One Night in London (15 page)
But he was too restrained for her: too cold and far too superior socially, at least for the moment. She might have wondered what it would take to arouse him to a passion, or what it might be like to kiss him—he did have a lovely mouth—and she might have even succumbed, once or twice, to wild curiosity about why his fiancée jilted him so rudely, but that didn’t mean anything. That was just her energetic imagination, galloping away from her at times, not an actual plan to seduce.
And no one could be allowed to think so. The last thing she needed was Sloan poking around in her affairs, stirring up rumors about her intentions toward Lord Edward. She leaned forward in her seat and crooked her finger. Sloan lurched toward her, his eyes lighting up in incipient triumph. “You’re right,” she whispered. “It suits me much better that he’s not engaged to Louisa Halston.” Francesca knew a fiancée might have objected to her presence, and thus scuttled her hope of Lord Edward’s aid. “I don’t know why or how it happened, but I had nothing to do with it. And as for ‘setting out lures’ for him . . .” She shrugged. “I never really thought of it, even though I shall always think fondly of him.” If Edward de Lacey found Georgina for her, she would bless his name every day for the rest of her life. “But really—you think I arranged for him to speak to you solely to win his regard?” She pursed her lips and tried to look hurt. “That doesn’t speak very highly of me, or my personal charms, does it? As if a man wouldn’t spare a second look at me unless I extorted it from him!”
Sloan’s face eased as he grinned in repentance. “Ah, Franny, you know I didn’t mean it that way! I just can’t resist this little puzzle; some stuffy, top-lofty aristocrat, who doesn’t spend much time in London at all, sees his life fall apart, and in the blink of an eye you’re his dearest friend, ready to do battle to protect his reputation. Caring for the wounded—or in this case, the penniless disinherited? Seizing your chance to gain a new husband, taking your chance he’d still be a titled wealthy one? Or something else?”
“Something else,” she said gently. “And that’s all I intend to tell you, after you all but said I must be blackmailing him into visiting me.”
“Well.” Sloan’s eyes dipped briefly to her bosom. “I don’t miss what’s in it for him, to call on you. I wonder what’s in it for you to receive him. The man’s about to lose everything, my dear.”
She laughed lightly. “And wonder you shall, impertinent man.” She rose and put out her hand. “It was a pleasure to see you again, Gregory,” she added in pointed dismissal.
He looked disappointed. “Very well.” He bowed over her hand. “I hope to repeat the pleasure soon.”
Not very soon, she thought. “Good day,” she said aloud, walking him to the door and smiling until the door closed at his heels. Then she rolled her eyes and let out an exasperated oath. First Alconbury, now Sloan. “Heaven spare me suspicious men!”
“There’s nothing that scoundrel can do to you,” sniffed Mrs. Hotchkiss. “More tea, madam?”
“Yes, please.” Francesca went back into the drawing room and collapsed on the sofa, draping one arm over her eyes. “It’s enough to make one become a hermit.”
Her housekeeper just chuckled and went out to get a fresh tea tray. When she came back a short time later, Francesca reluctantly sat up. “Thank you, Mrs. Hotchkiss. I would be driven to drink if not for your tea.”
“Shall I bar the door, then?” the housekeeper asked with a sympathetic expression. “For I do believe we’re to have another caller soon.”
She groaned. “Lord Alconbury?”
Mrs. Hotchkiss cocked her head. “No, I don’t believe so. It was a carriage I heard, not Lord Alconbury’s horse . . .”
Francesca paused, wary but filled with hope. “Who, then?”
The knocker sounded. Mrs. Hotchkiss raised her eyebrows in question, and Francesca nodded quickly. Perhaps, just perhaps, it would be a message from Lord Edward. She heard the door open, and then—her heart jumped into her throat—it was his own voice in her hall. She rushed to the doorway, a wide, expectant smile on her face.
“Lady Gordon.” He handed his hat to Mrs. Hotchkiss and bowed. “I hope I’ve not called at a bad time.”
“Not at all, sir,” she said with fervor. “You are always most welcome!”
His head went up a bit, and a flicker of surprise brightened his eyes. Francesca flushed, belatedly realizing how enthusiastic she sounded, but she just smiled and held out her hand, welcoming him into her drawing room. He walked past her, very tall and smelling of some subtle, rich cologne in his superbly cut coat, and she hurried to perch on the edge of her chair.
