The Wicked House of Rohan by Anne Stuart Page A

knew, immediately, that this was not the kind of employment she was seeking. She should say she’d made a mistake, turn and get out of there as fast as she possibly could.
    But where could she go?
    Sir Wesley must have read the indecision on her face, and he smiled winningly, like a chubby, naughty little boy intent on mischief.
    She’d dealt with naughty little boys and she knew just how to handle them. The grown version couldn’t be so different.
    â€œJust hear us out, Miss Strong,” he said with the right amount of earnestness and charm. “I just know we can be of service to each other. Please, go with Marcello.”
    The absurdity of her suspicions hit so hard she laughed. Venice was filled with the most beautiful women in the world. No one would have any use for a skinny spinster nearing thirty years of age. She was being ridiculous.
    â€œThis way, miss,” the servant said, and, consigning her doubts to the Adriatic, she followed his stiff figure down a series of passageways, hallways and salons. They were in the same declining condition of every single palazzo she’d seen since she’d arrived in this beautiful, curst city. The palazzos must be built already disintegrating.
    She heard the voices well before they reached the room, and her irrational misgivings came back. Men’s voices, loud, slightly drunken.
    Courage, she reminded herself. There were almost as many courtesans as there were pigeons in Venice. They didn’t want her for that . Nobody did.
    Marcello pushed open the door, and the noise and heat spilled forth, accompanied by the unmistakable smell of cinnamon and chocolate. Maybe they’d feed her even if they didn’t hire her—if she just had a decent meal she might be able to attend to her desperate problems with a fresh perspective.
    She stopped in the doorway, unsure what to do. And then she saw him.
    He sat at one end of the table, long legs propped up on the scarred surface, and for a moment she stared. He was jaded, beautiful, dissolute, and his faint smile was dangerously seductive. All the other men in the room seemed to fade into the shadows, and Kathleen stared at him as if she’d seen a ghost.
    And ghost he was. The ghost of her girlhood, when she was young and hopeful and daydreamed with her sister about the man who would be her true love.
    He’d looked very much like that man, from the tousled wave of thick brown hair, the piercing blue eyes—the mouth perfect for kissing. A knight on a white stallion, come to rescue her.
    Madness. He caught sight of her, and his mouth curved in a smile so cynical that for a moment she was crushed.
    â€œI believe we have a guest, gentleman,” he announced in a lazy voice, and the sudden silence was shocking. “A little gray wren has come to visit us. Let’s make her welcome, shall we?”
    She wasn’t sure what she would have done next. This announcement was greeted with such raucous enthusiasm that she almost turned and ran, but Sir Wesley had come up behind her, taking her arm in his and escorting her into the room as though she were an honored visitor.
    â€œThis is the woman I told you about. Miss Kathleen Strong, may I introduce to you our little organization, the members of the Saving Grace?”
    â€œI thought we decided on the Heavenly Host,” a drunken voice called out.
    The man at the table spoke again, his voice low, pleasant. Implacable. “What is she doing here, Marblethorpe? I thought we discussed this.”
    â€œWe came to no consensus. And Miss Strong is in dire need of employment. Aren’t you, Miss Strong?”
    She had a hard time pulling her gaze away from the man’s eyes. They were a golden color, like dark honey, and that made her think of toast and tea and rich pastries…. She forced herself to look at some of the other men. All expensively dressed, albeit their fine clothes were in sad disarray after what was presumably a night