With the tip of his cane, he probed the alcove with purpose. Then he reached inside.
Raven was already across the room when the drunkard hauled the young woman out by the wrist. The hood slipped to her shoulders, baring a lopsided twist of honey-brown hair and a slender mask of black lace. A pair of almond-shaped slits revealed wide eyes that shot past the baron and centered directly on Raven.
At once he was struck by irises so pure and blue it felt as if she’d stolen the tint from his clear icy gray. A shock spurred his pulse, filling him with the uncanny desire to steal it back.
“What have we here?” Ruthersby slurred in singsong. “A fresh new piece for me to—”
Before the baron could finish, Raven gripped the man’s arm, forcing his fist open on a wince.
With the deb free, he took hold of her gloveless hand and tucked her behind him for safekeeping. “She’s mine for the hour.”
But she misunderstood his better intentions and jerked out of his grasp. He thought she would make a dash to the door, and he was ready for it. But she merely stood apart from them and lifted her hood in place.
“For your information,” she said, “I belong to none other than myself, in this hour and in any other.”
Raven frowned. That highbrow tone was too self-assured under these circumstances.
But the baron grinned and adjusted his hold over the head of his cane, his gloves creaking with the effort to stretch over those fat fingers. “Mmm . . . You speak like the governess I once had. Quite strict and quick to temper. Tell me, my dear, do you have a fondness for a firm hairbrush?”
Her head tilted and those lips pursed in confusion. “I hadn’t really thought about it. However, I suppose a firmer bristle is more efficient than—”
“Don’t say anything more,” Raven warned and tried, again, to shield her. Of the three of them, he seemed to be the only one with enough sense to see that she didn’t belong here. To the baron, he growled, “Lay a single finger on her and you’ll regret it.”
The baron’s liquor-flushed cheeks turned florid, his gaze gleaming with fast fury. “Listen here, usurper! I saw her first.”
“Actually, that isn’t correct,” she informed him, peering out from behind Raven. “This man was watching me from the table before you arrived. Though, I hadn’t had the opportunity to discern the reason before you stumbled drunkenly past me on your way to the stairs. A man your age really shouldn’t imbibe so heavily.”
The more she spoke, the more the baron’s eyes gleamed with debased hunger. No doubt, he was already imagining all the cruel things he would do to her. “Name your price, my dear. I’ll double it—whatever the amount. I refuse to let this gentleman stake his claim.”
She huffed in exasperation. “Apparently, you were not listening a moment ago when I said that I belong to no one. And, besides, he isn’t a gentleman. You can tell this simply enough by his button.”
The hair on the back of Raven’s neck rose. Moll Dawson’s arrangement with him depended on his convincing charade. For the past three years he’d never incurred the slightest suspicion.
The baron squinted at him but shook his head in dismissal, and Raven knew there was no possible way this debutante had seen through his guise.
Even so, his own gaze skimmed over his togs. Pretending snobbish effrontery, he crisply intoned, “There is nothing amiss with my button.”
“I beg to differ.” A dainty bare finger pointed as she spoke in a confident but dizzying rush. “The third one down on your waistcoat has been reattached with brown thread instead of black. The stitches are slightly twisted, as well, which suggests an untutored hand. From these observations, I can surmise that you mended the button yourself, using whatever thread you had available. Undoubtedly, you mistakenly believed that one dark color was like any other. A wife, housekeeper, or a valet would never have made that error. This leads to the natural presumption that you are neither married nor wealthy enough to employ servants. Therefore, it is my conclusion that you cannot be of the same ilk as the gentlemen who call upon the headmistress of this exclusive establishment.”
Raven studied her with deceptive calm. As if blood weren’t rushing in his ears. As if she hadn’t just laid his secret bare and obliterated his bargain with Moll in the process.
Damn it all! That’s what happened when a man ignored his own rules. And yet, if Ruthersby didn’t believe her, Raven still had a chance to recover.
Unfortunately, one look at the baron and that last hope fled.
Ruthersby had his own agenda, after all. Flicking a glance from Raven to the debutante, his eyes suddenly gleamed with cunning and triumph. He drew in a barreled breath and bellowed, “Imposter!”
Then all hell broke loose.
Chapter 3
A footman in pink satin livery rushed in from one of the unseen corridors, holding fast to his powdered wig like a stage actor late for a curtain call.
Baron Ruthersby brandished his cane at Raven and shouted, “This man is a commoner in a patently poor disguise. How could you have allowed him admittance?”
“My lord, I—I assure you th-that I had n-no idea,” the footman stammered.
“Never mind your excuses, man,” the baron blustered. “Summon that brute at the door and call the guard at once!”
Raven, keeping to his disguise, coolly intoned, “This gentleman is clearly deep in his cups and raving like a lunatic. Fetch his driver before he embarrasses himself further.”
The footman’s expression contorted in confusion as he looked from one to the other. Then he set his hand on the baron’s shoulder as if to escort him out.
“How dare you lay a finger on my person!” Ruthersby’s ruddy face turned aubergine as his grip on the cane’s hilt tightened. Without warning, he whacked the beak to the footman’s forehead before swinging back to Raven. “And you! How dare you speak to me in such an insolent manner!”
“In point of fact, this man was speaking to the footman about you, not directly to you,” the debutante interjected absently as she sidled up to the servant. Handing him a handkerchief, she advised him to attend the wound in the kitchen post haste. Oddly enough, he obeyed without a backward glance, as if she were somehow directing this disastrous play.
“And, frankly,” she continued with authority, slyly stealing past the baron and toward the doorway, “I believe the point of embarrassment was breached the instant you stumbled into the alcove. Now, if we could simply put this unfortunate episode behind us . . .”
As she spoke, the giant Viking bully who guarded the door marched into the parlor, apparently having heard a disturbance. Blond, barrel-chested and burly-framed, Ivor took in the room at a glance, paying no attention to the uninterrupted hedonism in the minstrel’s gallery.
Instead, his gaze settled on the cloaked feminine figure. “Yer not one’ve our girls. ’ow’d ye get in ’ere?”
“I do not believe my answer is of any relevance since I’ll be leaving directly.”
“’ow’s about we just let Moll decide?” The brute blocked the path and looked down at her in a way that suggested he ate debutantes for afternoon tea and used their pinky fingers to pick his teeth afterward.