“I’ve spoken to the investigator,” he said at once. “He’s discovered—”
“Georgina?” she said, clasping her hands tightly together as if in prayer.
His expression became a shade graver. “Unfortunately no, not yet. But he has located traces of Percival Watts, the girl’s uncle.”
“He’s no relation to her at all,” said Francesca over the anxious thumping of her heart. “But go on.”
Lord Edward’s mouth quirked. “Of course. I misspoke. But you told me Mr. Watts was an artist, and my investigator traced him to the Royal Academy, where he submitted some paintings.”
“He’s a member?” Francesca was astonished. She had only ever heard Percival was a struggling artist, not elected to the Royal Academy.
“No, but he was acquainted with people there. He studied there. By the accounts of those who know him, he’s still trying to work as an artist, but having a difficult time of it.” He paused. “The investigator believes he may be trying to sell his paintings through art sellers in London or private exhibitions. However, an investigator poking about, asking questions, may cause the man alarm. The last thing we wish to do is provoke him into deeper hiding. I suggest it would be better if I made discreet inquiries with the art sellers, intimating I might like to purchase one of Mr. Watts’s paintings. The prospect of a patron may entice him out of hiding.”
“Oh, yes,” Francesca breathed in excitement. “That may well!” Then she colored. “But of course you didn’t bargain for such involvement! I’m very grateful for your assistance, but surely I can make those inquiries myself—”
He raised an eyebrow. “And what will Mr. Watts think when he hears a copper-haired lady is looking for him?”
Francesca stopped, deflated. “Of course. He would suspect it was I.”
“There’s no link, however, between our names,” Lord Edward went on more kindly. “And, at the risk of sounding quite pompous and important, my name is the sort any artist would be glad to attract. That is why you pursued me, is it not? My . . . consequence?”
She straightened self-consciously in her seat. “Yes, among other things. But I don’t wish to impose
overmuch . . .”
Now he was definitely amused. “No, of course not. But I make the offer freely. You may decline, of course.”
She rubbed one thumb over the other, watching him watch her. Curse Gregory Sloan; now all she could think about was what it would be like if she did decide to seduce Edward de Lacey, and what heartbreak he might be suffering over his lost fiancée. Part of her was trying to forget every last word of that conversation. The other part of her was distracted by the way Edward’s gray eyes seemed almost luminous today as he studied her. He was much more handsome than she’d first thought, Francesca realized. As if it weren’t enough for him to be a duke’s son and immensely wealthy. Why
had
Lady Louisa broken off with him? Had it only been the fear he would lose his fortune? Silly girl; there were so many other ways a man could be attractive . . . and desirable . . .
She took a deep breath and forced her mind away from the suddenly impure direction her thoughts had wandered. The last thing she should do was allow herself even to think about seducing Edward de Lacey. She needed his help too badly to ruin things by affronting him. From now on she would behave with perfect poise and restraint, and remember that it was only a business arrangement between them, no matter how conscious she might feel of him as a man.
“Thank you,” she said. “That’s very generous of you. I am more grateful than you can know.”
His smile was brief. “Not at all. It is what we agreed.”
It was far more than that, and for the first time she wondered why he was offering. “Yes, but I did not ask this. And you must really send the investigator to me. I intend to pay his bill, and there’s no reason for him to trouble you about this search anymore.”
Lord Edward tilted his head back almost warily, as if he were considering what to say next. “It’s no trouble,” he said after a moment. “I feel some sympathy for the little girl.”
“That’s very good of you, sir,” she replied, “but I must insist.”
“He is . . .” He paused. “ . . . a rather rough character. I’m not sure it would be safe for him to visit a lady.”
“Surely he can send written reports instead. I shall have Mr. Hotchkiss in the house any time he’s expected.”
“I’m not certain he can write notes and reports.” Lord Edward cleared his throat. “Really, it’s no trouble.”
She gave an awkward laugh. “I see. I begin to feel like such a pest to you! I never meant to exact
this
much effort . . .”
“I do not take my debts lightly, Lady Gordon,” he said firmly. “And I have already assured you I don’t feel aggrieved.”
