‘It’s not important,’ she said, her voice sounding spiky to her own ears.
‘Very well.’ Jakob took her hand and drew it through his arm. ‘Then let us go and beard the lion in his den,’ he said.
‘It’s you that’s the lion,’ Desire replied, with forced brightness. ‘Your mane is real.’
Jakob laughed, and she sensed him shake his head in the darkness. ‘My mane, like the rest of me, is in a disreputable state,’ he declared. ‘I need a bath.’
Their arrival at Kilverdale House caused consternation. The porter clearly didn’t recognise Jakob. He was all for having the disreputable, soot-grimed—and, in Jakob’s case, half-naked—visitors thrown off the property. Desire hovered behind Jakob’s broad back, fearing at any moment to hear the Duke’s arrogant voice. Instead it was the Duke’s steward who appeared.
‘Colonel Balston!’ he exclaimed, after staring at Jakob for a few seconds. ‘You’re safe! I heard the commotion, I thought his Grace had returned. Stand aside, Dawson,’ he added peremptorily to the porter. ‘Come in, sir! Come in! His Grace has been looking for you all over.’
‘Is he here?’ Jakob asked.
‘No, sir. He arrived earlier this afternoon—briefly. Demanding to know if you were here. Then he read a message that had been delivered in his absence. It was from you. His Grace expressed…er…agitation.’ The steward cleared his throat. ‘And left again.’
Desire took note of only one thing the steward said—the Duke was not present. Her relief was so profound her legs turned to water. She clung to Jakob’s arm, only half listening as she regathered her composure.
‘För bövelen! Why the hell can’t he stay in one place for more than five minutes at a time?’
‘His Grace was very anxious about your welfare,’ said the steward, looking disapprovingly at Jakob’s naked torso.
‘He would have contributed far more to my comfort if he’d been at home on Sunday,’ Jakob grumbled. ‘Well, never mind. I dare say he’ll turn up eventually. He usually does.’
‘Colonel Balston?’ said Desire suspiciously, finally catching up with the conversation.
‘My lady?’ Jakob swivelled on his heel to look at her. A flicker of concern replaced the impatient expression in his eyes.
‘Henderson,’ he addressed the steward. ‘Send for the housekeeper at once. Her ladyship must be waited upon immediately.’
‘Yes, sir!’ Henderson sent a hurrying minion to perform the errand. ‘I’m sorry, sir. My lady, please come this way.’ He led them into a large room leading off the hallway. ‘Your arrival took me by surprise. I apologise for my lack of hospitality. Please.’ He gestured for Desire to sit in a high-backed chair, carved with Kilverdale’s coat of arms. ‘His Grace would wish you to have everything needful for your comfort.’
Desire hung back, disconcerted by the steward’s effusiveness. Jakob had not introduced her by name—perhaps deliberately to protect her reputation. Her morale had already begun to lift when she’d discovered that the Duke wasn’t at home, and improved even more when she hadn’t recognised Henderson. It seemed likely that Kilverdale kept entirely separate staff in his houses in Putney and Sussex. As long as none of the other servants recognised her, and she managed to leave before the Duke returned, there was a good chance no one would ever need to know of her ignominious adventure. Especially since Jakob seemed willing to be discreet.
‘Comfort,’ she said suddenly, recalling the last thing Henderson had said. ‘We must tend to your hands,’ she told Jakob, deciding for the moment to set aside the peculiar matter of his changed name. ‘Do you have any salves for burns?’ She turned back to the steward. ‘Are any of your household skilled in the care of wounds?’
‘N-no, my lady,’ Henderson stammered, obviously disconcerted at being addressed so briskly by his unknown and tattered guest.
‘Then I need lights,’ Desire announced, heading for the door. After all the upsets of the day it was reassuring to feel once more in control. ‘At once, if you please,’ she added, when the steward simply stared at her. ‘There are a number of plants which can be beneficial to burns. I must see if any of them grow in the gardens here. I need light!’ she repeated firmly, when Henderson still didn’t respond.
‘Light! Yes, my lady, of course.’ He finally stirred into action, calling for the porters to provide illumination for her. ‘I’m sorry, sir. I did not realise you had been hurt,’ he apologised to Jakob.
‘There’s no need to make such a fuss,’ Jakob growled. ‘My hands will do very well without any plants.’
‘It is you who will be making an unnecessary fuss if you do not let me tend to them,’ Desire retorted. ‘Are you afraid the salve will sting? I will be very gentle, sir.’
Jakob exchanged a speaking glance with the steward as they followed Desire into the hall. By now the housekeeper had appeared on the scene, but Desire made it clear she would do nothing to improve her own comfort until she had found the appropriate plants and made a salve for Jakob’s hands.
Jakob had little option but to follow her into the garden, along with a small cavalcade of light-bearing servants. It was soon apparent that Desire was used to running her own household. Even covered in grime, with her hair hanging around her shoulders and her skirt in tatters, she inspired respectful—if somewhat bewildered—service from the Duke’s servants.
When Desire had located the plant she needed she retired to the kitchens. She ground up the roots herself and mixed the paste with butter to make a salve for Jakob’s burnt hands. She gave it to him, and only then allowed herself to be escorted to a more suitable chamber to seek her own comfort.
An hour later, Desire emerged from her guest chamber, dressed in the housekeeper’s best clothes, to discover Kilverdale’s steward hovering in the gallery.
‘The Colonel is waiting for you in the Great Parlour,’ he said. ‘May I show you the way?’
‘Yes.’ Desire followed him, her nerves on edge. She wasn’t sure if she was ready to face Jakob again so quickly, but she was hungry—and he had promised to feed her. She focussed on that mundane thought to keep the worst of her apprehension at bay.
Jakob stood as she entered the room. She took one look at him and her breath caught in her throat. He was magnificent. He wore a coat of black brocade which fell halfway down his thighs. A flamboyant knot of black satin ribbon at the top of his right sleeve emphasised the breadth of his shoulders. On his legs he wore black breeches trimmed with more ribbon and black silk hose. His coat sleeves were fashionably short to reveal an abundant fall of snowy lace to his wrists. At his throat folds of crisp white lace contrasted dramatically with the dark grandeur of his coat. There were silver buckles on his shoes and an impressive row of silver buttons on his coat. He wore his own hair, despite the current fashion for extravagantly long, curled wigs—but Desire could hardly blame him for that vanity. Many country maids who grew and sold their hair to the wigmakers would be jealous of Jakob’s glorious locks. Even now, when his hair was still damp from the thorough washing he had given it, it fell around his shoulders in shimmering waves of gold.
He looked the very image of a rich nobleman. Only the red rims of his eyes—still suffering the effects of too much exposure to heat and smoke—suggested he hadn’t spent the day lounging at his ease.
Desire stared at him, overwhelmed by his magnificent, aristocratic appearance. Despite his luxurious attire and handsome face, only the very unobservant would mistake him for a fop. He moved with