Taking the Spinster (The Kidnap Club Book 3)

by Samantha Holt

  “Tempting.” He cast his gaze over her. “You rather look like you have already had enough splashes in puddles though.”

  Her cheeks burned. She shouldn’t care what he thought of her appearance. After all, how could she compete with silks and feathers and diamonds? However, a tiny, teeny weeny part of her wished that maybe she could experience such things. Only once. She wasn’t greedy after all. How would it feel to be beautiful and glamorous and admired by someone like the earl, she wondered.

  With a shake of her head, she focused her attention on the earl. “I’ve been waiting for some time for you.”

  “I knew I should have continued on horseback,” he muttered.

  “Pardon?”

  “Nothing.” He laced his gloved hands over a knee. “What do you want, Miss Haversham? I’m a—”

  “Busy man.” She held up a hand. “I know.”

  “Well get to it.”

  “An audience with you, that’s all I ask.”

  His mouth tightened. “You have one now.”

  “A proper one. One where I am not soaked to the bone and where I can ask you my questions.”

  His gaze flickered over her and the permanent furrow between his brows deepened. He plucked a blanket up from beside him and before she had quite fathomed what had occurred, he draped the beautifully soft wool about her shoulders.

  He moved back swiftly, giving her the briefest moment to inhale the subtle scent of him. He smelled of sandalwood and a little mint. For some odd reason, that scent made her stomach do a little twirl.

  Or perhaps it had been his proximity.

  She shoved away the thought. It couldn’t have been any of that. More likely, the taste of a story so close by had her all on edge.

  “I...” She pressed her lips together. “Um, that is...”

  “I don’t know anything about those women. I saw Lady Steele just before her disappearance and she seemed entirely normal with no hint as to why she might vanish. And I cannot tell you anything more I’m afraid.” He leaned back. “Does that satisfy?”

  “Satisfy?” she repeated, her voice slightly strangled.

  Something lingered behind his eyes that told her he knew precisely how to satisfy. Which made it all the more puzzling why she could not find a history of lovers trailing behind him. She pushed the blanket off her shoulders as warmth flowed suddenly through her. He watched the movement with a bemused look. Damn the man, he had to know what he was doing to her.

  And damn her for falling for it. She was not some innocent debutante with flowers in her hair. She was eight and twenty for goodness sakes. A spinster of little means. She had no time for the charms of a privileged man.

  “Lord Huntingdon, I would request once more for an audience with you so I can ask you my questions properly.” And she would not have to be in such close confines with the almost handsome man.

  The earl rubbed a hand across his jaw, drawing her attention to the stubble that lingered there, implying it either grew swiftly or he had left in a rush this morning without shaving.

  “Miss Haversham?”

  Freya lifted her gaze to his. “Yes?”

  “I asked if Tuesday would suffice. At two o’clock?”

  “Oh. Yes. Of course.” She fought a silly grin from spreading across her face. “That would be wonderful.” She paused. “I mean, that would be acceptable.”

  “Excellent.” He tapped on the roof and opened the door when the carriage drew to a halt. “Good day, Miss Haversham.” He jerked his head toward the open door.

  She came to her feet swiftly, dragging the blanket with her. “Oh.” She tugged it off her shoulder and tried to hand it back to him, but he shook his head.

  “Keep it.”

  “But—”

  “Keep it, Miss Haversham.”

  Scowling, she gripped the blanket in one hand, ducked out of the carriage and jumped down into a puddle that soaked instantly through her boot. She turned to thank him, but the carriage rolled off swiftly.

  With a sigh, she glanced furtively around the quiet street and she gave the wool a little sniff. Sandalwood. Just like him.

  Chapter Four

  “You’re going to be late, my lord.”

  Guy glared at the butler’s head. Glaring directly at him was hard as Brown stood a good two feet shorter than he. His small stature didn’t diminish his capabilities, however.