If she kept arguing, it would be rude. She made herself smile and unconsciously settled her shoulders in a more relaxed posture. “Then I have no choice but to continue expressing my gratitude, do I?”
He inclined his head. “That is also unnecessary,” he said, but she could see he wasn’t as adamant about this as about sending the investigator to her. Good heavens, what sort of man had he hired? A rough, illiterate, dangerous man who couldn’t be trusted in her house? Well, as long as he ran Ellen and Percival to ground, she supposed it didn’t matter who the fellow was.
“At least allow me to come along and help as I may with querying art sellers,” she said. “I simply cannot sit and wait another week or two with no word, while you do all the work.” He just looked at her, his gray eyes unreadable. “I must insist,” she said firmly. “She’s my niece, and as grateful as I am for all your assistance, this is my cause.”
“Of course,” he said as if he had expected this all along. “I wouldn’t dream of refusing you.”
F
rancesca thought of herself as someone who appreciated art, at least as well as the average person. When Cecil was still alive, they attended art exhibitions and amassed a modest collection of paintings and drawings. But she also admitted that had been mostly Cecil’s doing. Her true love was music, and in any event she’d never had large sums of money to spend on paintings.
Edward de Lacey, however, walked into an art gallery as if he expected to buy every canvas in the place. The proprietors seemed to recognize on sight he was a man to be waited on, and would all but rush across the room to welcome him.
At first she merely watched in amusement, and then it grew tedious. No one wanted Lord Edward to walk out of his shop without making some purchase, and they would send their assistants scurrying to bring out ever more items that might please him. But once Lord Edward said he was looking for paintings in a style similar to what he had seen in the works of Percival Watts, by Mr. Watts himself if at all possible, Francesca was ready to leave. For the first time she saw an advantage to being inconsequential. At least then one could conduct business quickly and be out the door, without the need to pretend appreciation of yet another portrayal of the Sabine women.
Edward seemed to realize this as they left one establishment. “Shall I drive you home?” he asked, his gray eyes studying her closely.
“Of course not.” She opened her parasol and tried to look fresh and optimistic. “There are plenty of places left to visit.”
“Ah,” he murmured. “I feared you were becoming bored.”
Beyond reason. She pinned a determined look on her face. “Never.”
“Then you’re the only one,” he said, to her surprise. “I thought that last fellow would never stop talking.”
She tried to swallow the smile, but it escaped anyway, along with a bit of laughter. Lord Edward’s eyes gleamed at her as he extended his hand to help her back into his curricle. “None of them are reticent. I know that’s a good thing for our purposes, but it does become tiring.”
He handed a coin to the boy holding the reins and swung into the seat beside her. It was an elegant carriage, smart and expensive, but not the outrageous vehicle some gentlemen drove. “I think we shall have time to visit only one or two more today. I hope that is acceptable.”
Even in her impatience to make progress, she’d had enough for one day. She exhaled a sigh of relief. “Of course.”
He just smiled and set the horses in motion. As they drove, Francesca watched his hands on the reins. She had always liked men’s hands, whether they were the elegant hands of a gentleman or the strong hands of a working man. Lord Edward’s hands, in his pale leather driving gloves, were both elegant and strong, steady and sure as he guided the pair of horses through the busy streets. She remembered how his fingers had felt the other day, when she impulsively grabbed his hand and he folded his fingers around hers. A wicked part of her brain, the part infected with improper thoughts about him, wondered what those large, strong hands would feel like on her. How he would hold her, if he ever kissed her. She told herself it was wrong to think such things, but the thoughts had plagued her for days now. And when she wasn’t careful, she found herself very agreeably lost in contemplation of them.
She caught herself doing it now, and jerked her eyes away from his hands. This was dangerous. She could strangle Gregory Sloan for planting such ideas in her head. Of course, she had noticed the man was attractive before Sloan’s comments. She had spent an unpardonable amount of time wondering about the state of his heart after being jilted by Louisa Halston. And there had been that moment, in her house just a few days ago, when she almost thought he might be just as aware of her. But for Sloan to suggest she was angling for him herself . . . well, that was just ridiculous. Even if his fingers did flex and straighten almost sensually as the reins slid between them, and her stomach felt tied in knots by the sight.
