“Well, I could hardly leave the thing to be run over now, could I?”
“At the expense of my work,” Miss Walker muttered, amusement tinging her voice. “Was it worth it?”
Worth it? Hell, Guy suspected he’d be happy to ruin every article of clothing he owned just to save Miss Haversham hurt. “Just,” he murmured rather than admitting it aloud.
“She walks that dog every day, come rain or shine,” Miss Walker said past the pins in her mouth. “Lift your arm please,” she ordered.
Guy did as he was told, feeling her tug and pull at the side of the coat. It could have waited, he supposed, but he knew why he was here really. He needed to know more. Miss Walker appeared to be Miss Haversham’s closest friend.
Of course, it wouldn’t hurt to have some ammunition against the enemy. That was the real reason he was here. Because that’s what they were, despite the kiss, and the dog rescue. So long as she pursued this story, he could not let down his guard.
Which certainly meant no more kisses.
No more thinking about her figure either. Or how he’d like to see her hair loose and dry, spilling about her bare shoulders.
Most certainly no thinking of taking her to bed.
No. She was the enemy and he’d do well to remember that.
“I wonder that she has time to walk the dog,” he commented vaguely.
“Lower your arm.” Miss Walker moved in front of him so that he was speaking to the top of her head. “I wonder that too, sometimes. I think she scarcely sleeps. Between looking after her parents, her writing and helping me, I’m certain she must spend a mere hour or two abed at night.”
“She said her parents were ill.”
Miss Walker nodded. “Her mother fell sick a few months ago and never really recovered. Her father was forced to retire some years ago due to his eyesight and ill health.”
“A blind father as well as a blind dog?”
“Not quite. He just struggles to read, that sort of thing. They had Freya late in life—a surprise baby—so Freya has been looking after them for some years. It’s been a struggle, I know that much.” She straightened and pressed her lips together. “But I am certain she would not appreciate me telling you so. You must forgive me, Lord Huntingdon. My mouth appears to have run away with me.”
“I don’t mind, Miss Walker.”
Her gaze narrowed, her mouth twitching. “I see.”
“You see? You see what?”
“Oh, it’s not my place to say,” she said breezily. “Though I feel I must warn you, my lord, customer or not, I won’t let Freya be hurt.”
“Hurt? Why would I hurt her?”
“She’s quite a special woman. If it were not for how busy she is, I always felt certain some gentleman would snap her up, but then men can be fools, can they not?”
He made a vague sound of agreement. He couldn’t really deny it, given he had kissed her, and followed her, and rescued her dog and given her blankets. None of which added up to how one should really treat an enemy. Unless he ascribed to Kabirdas’ philosophy of keeping one’s critics close.
Yes, perhaps that was why he should continue to get to know her. After all, if he knew her progress on the story, he could ensure she never found out about The Kidnap Club.
“Miss Haversham has never had any suitors then?”
“She hardly has the time and I suspect the patience. You’re the first man she’s ever seemed to tolerate.”
“Barely tolerate is closer to the truth I think.”
“My point still stands, Lord Huntingdon. I will not see her hurt.” She waved a pin at him. “She likes to think she’s tough, but she cares deeply. About everything.” She gestured about the room and Guy had to lean back to avoid a jab from a pin. “Do not let her care about you unless you have good intentions.”
He held up a hand. “I have no intention of hurting her.”
She eyed him for a few moments then set down the pin and retrieved a needle and thread. “I’m glad to hear it.”
“How long has she been writing?”
“Oh as long as I can remember.” She licked the end of the thread, held the needle up to the front window and threaded it efficiently. “She started writing serious articles, but the newspapers want nothing to do with her. One of them suggested she try her hand at the gossip, and it went from there. I know she doesn’t enjoy it, though.”
“I cannot say being on the receiving end of those articles is much fun either.”
“Oh yes, I suppose she likely has written about you.” Miss Walker shrugged. “I don’t read them, and I think my customers appreciate that. I would rather their secrets remain theirs.”
