She’d have preferred her study nearer to where he worked, but he’d never asked her preference. Unfortunately, he would probably never do the same of his wife either. His focus was narrow, seldom venturing beyond the empire he’d built. The man cared about little more than making money and securing success at any cost. But the shrewdness, skill, and ruthlessness with which he managed his business affairs had often left her quite breathless. It was a sight to behold, and she had learned a great deal from him, enough that she had managed, like many women, to invest her income in private businesses and government securities with astounding success. Never again would she be forced to do the unthinkable in order to survive.
As she neared the library, a liveried footman standing at the door gave her a quick nod of acknowledgment before opening it. With her shoulders pulled back, her spine straight, her emotions girded, she strode in without giving the barest hint of how much the mere sight of His Grace always weakened her knees. It wasn’t his devilishly gorgeous features. She’d known handsome men aplenty. It was the confidence in his bearing, the directness in his steady gaze, the power and influence he wielded with ease. It was the manner in which he looked at her with no lasciviousness whatsoever. He viewed her as he might a man he respected, a man whose opinion he valued. And for her, who had never known any of that before him, it was an aphrodisiac.
His dark hair, half an inch longer than fashionable—she would have to take up the matter with his valet—called to her deft fingers to brush aside the forelock that forever seemed to be in a state of rebellion, falling over his obsidian eyes as he came to his feet, unfolding that long, lithe body that any clothing would be fortunate to drape. That his tailor painstakingly ensured each stitch was perfect only served to make the duke more dashing.
She’d seen him at breakfast, of course. He insisted she join him because ideas, musings, and things to be researched often entered his mind as he slept or upon first awakening, and they sometimes dictated how she spent her day. She was also prone to fits of stirring from slumber when solutions came to her regarding problems they were striving to solve, and she’d share them with him as they took their repast. It was a lovely way to begin her day, even when they had nothing to say and simply read the separate newspapers the butler ironed and set beside each of their places. The duke believed it to his advantage for her to be as informed as possible.
“Pettypeace, splendid, you’ve arrived.” His deep, smooth voice created warmth in her belly like the brandy she enjoyed before retiring. “Allow me to introduce Mr. Lancaster.”
She nodded toward the gentleman in the ill-fitting tweed jacket. “Sir.”
“Lancaster, Miss Pettypeace, my secretary.”
“A pleasure, miss.”
She’d put him a couple of years past her own of twenty-eight. He had a hunger about him, an eagerness in his gray eyes as though he knew he was on the cusp of making a fortune, but she also sensed a wariness because he understood all hopes could be torn asunder with two small words from the duke: not interested.
“Miss Pettypeace will be taking notes so I can consider the matter more fully later. I like to ruminate over investment possibilities, you see.”
A polite way of saying he would be digging into Mr. Lancaster’s life until he knew the precise day and time and with whom the man had lost his virginity and, ages before that, how long he might have nursed at his mother’s teat.
As unobtrusively as possible, she removed from her skirt pocket the pencil and small leather-bound notebook she always carried with her, slid over to a winged chair at the edge of the sitting area, adjusted her spectacles on the bridge of her nose, and sat. Both gentlemen took their chairs.
“Right then, Lancaster, impress me with this scheme of yours that is guaranteed to make me wealthier than I already am.”
King had the enviable skill of concentrating on more than one thing at a time, so as Lancaster waxed on about his invention—a clock that would emit an alarm at a particular time designated by its owner—he appeared to be giving his full attention to the inventor while out of the corner of his eye, he admired Pettypeace’s new frock. It was dark blue. Of course it was dark blue. She only ever wore dark blue. However, because he also possessed a gift for memory, he knew in spite of it not daring to reveal so much as the dip of her collarbones, it had two fewer buttons than any of her other frocks, the sleeves running all the way to her wrists were a slightly closer fit, and the bustle smaller. He wondered when she’d had time to have it sewn, but then, she was a paragon of efficiency. He’d once asked her why she always wore dark blue instead of a cheerier color, and she’d immediately taken offense. “Do you ask your solicitor why he doesn’t strut about in brighter jackets like a peacock?”
Of course he didn’t. He didn’t give a damn about Beckwith’s attire, but she’d made her point. She took her position seriously and wore nothing to give the impression she was flighty by nature. Still, he thought a hunter green would accomplish the same result while also serving to bring out the green shade of her eyes, sharp eyes, clever eyes. They were the reason he’d employed her.
A dozen men had applied for the position when he’d announced it. She’d been the only woman. She’d also been the only one to meet his gaze straight on, to never look away, to never flinch—not even when she’d lied. If she was a vicar’s daughter, he was a beggar’s son.
He’d hired the best investigators, detectives, spies—and they’d been unable to discover a single thing about her. It was as though she’d not existed until the moment she walked into his office for her interview.
He of the shrewd mind, who considered odds, was willing to suffer a loss for a larger gain, and weighed risks, had taken a hell of a big one with her—and given her the position. Without knowing anything about her other than what she’d shared that long-ago afternoon. And he had yet to regret it.
She was a marvel. Quite possibly the most intelligent person he’d ever known. That, too, had been reflected in those emerald eyes of hers.
Now they were concentrating on what she was scribbling as Lancaster spoke. She had perfect penmanship, no matter how quickly she wrote. Although at the moment, he knew she was using something she referred to as the Pitman method, a series of curls, slashes, and dots that made no sense whatsoever to him, but then they didn’t have to. She would translate it all and write it out later for his records. He seldom forgot anything but preferred to have the reminders all the same. Besides, she often caught the smallest of details that he might have overlooked or decided at the time had no bearing—only to discover later they were crucial. They were a team, she and he. Other than his three best mates from Oxford, he trusted no one more.
Although he wasn’t certain she could say the same of him. Otherwise, why had she shared nothing else of her past, other than what she had that first afternoon? On the one hand, he felt he knew her as well as he knew himself. Yet he couldn’t deny the gaping holes that seemed to yawn wider with the passage of time. He told himself her past was of no consequence. She did what was asked of her and she did it flawlessly.
Besides, she had a right to keep her secrets. After all, he was damned good at keeping his.
But still, he sometimes wondered . . .