“She could put us all at risk.”
Russell fixed him with a stare. “Rosie is entirely capable of handling a reporter and is certain she can send her following some false trail of a story.”
He pinched the bridge of his nose. Just when he thought they might be safe from Miss Haversham and her enquiries, the little minx was getting even more involved. “I certainly hope so.”
A wide grin spread across his brother’s face—one he seldom saw unless he was with his wife. “Trust me. Rosie will put an end to all of this.”
LADY ROSAMUNDE RUSSELL sat serenely amongst the chaos of the tearoom, her hands folded neatly in her lap, dark hair coiled high on her head and fixed with an elegant comb that matched her plum-colored dress. Freya pressed a hand briefly to her stomach, actually aware of the holes in the elbow of her coat and how plain and dull she was in comparison. Drawing up her chin, she strode over to the table set with crisp white linen and a delicate tea set.
Mrs. Russell spied her before she reached the table and gave a wave, her smile welcoming. Wonderful. Now Freya felt awful about probing into the kidnapping. No doubt it would have been quite the terrible experience. She lifted her chin and took the last few steps toward the table, skirting a waiter and two pretty young ladies who apparently did not even notice Freya pressing between the tables of the busy room. Largely filled with women at this time of day, the building hosted mostly those from the upper classes, and Freya wished she had been able to choose their meeting place but she could not be picky, not when the former countess had agreed to meet with her with much less persuasion than it had taken to speak with Lord Huntingdon.
“I should have remembered it would be so busy at this time of day.” She gestured for Freya to sit and ordered tea for the both of them. “I would have invited you to visit me at home, but we are having the carpets re-laid at present and it is an utter mess.”
“I heard you purchased Uppark Place after your marriage,” Freya said.
“The house needs a lot of work but it’s rather an adventure, so I do not mind.”
A young girl brought over the tea, her cheeks rosy and her expression vaguely harried. Freya felt her stomach grumble when a platter of biscuits was set on the table. She had dashed out of the house after walking Brig and there had been no time to eat, but thankfully the chatter in the tearoom ensured no one heard said grumble. She took up a biscuit and nibbled delicately while the girl served the tea. Freya waited until Mrs. Russell had added sugar before following suit.
“I was hoping to ask you about your kidnapping, Mrs. Russell.”
“Oh, please call me Rosie.” She waved a hand. “Everyone does.”
“Oh, of course, um, Rosie.” Freya gave a quick smile. She’d dealt with many a lady in her time as the gossip columnist for the chronicle, but the ex-countess already seemed nothing like them. She understood their reservations given she made a living writing of the ins and outs of their lives, so she hadn’t anticipated her being quite so welcoming.
“May I call you by your given name?”
Like she could say no. “Yes, of course.”
Rosie looked at her, eyes crinkled with amusement. “Which is?”
“Oh!” She set down the biscuit. “Freya.”
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Freya. Now to your questions.”
“Well, yes...” She tugged a paper and pencil out of her reticule. “I hope you do not mind if I take some notes.”
“Not at all but I have little to tell you that is not already known.”
“You were taken at gunpoint, yes?”
Rosie nodded, her lips curving as though the memory amused her. “I was indeed.”
“By a lone man?”
“Only the one.”
“Can you tell me anything about him?”
She lifted a shoulder. “Tall, attractive eyes.”
“Attractive?” Freya scowled. What sort of a person would find their kidnapper attractive?
Rosie blinked. “Well, of what I could see, of course. He had a mask.” She gestured over her face. “I did not recognize him.”
“Did he say anything to you?”
“Just demanded I go with him. When I tried to fight him off, he grabbed me.”
“You tried to fight him off?” She glanced over the delicately coiffed woman. She wasn’t tiny or delicate, but it wasn’t easy to picture this elegant lady fighting off a brutish, world kidnapper. Especially one who, by all accounts, had successfully taken many women.