  Oh no, the butler did a fine job of ordering him about almost as well as Mrs. Bellamy, his housekeeper. Between them, Guy had a good suspicion he knew exactly what it was like to have overbearing parents. Given his own mother preferred to reside in sunnier climates and his father had been dead many years, he couldn’t decide if that was a good thing or not.

  Brown lifted his head and met his stare, his blue eyes still bright for a man of older years though surrounded by lined eyes and white, barely there eyebrows. Little tufts of white clung stubbornly to his forehead in a pattern not unlike that of an exotic animal. His hair mimicked his brows but offered up darker patches that Guy could swear made the shape of an animal if one stared at it long enough.

  “My lord?” Brown offered out a scarf.

  Guy blinked. “Oh yes.”

  “You seem incredibly distracted at present, my lord.”

  “Nonsense,” Guy scoffed.

  Brown leaned in, giving him a full view of the black and white patchwork of his scalp. “Anything to do with that woman who keeps requesting an audience? Mr. Newport said she stepped in front of your carriage the other day. Nearly made him keel over in shock.”

  Guy increased his glare. “It certainly isn’t, and I would warn you against gossiping with Mr. Newport, Brown.”

  “Well, someone has to tell me what you are doing with your life. Goodness knows, you never tell me anything.”

  “I don’t have to,” Guy protested.

  “If it were not for me, you wouldn’t know if you were coming or going.”

  “I am most definitely going. Right now.” He snatched the scarf and flung it around his neck, cinching it so tight he swore he’d burned himself on the fabric.

  He strode out of the townhouse, down the long path between fading flowers and the evergreen bushes that protected the house from the view of the busy London street. What the devil was Brown on about? He hadn’t been distracted. Not one jot.

  Wind blew a splatter of rain sideways at him. He grimaced and recalled Miss Haversham’s shaking shoulders after standing for so long in similar weather. No doubt she was out in the rain, doing whatever it was female reporters did. Most likely pestering some other poor soul about a story. The bloody woman needed to move onto a different story or go back to her inane gossip. Surely one didn’t need to stand in the pouring rain to write about the ins and outs of fashionable society?

  He pressed his lips together. The woman needed a thicker coat too. Part of him had wanted to march her to the nearest seamstress and order a thick, lined coat for her so he wouldn’t ever have to see her shivering away like that again.

  Damn it. He didn’t even wish to see her again. After their meeting—

  He came to a stop at the end of the path and let his expression sour. Had he conjured her? “Miss Haversham.”

  Standing on the other side of the gate, a black umbrella held unsteadily in one hand, she fought with the latch. “My lord,” she said, frustration inching into her voice when she pressed her legs into the gate, and it refused to budge. A flurry of wind blasted across the garden, rustling her skirts and nearly lifting her simple brown bonnet from her head. She huffed and tried again.

  With a shake of his head, Guy closed the distance between them and flipped open the latch, drew the gate open, stepped aside and gestured for her to enter with a flourish.

  She gave him a tight smile. “Thank you. I—” Wind caught her umbrella, turning it inside out and nearly tearing it from her arm. “Oh!”

  “Turn it into the wind,” he ordered over the gust that curled around them. “Into the wind, damn it,” he re
peated when she twisted the wrong way and nearly took his nose off.

  “Oh.” She twisted again but the umbrella gave a wild flap back and forth before popping back the wrong way around.

  Sighing, he went to snatch it from her but as he grabbed it, she swiveled, connecting one of the spokes with his face. He winced, feeling it scrape across his cheek. She froze and the umbrella gave one last fluttering fight before popping the right way around. Miss Haversham quickly closed it.

  “Oh dear.” She scrabbled in her reticule then drew out a handkerchief and went to dab his cheek with it.

  He retreated, away from her outstretched hand.

  “You’re bleeding!”

  He pressed fingers to his cheek, and they came away red. Blast. He couldn’t go to the solicitors practically dripping blood. Holding a hand to his cheek, he glowered at her. “What are you doing here anyway?”

