Sins of a Wicked Princess Read Free Page B

flavors.
    Ian eased shut the door behind him.
    The hairs on the back of his neck suddenly stood at attention.
    The fireplace was lit. As was a candle.
    Someone had moved his stockings.
    He’d left a pair drying in front of the fireplace when he was last here . . . what, two weeks ago?
    What the devil? The hotel staff knew not to enter his rooms. And if someone was waiting to kill him, he doubted they’d light a fire and tidy his clothing.
    “Good evening, sir. Your dinner will be delivered shortly.”
    An elderly servant in an impeccable black coat and a lemon yellow hat containing three ostrich feathers stepped into view.
    “Canterbury?”
    “If I might take your hat and gloves, sir?”
    “What in the blazes are you doing in my rooms?”
    “Taking your hat and gloves, sir.”
    “But how did you find my rooms?” It wasn’t often that Ian was baffled, but this did it.
    “Mr. Campbell gave me your location, sir, when I inquired.”
    Curse Clayton. “When I asked you to take that position with Madeline in London, it wasn’t because I wanted you close at hand.” No, he’d known he could trust Canterbury completely with Madeline, but Ian didn’t want him. The old butler dredged up far too many worthless memories.
    “I believe you made that quite clear at the time, sir.”
    How much more blunt did he need to be? “I do not need you.”
    “So you said twenty years ago. And that didn’t work out so well for you, did it? Arrested and sentenced to hang shortly thereafter.”
    By then Ian had been firmly entrenched with his merry band of cutpurses and gutter rats. He’d been living with his gang of thieves on the streets for almost ten years. Yet when Canterbury had heard about the trial, he’d come and tried to speak on Ian’s behalf even though it had cost him his position as the Duke of Yuler’s butler.
    “I survived.”
    There was a knock on the door. Canterbury answered and accepted a silver tray from the footman. He placed it on the small table and uncovered a plate of beef dripping with savory juices and seasoned with rosemary, mushrooms, and a touch of black pepper. In a nearby bowl, strawberries wallowed in clotted cream as white as angel wings.
    “I assumed you’d want dinner when you returned, but if I was incorrect . . .” He started to lift the plate.
    Ian grabbed it. It would be a crime to let such food go to waste. And he happened to be an expert on crime. “How did you know that I was going to be here tonight?”
    “A good butler always anticipates his master’s whims, sir.”
    “No. I was the spy. Not you. You do not get to deflect me with non-answers.”
    “As you say, sir.”
    “No, I want you to say. That is the whole point.”
    “Shall I have the staff wait on dessert, sir?”
    Ian glared. “You fight dirty, old man.”
    “A good butler would never dream of fighting, sir. Now would you like wine or brandy with your meal? I was able to obtain a rather fine bottle of French brandy, if I might be so bold.”
    “Oh, you might be,” Ian muttered. He plopped down in the chair with a sigh. “The brandy, curse you.”
    “You may wish to remove your muddy coat before eating.”
    “You are an interfering old biddy, Canterbury. Do not push your rather meager amount of luck. And I don’t see how you can take issue with my coat when you look like a bloody lemon peacock.”
    Ian wished he were the type to savor the meal. It was beyond divine. It was as if Canterbury had somehow reached into Ian’s very soul and plucked out the perfect symphony of flavors.
    Curse him, anyway.
    “Where are you staying?” Ian asked.
    “Here, sir.”
    Ian took another mouthful of the beef. Mercy. He needed to fall down and beg for mercy before he died from sheer bliss. “I’ve never had this here before. What do they call it?”
    “You have had it before, sir.”
    “Going batty in your old age?” Ian wasn’t entirely sure how old Canterbury was. Sixty-five? Two hundred? But other than the slight