She glanced around and leaned in. “I keep a knife on me. It’s terribly useful. But, unfortunately, he knocked it from my hand and snatched me up!”
“Then what happened?”
“Well, he stuffed me into a carriage but thankfully I was able to escape. I hit my head during the tumble, but I suppose he did not notice I was gone.” She lifted her cup to her mouth, took a long sip and watched for Freya’s reaction.
“Goodness...” Freya jotted a quick note on her pad. “Did he say anything else to you when he grabbed you?”
“I believe he just cursed at me.” Rosie’s smiled widened then she swiftly pressed her lips into a line. “Of course it was terribly frightening, but it could have been worse.”
“Your aunt said you offered him money, but he refused it.”
“I imagine he thought he could get much more by holding me hostage.”
“It’s odd, though, that he did not return for you after all that effort, do you not think? It’s so much risk to take a woman.”
“Oh, I kept myself hidden and I suspect he likely realized I am more trouble than I am worth,” Rosie said lightly.
“Did he seem the sort to harm a woman?”
“He was a kidnapper!” She pressed a hand to her chest. “A dastardly, awful, frightful kidnapper. I’m sure he would have no concern harming his captive if needs be. I count myself lucky to have escaped.”
“No doubt your wits saved you, my lady.”
“Rosie,” she prompted.
“So that man was certainly alone?”
“Oh yes.” She nodded vigorously.
“And he said nothing else?”
“Not a word.” She sipped her tea.
“Tell me, what color were his eyes?”
“Blue,” she answered swiftly then paused and pressed a finger to her lips. “No. Brown. Certainly brown.”
Freya frowned. She found it odd Rosie recalled how attractive the eyes were but not the color. However, if they were really brown, that was the same color as Lord Huntingdon’s eyes.
Chapter Seven
He shouldn’t like it.
Seeing her dart behind a damned tree, that was.
Guy had expected she had given up with her investigations but apparently not. Miss Haversham was back to playing the stalking, nosy reporter, even after Rosie confirmed she had given away no information that would point the finger at them.
His lips twitched as she pressed herself into the trees. He forced his mouth into a straight line. Nothing amused him about her chasing after him, nothing at all, especially when he had been meeting with the duchess. If she figured out their connection, it could be dangerous once they managed to get a hold of Lady Pembroke.
Striding down the steps of the townhouse, he paced over to the black gates of the private park that was encircled by rows of white houses. He paused by the gates, adjusted his gloves and peered up at the patchy blue sky. He heard the rustle of leaves as she tried to remain still and shook his head to himself.
“Miss Haversham...”
He heard a low curse then she eased out from the bushes, a leaf hanging from the brim of her hat. She scowled at it, plucked it off and flung it away. A quick smile crossed her lips, as fake as the heavily corseted waists of the ton. Of course, there was no tight corset here, though he couldn’t claim to know the layout of Miss Haversham’s waist yet. The ugly brown coat with its holes and frayed edges did little to flatter her figure but he suspected she would match up perfectly well to any p
retty society lady.
She might even best them. Her porcelain skin and pale, pale hair would certainly be the envy of many a debutante, and now he thought about it, her eyes were rather attractive too, in an odd pale sort of way.
“Lord Huntingdon, what a surprise.”
He set her with a look. “Are you really resorting to following me again? I had thought we had put an end to this nonsense.”
“You might have thought that but I did not. And I’m not sure how missing women is nonsense.”
“How is The Brigadier?”
“He’s fine, thank you,” she said tightly. She glanced toward the duchess’s townhouse. “What were you visiting the Duchess of Newhampton for?”
“Good God, woman, hasn’t anyone ever told you women should never ask bold questions?”
“Plenty of times,” she replied archly. “But a reporter must ask bold questions. It’s their job.”
