A Lady's Secret Weapon Page 0,4

not only walked with a confident stride, she gazed into a man’s eye with absolutely no timidity. Like she was doing with him right now.

Recognition struck Ethan sharply in the chest. His path had crossed with hers once before. But where? The answer danced just out of range, then disappeared altogether.

The woman raised a brow, and Ethan realized he’d been staring. Cursing beneath his breath, he blinked owlishly. “Ye gents didn’t tell me yer lady was so buxom. I wouldn’t have been so easily removed.” He produced another belch for good measure.

She slashed another glance at her eagle-eyed footman, who shrugged his shoulders. “Come along, Mrs. Cartwright.”

The assistant nodded, and the women started down the steps.

“Mrs. Henshaw, your gloves.” An older woman emerged from Abbingale’s entrance door, holding out a pair of kidskin gloves to… Miss Hunt.

Ethan’s gaze sharpened and he saw Miss Hunt’s hard features transform into a vapid expression he’d seen a hundred times in ballrooms across London.

“Oh, dear me,” Miss Hunt tittered. “I would have been quite distraught without my favorite pair of kids.”

Ethan cast a brief glance to the footmen standing at the bottom of the steps. Mac’s stony expression revealed nothing, as usual; however, his brother seemed to be holding back a smile.

“Thank you, Mrs. Drummond.” Miss Hunt’s assistant accepted the gloves from the older woman and handed them to her mistress.

Miss Hunt clasped her kids to her chest and flashed a brilliant smile at the older woman. “Good day, Mrs. Drummond. I shall see you again soon.”

“We look forward to your return, Mrs. Henshaw.”

Twirling about, Miss Hunt led the way to the carriage. Once the women were settled inside, Mac secured the steps and closed the door. Within seconds, the carriage lurched forward and the footmen jumped onto the rear. As they passed, Mick gave Ethan a jaunty salute.

Ethan swiped his nose.

Mick laughed.

After following the carriage’s progress for a while, Ethan glanced back at the Home. What he saw there surprised him. The older woman—Mrs. Drummond—watched Miss Hunt’s conveyance roll away with something akin to hatred sparkling in her eyes.

What exactly was going on? A footman in love with two women, a well-dressed lady whose business at the boys’ home upset the staff? A lady who also answered to two names? What did her footmen need to warn her about?

Any other mission, Ethan would dismiss the incident and refocus on his original assignment. But his ultimate target was more than likely linked to this place, which meant Ethan had to follow every possible trail. Besides, he wanted to know where he’d come across Miss Hunt before. Her name—or names—wasn’t at all familiar. Something about her features had sparked an air of familiarity, one he would attempt to connect with again.

Ethan turned to gauge the carriage’s location and cringed at how far it had traveled. Time to go. He would return to Abbingale tomorrow.

Careful not to break his cover, he took another drink of his gin and got to his feet, readjusting his knapsack over his shoulder. The older woman’s malevolent gaze shot to his location, and Ethan raised his near-empty bottle in her direction.

The woman squared her shoulders and sniffed the air as if she’d caught scent of something offensive before pivoting to reenter Abbingale. She shut the door with ominous finality.

Feeling a sense of urgency now, Ethan wove his way down the foot pavement, stopping occasionally to scratch an inappropriate area or to cough up a disturbing amount of phlegm. A few minutes later, he straightened his spine, tossed his bottle in a bush, and laid his coat across a bedraggled woman curled up beneath a lamppost.

He quickened his step. When Miss Hunt’s carriage turned a corner, he changed his stride to a full-out run. His hat flew off, and he tightened his grip on his knapsack’s strap. Rounding the corner, he came to an abrupt and jarring halt. Miss Hunt’s carriage sat idle in the lane, waiting for traffic to clear.

Ethan searched for a doorway, a cart, a building, anything large enough to hide his big frame. He started for a nearby alleyway when the sound of his name stopped him cold.

“Danforth,” an incredulous voice said, “is that you, old boy?”

Equal parts relieved and frustrated, Ethan considered ignoring the Marquess of Shevington. The gentleman’s slurred words were a testament to too much drink and not enough sleep. Knowing Shev, he probably hadn’t slept at all and would likely not even recall hailing Ethan ten minutes from now.

Ethan chanced a look at Miss