The man continued to yell at the innkeeper. The money Hunter had given the innkeeper had been sufficient it seemed, considering he had to be lying through his teeth.
Poor sod, he was going to get his ears boxed if Hunter didn't intervene.
With a quick shake of his head, his hair fell wildly about his face. He limped heavily toward the Englishman and winced. Cursing as if he was in pain from a war injury but too foxed to realize why. A large black coat was left on a nearby chair, and he quickly put it over his shoulders. Hunter stopped in front of the Englishman and scowled. "Gwen, you say?"
His words were purposefully slurred.
"Yes," the man clipped. His eyes narrowed fiercely as he clenched his teeth together.
"I believe she's already been found, just up there in that room." Hunter pointed to where he had left her, but made sure to keep his head low as to not give away his identity. "Some spy was boasting about how he rescued her from certain ruin, as well as getting herself shot! Can you believe she was spouting out nonsense that some Beast had stolen her sister? Truthfully, if this very capable and well known — and let's not forget infamous — spy, the Wolf, hadn't stumbled across her, she may have very well been killed, or worse ruined, if you get my meaning." Blazes, he forgot to slur. Well, that's what pride did to a man. He winced and toppled to the side, then stole a glance at the man.
The man's gaze turned murderous. Clearly he got the innuendo.
"My thanks," he finally said, reaching into his pocket.
"No payment necessary. I shall truly sleep better this very night, knowing such a diamond of the first water is safe in her…" Hunter blinked innocently. "I'm sorry, old fellow, who did you say you were? What kind of man would I be if I let some fluffy-looking fancy person take advantage of the poor lass?"
"Montmouth."
Blast. If she was his charge, Hunter had half a mind to feel sorry for him. The savage duke had just recently been married to Rosalind Hartwell, who was in fact Gwen and Isabelle's sister. The only way he was even privy to such information was because he had spent the better part of the past two months with the Beast of Russia, whose wife was none other than Isabelle Hartwell. It was rumored that their family was quite mad, or at least used to be. Some sort of curse had befallen them all. But the rumors had been quickly laid to rest after Montmouth married Lady Rosalind. Though Hunter hadn't found it good timing that his best friend Dominique Maksylov, the Beast, had chosen that opportune time to pay off the family and take Isabelle for his own. The entire sordid tale of that family was one fit for the storybooks or at least a Greek play.
He shook his head. These were the type of theatrics Hunter wanted no part of. Madness? Stealing women? Spies who believed they could do the job of a man? He shuddered and looked at the duke again. "I believe, your grace, that you will find her perfectly unharmed, though quite ruined. Too fancy of a piece and all that. Besides, who knows if she's been alone this whole time or… touched."
Montmouth's gaze narrowed before he bowed his head and lifted his hand to his brow answering gruffly, "I know."
Nodding his thanks, the behemoth of a duke walked to the stairs, and for the second time that day Hunter had an aggravating feeling wash over him, starting from his head and lingering there for a good few seconds before traveling all the way down to his toes.
It was Gwen's fault. And he needed to forget her as soon as possible. Desperate times, he thought as he went in search of the wench from earlier. Perhaps she had more ale?
Chapter Two
Dear readers, I'm so eager to be back in town. This Season promises to be one where even wolves are allowed to walk amongst the ton. What, you may wonder, is this author alluding to? None other than the Duke of Haverstone, Hunter Wolfsbane, has been invited back into polite society. He has a reputation far too scandalous for this author to write down, for there are very few words to be found that can describe his level of vulgarity. Let it be advised that debutantes should cease from wearing white. For we know what white reminds wolves of. Sheep. Take care, dear reader, for you do not want any of your little sheep to go astray, not where wolves dare to play.—Mrs. Peabody's Society Papers
Four months later
Gwen gripped her reticule in her hand, most likely making permanent marks on her person as she paced back and forth in the small dusty study. Pieces of light shot in through the drawn curtains. Enough light to see the grim set of Mr. Wilkins' mouth and the heavy concern laden in his brows.
She cleared her throat and took a steadying breath. "Apologies, sir, for my mood. It just seems that there are so many more options than myself. As I explained in my letter, I no longer wish to do this sort of work." There, she'd said it, to his face, no less. Gaining more courage, for she hated letting anyone down, especially the very man who had helped her feed her family before Rosalind married the duke, she managed a small smile and continued. "After all, there are plenty of women working for the Crown. I see no reason for my participating in this, this—"
"Mission," he finished crisply. "It's a mission regardless of how you see it, my lady. If you are quite certain then?" He said it as a question, his speech sounded careless and indifferent, but over the past few months she had grown to know him. He was placating her sense of pride. Curse the man!
"I am certain." But she wasn't. The familiar tick in her blasted gloves began anew, the need to hold a pistol, the way her blood roared when she successfully bested her opponent. No! She could no longer put her family in such danger! Not when both her sisters were so blissfully happy.
Rosalind, her sister, had married the Duke of Montmouth. The man had rode in on his horse quite like a prince, sweeping Rosalind off her feet, or so he said time and time again when his wife wasn't listening.
And Isabelle, well, she had been kidnapped by her husband. Gwen had to admit to finding it terribly romantic. The great Beast of Russia, Dominique Maksylov, was said to possess no heart, yet he proved its existence daily when he doted on Isabelle. His music was currently all the rage throughout the country; a new dance had even been made in their honor.
Isabelle found it taxing and quite embarrassing. Dominique, however, never missed a dance. They had both re-entered into society a few months ago.
Blast. She couldn't even lie to herself in her head. It wasn't just a few months. It had been four months, one day, and by her calculations, four hours. She had done nothing short of jumping out the window, in order to clear her mind of the man who had dared pin her against the wall with his body.