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position.”
    Anabelle sniffled. “Could I say good-bye to my mother and sister?”
    “Why would I let you out of my sight when you’ve given me no reason to trust you? No. You’d have to come with me immediately.” He stood, his patience apparently exhausted. “Take it or leave it.”
    She hesitated only briefly before rising and looking directly into his eyes. “It would appear, Your Grace, that you now employ a full-time seamstress.” They shook hands to seal the deal, and the hint of a smirk hovered at the corner of his mouth. It instantly transformed him from austere duke to handsome rogue.
    Anabelle’s insides went soft, and an alarm simultaneously sounded in her head. Rule number five on her List of Nevers: Never enter into any form of social interaction with a former customer.
    She reminded herself that this was a business transaction, pure and simple. She’d sever ties with him and his family as soon as she completed his sisters’ wardrobes, and they would, no doubt, be relieved to be done with her as well. After all, she was a penniless seamstress with a criminal past. And broken spectacles.
    The duke held out a palm, politely indicating the direction they should walk. “Shall we, Miss Honeycote?”
    She fell in step beside him and realized—with no small amount of dread—that she’d just made a deal with the Devil.

Chapter Four
    O wen didn’t speak to Miss Honeycote during the walk to his townhouse. He was much too busy trying to figure out what the hell was wrong with him.
    The little miscreant at his side had threatened to ruin Olivia’s reputation, and instead of turning her in—which would have been the logical course of action—he’d invited her into his
home
, giving her unfettered access to his sisters. Not to mention the silver. Good God.
    He strode through the park and headed west on Picadilly, slowing now and then when she fell too far behind. He’d almost offered her his arm—out of sheer habit—but thankfully caught himself. This wasn’t meant to be a pleasant stroll. He wondered what his friends and acquaintances would think if they saw him in his current disheveled state with his dreary companion. Shuddering at the thought, he walked faster and thanked heaven that no self-respecting member of the
ton
would be out at this ungodly hour.
    At the sight of his brick townhouse, Owen breathed asigh of relief. Once he stepped through the front door, he could hand Miss Honeycote off to his housekeeper—Mrs. Pottsbury had a fondness for strays—and return to his normal duties.
    He opened the door and hurried Miss Honeycote into the foyer. Dennison sauntered in moments later, his bushy eyebrows twitching at the sight of a strange young woman with the master of the house.
    Owen shot the butler a warning look. “Tell Mrs. Pottsbury I wish to see her.”
    Dennison rushed off, and Owen paced, his boots clicking on the Venetian tile.
    “I don’t have any supplies with me,” Miss Honeycote said. “Thread, needles, fabric, lace… I’ll need a great many things just to get started.”
    He paused and glared at her. She must be in quite a hurry to fulfill her duties, which, for some reason, irked him. As did her cap. He pointed at her head. “Why do you wear that ridiculous thing?”
    “For modesty’s sake, Your Grace.” Her tone, however, was the opposite of modest. Rather sarcastic, actually.
    He wasn’t sure why the cap bothered him so much. All the female servants wore some form of it. But it seemed too dowdy for someone as proud as Miss Honeycote. If she was capable of making such beautiful things, why didn’t she make something less hideous for herself? “It makes your head look like a mushroom.”
    Her eyebrows shot up and she opened her mouth, but Mrs. Pottsbury teetered in and effectively cut her off. “Good morning, Your Grace,” she said with a curtsey. Owen was always fascinated by how the woman managed to keep her balance. Shaped like her namesake, she wasround about