She sent him a quelling glare. “No killing, Fergus. I mean it.”
Luna, who’d been curled into a ball on the tufted footstool, woke from her nap with a sweet mewl. She blinked her amber eyes twice, then stared at Helena as if to ask what all the fuss was about.
“It is nothing, sweetheart,” she cooed. “Go back to sleep.”
Fergus smirked, his surliness giving way to amusement for a moment. “You realize the fur ball canna understand you.”
“You don’t know that.”
Luna was having none of their nonsense. She jumped from her perch and pranced from the drawing room like the Queen herself.
A light knock sounded at the front door. Helena narrowed her eyes at Fergus. “Not even one hair on his head is to be harmed. Do you understand?”
He sniffed in response and stalked from the room to answer the door. She quickly chose a chair facing the drawing room door, arranged her skirts, and prepared to meet the enemy.
The front door creaked when Fergus tugged it open.
“Lord Thorne to see Lady—”
“I know why you’re here,” Fergus snarled.
She winced. Her loyal Scot was itching for a fight, but she couldn’t allow him to do anything foolish.
“This way, Lord Thorne,” she called.
The rich carpet in the entry muffled the baron’s footsteps, and he was in the threshold before she had properly prepared herself. Her breath caught at the sight of him, his dark eyes gleaming and a hint of whiskers creating a shadow on his defined jaw. He was much too handsome for a blackmailer.
A humorless laugh slipped from her. Who ever said scoundrels had to be ugly?
He leaned against the doorjamb, unperturbed by Fergus lurking behind him. “Do I amuse you, Lady Prestwick?”
“Not particularly, my lord. Thank you, Fergus. You may go.”
The Scot gritted his teeth and looked for one moment as if he might pounce on Lord Thorne.
“Please. I will call out if I need you.”
Fergus withdrew, but not before locking a death stare on the baron.
Lord Thorne lifted an eyebrow in her direction once they were alone. “You will call out? I believe my honor has just been besmirched.”
“Is it a first, my lord?” She smiled sweetly.
He chuckled and pushed away from the doorjamb. Her insult had shot wildly over his head.
“There aren’t many firsts left for me, Lady Prestwick. May I have a seat?”
She held up a hand to stop him. “This will not take long. How much do you want?”
His step faltered and his brow wrinkled. It was almost worth enduring the interview to see him flustered. “I beg your pardon? How much of what do I want?”
“Must you pretend ignorance, sir? You are here to demand money, so speak your price. I would like to resolve this matter at once.”
One side of his mouth twitched. “It’s not your money I want.”
What was he saying? Her heart bounced off her breastbone, drumming furiously and making her light-headed. There had been more rumors whispered about Lord Thorne tonight, ones that made her shiver with shameful excitement. Whispers of his conquests, mostly widows. Very happily conquered widows.
She fidgeted with the locket around her neck, her body consumed with prickly heat. “I was prepared to pay with money. N-not…” She concentrated on breathing, which had become a monumental task.
“I see.” A wicked grin slowly slid across his face. “Then you should be relieved to learn I have no need to resort to blackmail to find a bed partner.”
Her face burned hotter as if she’d been doused in oil and set afire. She grabbed the ivory fan resting on a side table and snapped it open.
Not asking for permission this time, he claimed the armchair across from her. “I am not here to threaten you, Lady Prestwick. Believe me when I say I’ve no love for the gossips and would rather cut off my left arm than toss them a juicy bone to gnaw.”
He lounged casually on the chair, his elbow propped on the padded armrest, eyeing her. Odd that she should trust him on this much at least. His name had been dragged through the muck often enough these past weeks to convince her that he wouldn’t conspire with gossipmongers.
“You came here for some reason,” she said, “and I’m sure you want something.” Even if it wasn’t her money or her body. And why didn’t he want her body? Not that she was offering it.