“How long do you expect it will take to discover something?” she asked, to distract herself from his hands.
“If anyone knows how to contact Mr. Watts, I doubt they’ll waste much time,” he replied. “The prospect of a generous commission should be strong motivation.”
“Then we may have word of him in a few days, which should lead us to Georgina,” she said, thinking out loud. “And then I shan’t trouble you anymore.” She glanced at him at the same moment he looked at her. “I cannot say how much your help means to me,” she added in a rush. “It’s far more than I ever expected.”
His gaze shifted to the front again. “You have told me so. There is no need for continued gratitude, Lady Gordon.”
She was quiet for a moment. “I’m not accustomed to relying on others to help me. I don’t like feeling helpless.”
The corner of his mouth curled. “I would never have thought you so. But I comprehend your meaning.” He paused. “I dislike unfairness. Your case was rejected by Fowler and Hubbertsey not because of the case itself, but because they didn’t wish to work for a female. They were quick to judge you a hysterical woman, despite any evidence to the contrary.”
“You’re too kind,” she said with a rueful smile. “I have hardly shown you my retiring and demure side.”
“Do you have one?” He pulled up the horses and turned to look at her with interest. A market had taken over the next street, and they would have to walk.
“Of course,” she said serenely. “All women do.”
He jumped down and tied the horses, then offered her his hand. His fingers closed securely around hers as she stepped down from the carriage. She could feel the warmth of his flesh through his glove and hers. He retained her hand in his even after her feet were both on the ground. She tipped up her head to see him regarding her with that probing gaze that made her want to squirm. “How . . . intriguing.”
“Mine may be somewhat smaller than most,” she added in a confessional way.
He was watching her as they began making their way through the market. “Perhaps you will show me someday.”
She arched her brow at him. Part of her realized that this felt like flirting, which was the last thing she would have expected from Edward de Lacey. She also realized she liked it, despite all her vows that it was to be purely business between them. He was hardly the stiff, cold fish she’d first assumed. He had such a lovely mouth. What would it be like to kiss him? she wondered. It would be a terrible shame if he couldn’t kiss well.
She was being wicked, thinking such things. Nevertheless, she allowed a wicked little smile to play across her lips. A
little
flirting was harmless. “Are you certain you wish to see it? Often men say they prefer it, but find it . . . disappointing.”
“I never said I would prefer it,” he replied. “Merely that I would like to see it before trusting in its existence.”
“How unkind you are, implying I haven’t been ladylike.”
“Never. Perhaps . . . perhaps I prefer you this way,” he said, giving her a speculative look.
Francesca laughed to cover her jolt of surprise, and the even more startling thrill that raced through her. He was definitely flirting back. It was completely unexpected, and she wasn’t quite certain she was wise to indulge in it, but . . . there was that thrill. And the persistent thoughts about kissing him. “Perhaps?”
Slowly he smiled, with a definite hint of promise. “Perhaps . . .”
What he would have said next, she never heard. They had been walking rather aimlessly and desultorily toward an art gallery open to the public. The market was busy, and their progress slow. But in the midst of the crowd, when she wasn’t even watching for it, Francesca caught a sudden glimpse of a little girl with long dark curls and a thin, mischievous face with familiar dark eyes. “Georgina,” she said in shock. Before the thought had even fully formed in her mind, she plunged instinctively off the pavement after the girl. “Georgina!”
She barely heard Edward’s startled exclamation behind her. She pushed past a flower seller and shouldered her way through the bustling market. The dark-haired girl had vanished, and she paused to scan the street anxiously. “Georgina!” she screamed.
From the left came something that sounded like “Franny.” Georgina had always called her Aunt Franny, her young tongue tripping over the full name. Francesca wheeled in that direction and started forward again, finally catching a glimpse of a tall thin man with untidy blond hair. He carried a large portfolio under one arm and was all but running away from the place where she stood. Francesca’s mouth compressed; it certainly looked like Percival Watts, although she couldn’t see if he had a child with him. She grabbed up her skirt and rushed after him, heedless of everything but finding the girl who had caught her attention.
