, waved a broom overhead and chased a woman attired in a scarlet evening gown down the stairs. Large melonlike breasts jiggled, nearly spilling free of the indecently low-cut bodice.

“Out! Out with you, you thieving trollop!”

Several of the servants tossed down encouragement to the housekeeper, and jeered insults to the disheveled female.

Fallon turned her head slowly, eyeing the stretch of servants on each side of her before looking back down. Despite their neat and tidy appearances in starched livery, she felt as though she rubbed elbows with a bloodthirsty mob that stood witness to an unsavory execution.

Cheers went up when the housekeeper bounced the broom off the woman’s head. The hapless creature shrieked and grasped her head, fingers desperately trying to disentangle the broom’s straw from the snarled mess of her hair.

“Teach you to steal his lordship’s silver!”

“Mrs. Davies! What are you doing?” Mr. Adams’s voice boomed from the marble-floored foyer far below. Hands on his narrow hips, he watched the display with less humor than the rest of the staff.

“Call the watch, Mr. Adams! We have a thief in our midst.”

“Mrs. Davies. That is His Grace’s…guest.” Even as he spoke, his single eye traveled over the woman with disfavor.

“Guest, umph! He didn’t invite her to rob him blind, did he?”

Suddenly, a deep chuckle rolled over the air.

Fallon froze, a tremble skating through her as she and the dozen other servants turned and strained to gain a better view of the man bearing that sherry-warm voice.



Caught in the web of that masculine laugh, she brushed a hand over her wig, satisfied at the feel of it atop her head. He certainly would not know her. She hardly knew herself when she looked in the mirror. Still, she felt her shoulders sink in an attempt to melt into the throng of servants.

“I’m scarcely blind, Mrs. Davies,” the familiar voice said, the velvet sound knotting Fallon’s insides.

The brassy-haired female on the stairs looked up. With one hand pressed to her heaving bosom and the other still clutched to her head, she pleaded, “Damon, darling! Help me! Tell this witch to cease beating me.” She cut a vicious stare to the housekeeper. “Surely she has a cauldron to stir.”

The servants hissed and booed at the remark.

Mrs. Davies’s face burned an unbecoming red. “Your Grace! Surely you did not give leave for this…person to rob you.”

Fallon followed Mrs. Davies’s gaze—and that of everyone else—to the renowned Duke of Damon.

And her breath caught.

Attired in nothing more than buff-colored trousers, he stood at the top of the landing. Broadmuscled chest bare for all to see. A wicked serpent tattoo covered the top half of his chest, winding its way onto his shoulder. Shocking. She had never seen the like. And on a duke, no less.

His dark hair, nearly as long as her own, fell in straight lines around his face, brushing the muscled curve of his shoulders. He more resembled a pirate than gentleman. Her gaze flew back to his body—his chest and that wicked multihued serpent that seemed to dance and writhe above one flat brown nipple.

Her gaze crawled over the rest of him, eying the thin dark line of hair disappearing into his trousers. The sight made her face flame and she had to remind herself that she was supposed to be a man and not someone affected by such a sight. Not like the many blushing maids surrounding her.

“Celeste,” he drawled. “I wondered where you disappeared.” Humor rumbled in his deep voice. He dragged a hand over his chest, the motion slow, indolent and somehow…sexual. “I woke up to a cold bed.”