Well, that didn’t work. He expected her to march off again and leave him standing alone, staring at her back and hoping for her to turn around. Which was about the most preposterous thing he’d ever done. He didn’t like women. Didn’t need women. Most certainly did not want a certain female reporter in his life. All women spelled trouble.
He could even include his sister-in-law in that. What she knew about lock-picking and knife-wielding and God knows what else most certainly added up to trouble. Luckily, she was Russell’s problem.
Miss Haversham, however, was still his.
His problem, that was.
He didn’t own her or anything. Most certainly didn’t wish to claim any sort of ownership either. Why would he? He’d had enough troubles getting close to sweet women of the ton. Amelia had proved to him once and for all he was to remain a bachelor for the rest of his life and he’d made peace with that. The last thing he needed was a troublesome woman like Miss Haversham in his life.
Hell, she’d probably love to write about his…endowment issue in the gossip columns, so putting her off was vital really.
He should just strip naked here and now. That usually worked to frighten women off.
“I know you have no respect for my work, Lord Huntingdon, but I would rather you did not use that patronizing smile on me. It is really rather unbecoming.”
He straightened his lips. After all, he certainly could not admit the sardonic smile came from him imagining her reaction to his humiliation.
She smothered a yawn with the back of a gloved hand, and he narrowed his gaze at her. Though the shadows around her eyes were usually dark, they were more defined today, and her eyes a little red. When he followed the movement of her, he noted she trembled.
“Surely you have better things to do than follow me? I should imagine the paper does not pay you handsomely for leaping into bushes.”
“The paper will not pay me at all until there is a story—and that is only if they like it.”
“So you are standing around, in the cold, utterly exhausted, voluntarily?” He shook his head. “You are completely mad, Miss Haversham.”
“I am perfectly sane, and I am not exhaust—” The words were cut off by a yawn.
Jaw tight, he shook his head again and gripped her arm.
“What are you—?”
He led her over to the wrought-iron bench near the entrance of the gardens and forcibly eased her onto it. When she tried to rise, he thrust a finger at her. “Stay.”
“But—”
“Stay or I shall haul you over my shoulder, take you home and lock you in a bedroom until you’ve had rest.”
Her mouth opened. “You would not dare.” She glanced around. “That’s kidnapping.”
He offered a slanted smile. “I know.”
And little did she know, he was incredibly good at kidnapping.
FREYA SMOTHERED ANOTHER yawn, clamping her teeth together in a bid to hide it. Lord Huntingdon gave her a knowing look and she narrowed her gaze at him.
“Stay here,” he ordered, thrusting a steady finger at her.
The fatigue working its way behind her eyelids and throbbing in her temples was the only thing that prevented her from leaping up and storming away. No one told her what to do. She’d been an independent woman for far too long to listen to orders from him.
But so many nights working late with Lucy plus finishing up her column and devoting the rest of her time to delving into this story had taken its toll. If he snatched her up, she wouldn’t have the strength to fight him and she’d already embarrassed herself with that blasted umbrella and scoring a mark across his face that still lingered. She didn’t want to add being hauled over his shoulder like a flour sack or collapsing at his feet to the list at this point.
He strode out of the gates and Freya peered around at the empty park. Where was he even going? Why was she not using her chance to dart off?
It had to be down to the tiredness, that was all. Or, of course, her curiosity as to why he had been visiting the duchess. It could be an innocent visit of course, but in her time covering the upper echelons of society, she had seldom found many of their furtive actions to be innocent.
Which meant he could be having an affair with her.
That had already crossed her mind with regards to the missing Lady Steele, but she hadn’t really wanted to consider it, though she could not quite fathom why. If handsome looks, a strange sort of charm, broad shoulders and a stern gaze that made one’s chest tighten wasn’t a prime candidate for the sort of man who sleep with other people’s wives, what did? She would have to face facts. Lord Huntingdon had been a bachelor since his broken engagement and he was a man, after all. He must have needs. He could well be indulging those needs with the married women of the ton.
