Chapter One

To the outside, Curtis played the perfect part of the jolly and devil-may-care rogue. He was proud of that persona; it had taken hard work to perfect such a ruse… but worth it.

This was proven yet again last night when he was able to… uncover several leads from the late Baron Whittle’s Widow. Pun intended.

Of course, those secrets were uncovered in the bedroom, but the War Office wasn’t too particular how information was attained — just that it was. It was said that men loosened their tongues with brandy… the same could be said of women under the covers.

He withheld a shudder as he caught a whiff of stale brandy that the lady had sloshed onto his once-white shirt. It was an unwelcome trigger to his memory, forcing him to remember things he’d rather forget. Thankful to be home, he quickly shed the garment and rang for his valet as he entered his room. The older man had impeccable fashion sense and could tie a cravat quicker than most. Speed was highly favorable in Curtis’ profession.

“Sir?” Winston raised a white eyebrow as he approached with a clean white shirt.

“You’re a mind reader,” Curtis replied, shrugging into the garment.

“Nothing of the sort, sir. Creature of habit mostly.” He mumbled the last part.

“I’ll pretend I don’t understand that last sentiment.” Curtis chuckled.

“You usually do, sir.”

Once he was properly attired, he studied himself in the mirror. His hair was far too blond for him to be taken for a dark and dangerous rake, which is why he chose to take a more opportunistic approach to life. Having been told by many a lady his eyes were dancing with mischief, he delighted in proving them accurate in their deductions… for a time. Case in point, last night.

Yet, the whole charade had become tiresome, but that didn’t change its effective nature. And when one worked for the War Office, one needed to be effective.

Always.

Straightening his posture, he strode to the door and down the corridor to find the kitchen. While passing through the main hall, his gaze settled on the one portrait he kept of his parents. It served as a much-needed reminder. Because as much as he was falling out of love with the bed-and-dash scene… it was better than falling out of love with a wife.

It was exactly what he’d seen happen to his mother. And in turn, it began an internal civil war that no one but those who lived within the walls of their home witnessed. It was horrific how two people who had at least tolerated each other to the point of an agreed marriage had come to the point where they deliberately and surgically wounded each other’s dignity, pride, and emotions till nothing remained but ashes — smoldering, acidic rubble. An involuntary shudder racked his body as he tore his eyes from the cold stares and took the last flight of stairs into the kitchen.

The sounds of pots banging and cockney-accented words drew him from the tension of memory and comforted him with the familiar. The smoky scent of bacon and the yeasty aroma of bread called to him even before he pushed through the heavy wooden door.

“Ack! Sir, you gave me a fright!” Cook placed a hand to her generous bosom and balanced a tray of eggs with the other.

“My apologies.” Curtis gave a jaunty bow and took the tray of eggs and set them on the counter.

“Those are none o’ yer business.” Cook shook a finger at him.

He grinned mischievously.

“And none o’ that.” She picked up a wooden spoon and shook it at him, even as her gray eyes danced with amusement. “Ye old tom cat.” She shook her head.

The rest of the kitchen staff watched the interchange silently, knowing that such familiarity with the lord of the house could only be afforded by the long employed.

Or in this case, the woman who had practically raised him.

With his parents in a perpetual war, Curtis had sought out a haven from the fray and found it in the kitchen. Cook had taken him under her wing like a broody hen does an orphaned chick, and the rest was truly history.

“Ye hungry?” Cook asked, setting a plate of bacon, eggs, and toast in front of him.

Crust cut off and set aside.

He picked up a crust and dipped it in the hot tea Cook placed just to the side of the plate. “Why ask if you’ve already deducted that you’ll feed me regardless of my appetite?”

“Bein’ polite. Ye could learn a thing or two ‘bout it.” She shook her pump finger. “Now eat. It’ll get cold if ye insist on waggin’ yer tongue.”

Grinning, Curtis dug into his breakfast. It had always appalled his parents that he’d prefer to take his meal in the kitchen, but they didn’t push him. What he’d begun as a lad had carried into his adulthood, and he rarely ate anywhere else in this home. The kitchen was… homey. It was comforting in a world that seemed to grow more and more insecure by the day.

It was also loud.

Pots and pans clanging, maids scurrying about, cook shouting out orders, and cabinets opening and shutting… it was anything but what he feared most.

Being alone.

Truly, it was a defeating prospect since, whenever he imagined marriage, he thought of his parents.

And honestly, he couldn’t decide which was worse: the silence in one’s own home to be so loud it was maddening, or to be so betrayed by a spouse that a man would rather drink himself to death than actually live. It was the reason he played the role at parties, why he had cheerfully taken the dangerous vocation, and why he ate with servants though he was richer than Croesus.

And as he bit into his last piece of bacon, he tried not to think about anything else, even though it followed him like the London fog. Yet, uninvited, an image slipped into his mind, one that caused his heart to practically still then pick up in speed till it was painful. The one woman he actually liked. And somewhere along the way, that friendship had grown into something more.

But she didn’t know that… nor would she ever. And he had a job to do today, much as he loathed the idea.

He had promised a list of eligible bachelors to her, ones that would be both dutiful and loyal to their wife. Because as much as he hated the prospect, he understood one concept far too well.

Being alone.

And he’d rather rot, rather send her into the arms of a better man than have her sentenced to the same fate as he.