Movement flashed on her right and Juliet spun to face the whole of the wide room.A tall, burly man had just stood up from one of the wingback chairs facing the fireplace. Not burly in fat—burly in muscle, in strength. Brown hair that was a touch longer than fashionable. Fine threaded clothes that fit him well—unusual for the size of him. Usually, broad men didn’t wear their clothes well. This one did. A hard face with a scar that ran along his right cheekbone. Grey eyes with specks of blue that were busy drifting up and down her body.
Something she was accustomed to. In her line of work, men appraised her like horseflesh all the time.
But not at the Willows. The Willows was a sacred space away from London, away from the Den.
How she’d missed seeing the man when she’d walked into the room, she wasn’t sure. The chair he’d sat in was big, but not that big—it’d been her practice for years to scan the entirety of every room she entered and catalog all the men in it.Threat. Docile. Drunk. Entitled. Poor. Privileged. Desperate.She knew what was transpiring in any room by the moment her second footfall touched the floor.
But not in this instance.
She resisted the urge to wipe the tired blur from her eyes. Apparently, she hadn’t been sleeping well either the past few days.
“Who is this?” She looked back to Jasper.
A glass of brandy in each hand, he walked across the room and handed one to the man. “Juliet, this is one of my cousins from Scotland.Evander Docherty, Lord Hedrun, grandson to the Earl of Whetland.Evan, this is Madame Jul—excuse me. This is Miss Juliet Thomson.”
She offered the man a pinched smile, then shifted her glare to Jasper. “And just what, exactly, is Lord Hedrun doing here at the Willows, Jasper?” The Willows was off-limits to any man save for Hoppler and his men. Jasper knew that full well.
Jasper ignored her glare and took a sip of his brandy. “Evan has a proposal for you, and I thought ye might be amenable to it, so I brought him here.”
A proposal? Why in the world would Jasper bring his cousin to her? She flashed Jasper an exasperated look, then turned to the man. She needed to be done with whatever this business was and send them on their way before any of the women currently in residence found out. “Yes, Lord Hedrun?”
Lord Hedrun gave his cousin a disgruntled look before his gaze shifted back to her. “You look like a woman that will not mind if I dispense with the pleasantries?”
At least he read that correctly in her. She nodded. “Yes.”
He gave her a curt nod. “I need a fiancée. A fake fiancée. One that will accompany me to my home in Scotland that I can present to my grandfather as my betrothed. You will be needed for a week at the castle at most, endearing yourself to him, and then you will be able to return to London. I will pay well for your time.”
“I assume this entails bedroom privileges?”
“No. That is not part of the deal.”
She stared at the man, allowing herself only one blink in response. She’d heard far too many extraordinary requests in her days at the Den—mostly involving inventive human acrobatics that weren’t physically possible—but this one put all of those to shame.
Her eyes squinted ever so slightly at him. “Why?”
“My grandfather is dying and he wants my future—the future of the earldom—wrapped into a tidy bow before he departs this earth. I mean to give him that.”
She needed that drink.
She stepped to her left and snatched Jasper’s glass out of his hand and took a healthy swallow. Her gaze swung back to the Scot. “You don’t think a lie on someone’s deathbed is sacrilege?”
With a grunt, his wide shoulders lifted, in a shrug or in exasperation she wasn’t sure. “If it makes my grandfather happy in his final days, then no.”
“Why me?”
“Jasper recommended you. You’re a lady—fallen, yes, but a lady. I saw you at the Den of Diablo the day before you left for this place. Ye look even younger than you did there—that suits well.” His hand flipped up toward her, waving about her body. “You talk properly. Your posture and movements are impeccable. And you’re beautiful, regal—all the things my grandfather wants to see in the future of the title.”
Jasper’s Scottish brogue had years of London in it. Not so this man’s low burr. Pure, straight from the northern lands.
Juliet took another sip of the brandy. “I don’t recall seeing you at the Den of Diablo.”
“I wasn’t there for the women or the gaming.”
That would do it. If a man walking into the Den wasn’t interested in either of those things, she had little interest in him. Yet still, he was so big—tall and brawny—she should have noted him.
Maybe she wasn’t just tired. Maybe she was losing the edge of her that kept hawk-eyes on everything about her.
Lord Hedrun’s mouth pulled to a tight line. “Forgive me, but time is of the essence, Miss Thomson. As I said, I will pay you well for your time away from your business. Your accommodations along the way will be the finest available.”