A little knot bunched in her throat. She couldn’t fathom why it was so hard to admit.
Perhaps because he had given her a blanket, and carried her dog, and was now walking toward her with a crumpet in hand. Convincing herself this man could be responsible for missing women and scandalous affairs was growing harder by the second.
He thrust the crumpet at her, the warm-buttered scent making her stomach growl.
“Here, eat.”
She took it, clasping it by the paper wrapper, and peered up at him. “What’s this?”
“A crumpet.” He seated himself on the bench beside her.
“I know what a crumpet is, but why?”
He fixed her with a look. “You are exhausted, and no doubt have barely had time to stop to eat.”
How could he even know that about her? She glanced at the buttery treat and sighed. She couldn’t resist this anymore than she could a good story. Maybe this was like eating the forbidden apple, but she didn’t see what else she could do. Freya hadn’t eaten all day, and it would be rude to turn it down.
Even if he could be an affair-having rake who had somehow become involved in the kidnapping of women. She licked a drop of butter from the crumpet and barely masked a moan.
Lord Huntingdon’s expression became strangely pained and he turned away to eye the gardens. Freya used the opportunity to lap up every crumb, eating as though she had never eaten food before. When she crumpled up the paper and stuffed it in her coat pocket, he finally looked at her
“Better?”
She nodded. “Thank you.”
“You need to look after yourself better. Do you not have anyone at home making sure you eat and sleep?”
“You’re not my mother, Lord Huntingdon.”
“Your mother should be ensuring you eat.”
She stiffened. “I am eight and twenty, my lord. Does your mother still ensure you eat?”
His lips curved. “She writes and asks me if I’m eating well. Does that count?”
“Hardly. Besides, my mother is in no fit state to look after me at present.”
“Ah. I’m sorry to hear that.”
She eyed him. He wasn’t lying. Concern flickered on his brow. It only added to her confusion. Who was this man who cared if she was cold and wanted to see her f
ed and rested? Why should an earl even care about someone like her? She was nothing more than an annoyance, a fleck of fluff on his shoulder or a spot of dirt on his shoes. She’d met enough titled gentlemen to know that even a woman in genteel poverty meant nothing to them, especially if she was not beautiful and willing to sell her body.
“What is wrong with your mother?” he asked.
“She’s been ill for a while,” she admitted. “She cannot seem to get over what ails her, and unfortunately my father is old and suffers ill health too, so I cannot rely on him to look after her.”
His gaze took on an odd quality. Almost like...admiration. “So you look after your parents as well as spending your time hiding in bushes?”
“I wasn’t hiding,” she protested.
He cocked his head. “You must like trees very much indeed then.” He reached forward, his body coming in toward hers. For one odd moment, she thought he might kiss her. His gaze moved to her lips then up to her hair and her heart did a strange leap into her throat. She tried to swallow it back down but could not bring herself to even move.
What would she do if he did kiss her? Leap up? Slap him perhaps? Or just let it happen and see what it would be like to kiss an attractive earl with a dark brow and shoulders that begged for her to curl her hands up them?
Lord Huntingdon pulled his hand away and moved back then waved a brown leaf in front of her. “Evidence,” he said, his grin wry. “You were hiding in that tree.”
Freya blew out a long breath. Yes, it was. Evidence of her utter ridiculousness. She needed to be much more on guard around this man.
Chapter Eight
Good day, Miss Haversham.
How hard was that to say? Give her the crumpet, ensure she’s eaten then be on his way. The less time spent around her, the better. Especially when she had still not given up following him.
Oh yes, most especially when he could kill to kiss her.
It had been a vicious combination of how suddenly delicate she had seemed plus the way she licked butter from her lips and those wide eyes surrounded by fair lashes. He’d always been one to fall for a woman in need, and despite her bold determination, one would be a fool not to notice that Miss Haversham was in need.
Taking the Spinster (The Kidnap Club Book 3) Page 5