  “Our meeting.” Her pale eyebrows lifted. “You recall? Tuesday at two o’clock.”

  “Ah.”

  How could he have forgotten? Usually—with some help from Brown of course—he counted himself as extremely organized and he couldn’t fathom how he had forgotten he’d agreed to speak with the fair-haired wild woman that was Miss Haversham.

  Admittedly, he had spent some time thinking of her. Time that he really should not have been wasting dwelling on a pesky writer. It was just his mind hadn’t gone to the important things. It had been wasted on pondering what sort of figure lay underneath that threadbare coat. Or how spikey her lashes had been when damp, drawing attention to her pale eyes and making her look a little ethereal. Her skin was so pale it was almost translucent, leaving little dark smudges under her eyes. He couldn’t decide if that was from cold, lack of sleep or was just naturally her.

  “I am rather busy,” he started.

  Miss Haversham took another step forward and practically slapped the handkerchief to his face, pinning it there. “Well now you need nursing so whatever your plans were, you should cancel them.” She paused and a smug smile crossed her lips. “And then you can answer my questions.”

  Guy groaned inwardly.

  A MAN SMALLER than Freya peered at them as she hustled Lord Huntingdon in through the front door, still holding the handkerchief to his cheek.

  “Take the damned umbrella from her, Brown,” the earl ordered. “She’s a menace with it.”

  One uneven brow lifted, and the butler took the offending object from her. “Anything else, my lord?”

  “No, I’ll handle this.”

  The way he said this, she knew he meant her. The very idea of him handling her set a tiny, warming fire in her belly. She doused it quickly and reminded herself precisely why she was here. Fancy wool blankets be damned, the man had secrets and for all she knew could be behind the disappearance of the missing ladies. It would pay to be cautious around him.

  It would have paid to return the blanket too really, but she couldn’t bring herself to, especially when her mother seemed to sleep so comfortably with it on.

  Lord Huntingdon snatched the handkerchief from her and strode wordlessly toward a door. Freya paused briefly, taking a moment to eye the grand carved staircase, lined with a plush red carpet. Everything shone and gleamed from the crystal chandelier to the vases on plinths.

  “Are you coming?” he demanded, pausing at the door.

  “Oh. Yes.” She jolted into action and followed him to the door. Gawping wide-mouthed at his wealth was not the best way to start this. How could she take control of the situation if she made him think she’d never witnessed such wealth before?

  Which she had. A little. But it never failed to take her by surprise. Were it not for her late birth, her parents would be living in relative comfort, even with her father having to retire from work early but they would never have achieved such wealth, regardless, and now they were all living in genteel poverty. Just one of those vases would probably rescue them from it all. The inequality of it all really did frustrate her.

  He pushed open the door and ushered her in. A room lined with bookcases overlooking the rear garden greeted her. She eyed the desk, scattered with papers, and squinted at the scrawled ink but couldn’t make out any useful information. A painting hung above the fireplace of a man who looked similar to the earl but not in the eyes.

  “Your father?” she asked.

  “Yes.”

  “He was handsome.” She grimaced at the words. She had not come here for small talk or to charm the man. Answers were her goal.

  “He was a bastard.”

  She twisted and blinked at him. “Oh. You mean...”

  “Not a literal one. Just a generally awful man.”

  “I—” She fought for a response but failed. “Oh your cheek.” Hurrying over, she took the handkerchief from him and pressed him onto the chair behind the desk with one hand. He dropped down with a frown.

  Freya dabbed away the fresh blood then flattened the cloth firmly to his face. “I am sorry. Even if you did forget our meeting.”

  “I didn’t forget it deliberately. As I said, I’m a—”

  “Busy man,” she finished for him. “I know. Though I would not put it past you to have been avoiding me.”

  “Can you blame me?”

  She lifted the cloth then pressed it back down. That stubble covered his jaw again. She concluded it must certainly grow swiftly. “I’m not certain what you mean.”

