Page 34 of The Boxing Baroness

“Oh, I’m so sorry,” she said with an utterly unconvincing show of remorse. “Will this new job that you’ve just bullied and blackmailed your way into be an imposition for you? Do you find the notion of doing actual physical work six days a week unappealing? Perhaps you have changed your mind, Your Grace? I’m sure you can—”

“You want us there at six o’clock?” Sin ground out, losing the fight to keep his temper.

“On Fridays we meet at ten, so make sure you’re there on time—I despise tardiness.”

“Is that all, Miss Simpson?” Sin asked icily. “Or do you have any other instructions for me?”

“No, that is all. For now. But since you are now my employee, Your Grace, I suggest that you become comfortable with following my orders—and that you learn to do so quickly and with a smile on your face.”

* * *

The door had scarcely closed behind Miss Simpson before Guy broke out in helpless laughter. “Lord, Sin, that woman is going to make your life hell for the next two months. An absolute hell.”

Sin ignored him.

“Well, that was easier than I’d imagined,” Elliot said, trying not to smile and failing. “The good news is that if we’re expected to start right away, that means I’ll have access to the theater, which is only a short step away from Farnham’s house.”

“You think it wise to investigate Farnham’s place yourself?” Sin asked.

“I can take a good look around without getting caught,” Elliot assured him, turning to Guy. “In spite of what Miss Simpson just said, I think all three of us should take every opportunity to spend time at the theater and get to know the employees. The more comfortable they are with us, the less they will notice us, which means the more freedom of movement we shall have. But neither of you should make any effort to poke around. When it comes to getting into Farnham’s office and house—”

“We shall leave all that to you,” Sin assured him.

“Good,” Elliot said. “Because Farnham will have his eye on you, Staunton, waiting for you to do something suspicious. The same with you, Guy.”

“And you think that you will escape his notice?” Sin asked.

“Maybe not escape it, but I’m far less interesting or noticeable than either of you.”

“Have a care, Elliot. People who’ve had dealings with Farnham and Strickland in the past have died,” Sin reminded him. “Are you sure you really need to get into his office and house?”

“I feel that we are operating in the dark; and Farnham, with his past connection to Dominic, is the best hope we’ve got of digging up any information. There may be nothing to find, but there are too many unknowns not to at least make the effort.”

“What can the two of us do to help you?”

“Get Farnham—and the girl—to lower their guard. And the way to do that is simply to show our faces, get them accustomed to our being there. Hell, let them think this is a lark for us. She already thinks we are self-indulgent arseholes looking for entertainment.” He snorted, amusement glinting in his dark eyes. “I’m guessing she’s going to make all three of our lives hell in the hope that we’ll just give up.”

Sin wished her good bloody luck with her plan. Until he had Ben safely home, he’d be stuck to Miss Marianne Simpson tighter than a limpet to a rock at low tide.

Chapter 9

Marianne was changing from her breeches and boots after her Friday morning ride when the dressing room door opened and Cedric, one of the stagehands, popped his head into the room.

“There’s two blokes out here to see you. You want to talk to ’em?”

Marianne smirked at the duke’s punctuality. “Send them in,” she said, stepping out from behind the screen and fastening the big wooden buttons on her gray work gown.

Cedric opened the door wider. “Go on in, gents.”

For a moment, Marianne thought it was somebody else—not the duke and his friend, at all.

One was tall, broad, brown-haired, with silver-rimmed spectacles. He wore old tweed trousers tucked into battered hobnail boots. On top he wore a black-and-white checked neckerchief, a worsted dark green coat, and a hideous gold and green vest beneath it.

Marianne couldn’t help gawking when she reached his face—specifically, his jaw. He’d not shaved for a few days and the stubble was a shocking ginger interspersed with patches of silvery-blond. He looked . . . mottled.

In fact, he was all but unrecognizable.

Wingate wore a similar outfit and he’d shorn his thick, dark brown hair down to about an inch, until it looked like the velvety pelt of an animal. The short hair made his cheekbones as sharp as blades and exposed slashed black eyebrows that gave him a menacing aspect.