The cost of a night with her set expectations exceptionally high. The longing in his boyish eyes said he was ready to sink his teeth into the experience his money had bought. She dragged her eyes over him with a feline intensity, and every tremble in his face, from the throb of his jaw and the tension in his eyes to the twitch of his eager fingers conveyed this was lust more potent than he’d encountered before. She felt rather smug, knowing full well that the man before her would have paid the price three times over.

* * *

Emily spotted him the moment she entered the tavern.

She hadn’t even formally met him and was already annoyed. The Duke of Fucking Henares. What a prize.

Emily had been excellent at all facets of her job for years. It wasn’t until she began venturing out into the surrounding cities as bait that Millicent saw her true potential. Nights on the road were a welcome adventure contrasted against the mundanity of everyday life within the salon. This particular adventure had taken a day’s ride, and if she played her cards right, which she always did, she could be in and out in under an hour.

She fought the urge to glare at the lordling, dressed in his finery amidst the everyday folk of Henares. Despite the jovial music, the laughter, and the booze, the duke was anything but cheery. Bitter disinterest rolled off him. He’d sequestered himself to a far corner of the bar, angling his body to dissuade anyone who might approach.

This was fine. She had some work to do before wasting her time on the lord.

Emily sidled up to the bartender, a man who greeted her with a pitcher of ale in one hand and a damp rag in the other. He scanned her in the way a business owner might regard a paying customer, perhaps assessing her for her drink of choice and the depth of her wallets. Any man who didn’t linger on her chest immediately gained a modicum of favor. It was fortunate that he didn’t have an outright boorish personality, as the barkeep’s looks were sure to win him no love from the ladies. His brows were entirely too thick for any man’s face, two disconcertingly dark caterpillars that met in the center.

“What’ll it be, miss?” he asked.

She made a show of considering the choices. Between the fiddle, the drunkenly sung shanties, and the patrons’ chatter, the bar was too rowdy for the barkeep to hear her response. He leaned in close enough to understand her. The man smelled of garlic, sausage, and sweat. Despite her displeasure at his proximity, she knew he was close enough that no one would overhear their conversation.

“Maybe the mead, maybe the water, or maybe you’d spare a girl some stress and help her with a bit of information?”