  “I do not much relish having my business splashed across newspapers for the rabble to enjoy.”

  “If you wish to be wealthy, you have to expect people to want to know what you are doing. After all, the rabble need something to look forward to in life.”

  “I hardly chose to be wealthy,” he pointed out.

  “I should think sacrificing a little privacy is worth all this,” she gestured about the room.

  “Oh so you think you wouldn’t mind having your every move, every heartbreak written about for the general public to consume?”

  She lifted a shoulder and tried to ignore the heartbreak part. A strong man like the earl would surely never suffer a real heartbreak. After all, a vaguely attractive man like him could get any woman he wanted. “If I haven’t done anything worthy of gossip, why would it matter?”

  “So you would not mind someone writing about, oh I don’t know, the holes in your coat or how your petticoat is slipping out from underneath your skirts.”

  Freya’s cheeks had to be bright red. They felt as though they were glowing as hot as the embers of a fire. “That’s hardly gossip-worthy.”

  “If you were a countess, it certainly would be.”

  A burst of laughter escaped her. “A countess? Me? I think the world would turn on its head if that ever happened.”

  “Still, the idea of being written about made you uncomfortable, did it not?”

  “That is entirely beside the point—”

  He snatched her wrist and moved her hand away from his face. Though he still wore his thick gloves as did she, the feeling of his fingers around her arm lingered when he released her.

  She tilted her lips. “I fear you might scar.”

  “I shall have to pretend it was from fencing or something far more interesting than an umbrella attack.”

  Her mouth twitched. “Or a run-in with a fearsome pirate. That’s much more manly.”

  His gaze connected with hers and her chest tightened. His dark eyes searched hers and for the life of her she couldn’t look away. What he was looking for, she could not fathom, but so much of her could not help but think these were not the eyes of a man who could harm women. Moments passed and her heart beat hard in her ears.

  “I don’t like writing gossip,” she blurted.

  His brows lifted. “Oh.”

  “That is...I hope to write more serious things. That’s why I’m—” She made a vague gesture with her hands.

  With a heavy sigh, Lord Huntingdon shoved the other chair out with a foot. “Go on. Sit and ask me your questions, but I doubt I can tell you
anything useful.”

  Chapter Five

  Why was he even here? Guy loathed the London parks. They were always overrun with carriages and people and one could hardly stroll through without being mown down by some overeager dandy on horseback. Especially since today was dry, Regent’s Park boasted a large number of inhabitants.

  If he had any sense, he’d turn on his heel and run.

  Apparently, he had none.

  Because in the crowds somewhere would be Miss Haversham and her dog. She had told him specifically she walked him here every morning when she’d left his townhouse last night.

  He ran a hand over his face and peered about, eyeing each dog walker in search of a small, pale woman with a determined expression.

  He knew why he was here really. He’d done a poor job of dissuading Miss Haversham from her search for the missing women. After a sleepless night of analyzing every second of their encounter, he concluded that he had successfully given nothing away about his role in why they had vanished, but he had also not been clever enough to throw her off the trail. Frustrating indeed. There were seldom moments when he could claim to have acted foolishly. Becoming engaged to Amelia might have been one of them—one of the few, however.

  But it seemed Miss Haversham had an ability to make his brain function much more slowly and stupidly than usual. Lord knew why. He was no stranger to clever, slightly attractive women, though he had to admit, he knew few with holes in their coats and even fewer who attacked him with umbrellas.

  Guy stepped out of the way of a barouche, its occupants bundled up in furs and feathers. Lord, he hated parks. He shouldn’t have come. Should not have even thought about seeking her out. It was just going to look—

  “Lord Huntingdon?”

  He twisted slowly, bracing himself. Which was ridiculous. One didn’t need to brace oneself for the sight of a fair-haired lady with a pointed chin and eyes that never looked anything other than shrewd.

  His heart gave a strange jolt.

  Standing on the opposite side of the path, Miss Haversham eyed him with a lifted brow.