Sins of a Wicked Duke (The Penwich School for Virtuous Girls #1)(3)

Deciding it none of her affair, she eased the gate leading to the back of the house open, shutting it carefully, making certain it did not clang.

Fallon paused as she slipped inside through the servants’ back entrance. Loud, indistinct voices overlapped. A female’s shrill laughter carried from the front of the house. Then a second female laughed, the sound just as coarse. Fallon winced and resumed her pace down the narrow corridor, her swift steps falling dead on the well-worn runner.

Who could possibly be in the house? Mrs. Jamison possessed no female relations who would make free of her home in her absence. Only a…

Fallon stopped, cold dread and absolute certainty sweeping through her simultaneously. She closed her eyes in a long blink and shook her head.Reginald . Of course. Or Reggie as his doting mama called him.

The rare times Mrs. Jamison’s thin lips curved in smile were during her son’s visits home from school—only twice since Fallon hired on, but twice too many. She had grown well acquainted with the face ofdarling Reggie on those visits—a face like so many gentleman and noblemen scattered throughout her life. Not gentle. And not noble.

The lad was near her age. Even without the spots on his face and gangly awkward limbs so disproportionate to the rest of his body, he struck her as far younger than her own twenty years. But his youth hadn’t fooled her. Nor his mother’s blind, absolute affection for him. It hadn’t taken her long to learn why all the maids steered clear of him.

She had very nearly flung a book at the cad’s head when he corned her in the library. His mother’s sudden appearance had stopped Fallon before she did anything so dire. Instead of reprimanding her son, the widow had sent Fallon off with a swift warning.I’ll have no tarts working beneath my roof. Take better care to cover that outrageous hair of yours and get yourself to the kitchens.

Her face still burned at the memory even as the insult echoed with dreaded familiarity. Master Brocklehurst’s charge of vanity frequently rang out through the halls of Penwich for any girl whose hair showed beneath their caps. With her fiery tresses, Fallon had always attracted his particular ire.

Lifting her wool skirt, she increased her pace, eyeing the long length of hall. The small room she shared with another maid was at the far end, near the set of stairs that led up to the family’s quarters.

Suddenly another sound rose on the air, mingling with the distant laughter. Her pulse skittered at the dull thud of approaching footsteps. She didn’t know whether to quicken her steps or freeze in her tracks. The heavy tread grew. Air froze in her lungs.

A shadow descended, casting a pall over the corridor’s floor. Her heart seized in her chest. Clutching the edge of her cloak near her throat, she prayed merely another servant approached, retiring for the night.

She lurched sideways, hoping—absurdly—to blend with the wall. She watched as black Hessians became visible, then buff trousers, then an opened waistcoat and rumpled lawn shirt. Her gaze drifted up and dread clawed through her.

Reggie. And well into his cups, if his rumpled appearance and the slight sway to his stance were any indication. His bleary eyes had no trouble spotting her where she hugged the wall.



“There you are, love.”Hiccup . “Fancy that. Thought I would have to search every room to find you.”Hiccup .

Inhaling deeply, she shoved off the wall and strode forward, chin high, intent on reaching her door. And bolting it solidly behind her.

“Good evening, sir.”

“Good evening, sir,” he quipped, his smile mocking as he waved an arm, his loose sleeve billowing like a dove on the air. “You speak well.”Hiccup . “Like a lady.” He smirked as if he told an amusing remark.

She resisted snapping that she was as educated and polished as any lady of his acquaintance—that he needn’t act so bloody surprised over the fact that she could string her words together in an intelligent fashion. Despite her poor beginnings, she was not an uneducated guttersnipe. Penwich had seen to that, wiping practically all hint of an Irish brogue from her voice. The school might half starve its pupils and beat them for the slightest infraction, but they had not scrimped on providing a topnotch education. Indeed, Fallon was well suited for life as a governess. Unfortunately her lot was that of a maid assigned kitchen duty.

A familiar anger burned through her blood.Gentlemen like Reggie had seen fit to rob her of any other opportunity…dismissing her on the grounds of impertinence when she had not been moreaccommodating to their wishes. With so many dismissals and too few references, a position more suited to her qualifications eluded her. Her fist curled at her side. Da’s voice whispered across her mind. Almost as if he stood beside her.Careful ,Fallon girl. Don’t let ’im get your goat .

Sighing, she uncurled her fingers and stowed away her frustrations. Such emotions would only get her sacked. Yet again. Far better that she diffuse the situation.

“If you would pardon me, Mr. Jamison.” She attempted to step past him.

He blocked her, moving faster than she expected for one so deep in his cups. “I thought you might like to join me and my friends in the parlor for some sherry.” Leaning forward, he brushed the back of his hand against her cheek. “See how the other half lives.”

He pressed a finger against his wobbly-mouthed smile. “I won’t tell Mother. Come.” He clasped her arm. As if he had every right to do so. Her teeth ground so hard her jaw ached. But didn’t theyall behave that way? As if they possessedevery right?