The street twisted and turned, then ran down a hill rather sharply, leaving the market. Francesca nearly slipped on the cobbles as she hurried down the narrow lane. She ran through two more streets and then burst into the main road and jerked to a stop, searching again. Where, where,
where
. . . ? Her eyes snagged on a flash of blond. There, on the other side of the street, the fair-haired man was still hurrying away, and—her heart seized—he held the hand of a young girl, a girl with long dark hair.
Oh, dear God—she was so close. Francesca bolted after the pair, right across the busy road. A horse reared as she flew in front of it, and the rider shouted at her. She threw up one hand in apology and ran on, darting past a cart and around a carriage. A flashy phaeton almost ran her over, and she had to scramble backward out of the way of its glossy wheels, losing precious seconds as the driver fought to keep his high-strung horses under control. She finally reached the opposite side of the road and paused again, her heart slamming into her ribs from her frantic race. She pressed one hand to her breast and turned in a complete circle, scanning the streets for the blond man or the dark-haired girl. Around her bustled a sea of people, but not those two particular people. She hurried down the street in one direction, then spun and ran in the other, looking down every side street, to no avail. They were nowhere to be seen.
A trickle of sweat ran down her neck, into the valley between her breasts. She was perspiring like a laborer, had just made a complete fool of herself running through the streets, and had nothing to show for it. Anguish squeezed at her already tight chest until she thought she would faint of it. She pressed her hands against her sides and tried to catch her breath. What if that had been her niece, and she’d scared Percival into running off with her again? What if they left London? What if she had just squandered her best chance to see Georgina again?
A familiar carriage pulled up beside her. Edward de Lacey jumped down, his face like stone. She could read the fury in his eyes and turned her head away, not ready to face his censure when her own disappointment was already making her sick to her stomach. She didn’t protest when he took her by the arm and led her to the carriage. Without a word he almost shoved her up into his curricle, then climbed up beside her. With a snap of the reins they jerked forward, and she had to grab the edge of the seat to avoid lurching into him. Her gaze roved the streets as he drove, desperately searching for another glimpse of that small pale face in the crowd, until finally she had to close her eyes in despair.
She blinked when the carriage stopped. He’d brought her home without speaking a word on the way, but she had a feeling he was about to deliver a blistering reprimand. She didn’t want to hear it. She was a grown woman, and ought to be allowed to contemplate her reckless stupidity without being scolded like a child. At this second, when her disappointment was so raw it hurt to breathe, she just wanted to be alone for five minutes so she wouldn’t fall apart in front of him. She gathered her skirt in one hand and jumped down from the carriage, running up the steps and through the door Mrs. Hotchkiss held open for her, right into the safety of her drawing room.
That wasn’t the end of it, of course. He followed her. She heard the rumble of his voice as he spoke to Mrs. Hotchkiss, and she heard him close the drawing room door. She braced her shaking hands on the back of the sofa and focused on her knuckles. Another minute, maybe two, to compose herself . . . Dear God, had it been Georgina? Had she jumped too quickly to that conclusion because she so desperately wanted it to be true, or had she come within a few arms’ lengths of recovering her beloved niece? The doubt, the worry, the fear all fed on each other, devouring her from the inside until she thought it would drive her mad. She said a silent prayer that she wouldn’t burst into tears or start throwing things while Edward was here. Just this once, she wished he would be angry enough with her to just leave.
But of course he was not.
“What the bloody hell were you thinking?” he demanded, sounding more coldly furious than she’d ever heard him sound before. “You could have been killed! What sort of fool are you, running through a busy street like that?” Francesca dug her fingers into the sofa until her knuckles whitened, trying to hide her silent acknowledgment that he was right. She hadn’t thought at all—that glimpse of a girl who could have been Georgina had wiped caution and sense from her mind and left only frantic determination in its place. Now she realized the folly of her actions, even through the writhing mess of disappointment and dismay inside her. She had been foolish, yes, and rash.
But she had never shied away from the consequences of her actions. She sucked in deep, miserable breaths until her pulse slowed to a normal, heartbroken, rate. He could have just let her run off into the crowd. Instead he followed, probably saw her dangerous dash across the busy road, and then scooped her up and brought her home. She owed him more than this. Slowly she pried her fingers out of her sofa cushion and stole a look over her shoulder at him.