“You are one of the few I fear.”
She sewed a few quick stitches then had him remove his coat. He handed it over.
“I’ll have this ready within two days. Thankfully you only damaged the seams and didn’t tear the fabric, or it would be another story.” Miss Walker bundled the coat in her arm. “I forgot to mention, Freya wanted to pay for the damage. She came in this morning and said you might pay me a visit.”
“Pay?” He blinked a few times. The woman who had holes in her coat wished to pay for the damage to his? “Certainly not.”
“I thought you might say that, but she was quite insistent.”
“Well, you can tell her there’s no chance I am letting her pay.”
“Why do you not tell her yourself?”
“I have little idea where she lives,” he admitted.
“Princes Street. Number twenty-three.”
He eyed Miss Haversham’s friend. “Why are you telling me this?”
“I trust you not to hurt her and she needs something pleasant in her life.”
Pleasant? He wasn’t certain he was capable of pleasant. Distant was usually the accusation. Busy too.
He nodded toward where ribbons were strewn across a table in the rear of the shop. “Which color does Miss Haversham like best?”
Miss Walker turned toward the table, a knowing glint in her eyes. “Blue. Pale blue. It brings out her eyes.”
“Gift her that, will you, when you see her? And tell her I don’t want any blasted payment.”
Her lips twitched. “As you will, my lord.”
Dear God, what the devil was he doing?
THE PAPER PARCEL trembled in Freya’s hands. She peered at the shiny door knocker, just able to make out her appearance in the metal. She made a face. There was nothing that could be done to improve how she appeared, especially not in a worn, brown coat and her hair tugged into a no-nonsense style under a simple bonnet almost the same shade as her pelisse.
Why did she care anyway? She was not here to impress Lord Huntingdon.
The door eased open slowly and the butler’s eyes sparked recognition. “Yes?” he asked in a slight drawl.
“Um, I was hoping to request an audience with Lord Huntingdon.”
His gaze flicked up and down her before he backed away and closed the door. She tapped her foot and leaned forward to stare into the door knocker. Good Lord, did she have something in her teeth? She widened her smile and pressed a fingernail between two teeth. The door swung open and she moved her hand swiftly to her side and straightened.
“His Lordship will see you now.”
“Oh. Good.” She swallowed. She’d rather expected he might decline her or be too busy or something similar. She had also hoped he might, then she had a fine excuse not to see him. And yet she had prayed he wouldn’t send her away.
After dispensing of her hat, pelisse and gloves, she followed the butler through the house and ended up at the earl’s study once more. The grandeur of the building did not impact her any less than before but she found herself more focused on what would be behind the door. Or more to the point, who. She couldn’t cease recalling how he saved Brig, rolling in front of the rider with little care for his own wellbeing. She never thought of herself as one of those sorts who swooned over men or heroic deeds but every time she recalled
the moment, she found it a little difficult to breathe.
There was no denying it. This man was no typical earl. She had written about titled gentlemen enough to imagine she understood how they thought and lived. But Lord Huntingdon was a conundrum.
The butler shoved open the door and the earl rose as she entered. She glanced up at him then dropped her gaze, finding it oddly painful to look at him. Stubble covered his jawline and his hair looked as though he’d been pushing his fingers through it. Sort of soft and tousled. Sort of like she might want to feel the texture herself.
She shook away the thought and forced a polite smile.
“Miss Haversham, please take a seat.” He nodded behind her and some secret exchange between him and the butler must have occurred as the man left the room, leaving the door slightly ajar. She supposed rich men and their butlers had some sort of covert language known only to rich men and their ilk.
“I won’t be staying long,” she said swiftly.
The sooner she left this small room, the better. She likened being in his study to being underwater, struggling to breathe. His presence—especially so close—made her chest tight and her heart beat faster. She needed to escape and gulp down some air before she drowned.
“Is something wrong?”
Wrong? She met his gaze. Oh yes. So much was wrong. How could she remain unbiased when she couldn’t even function normally in his presence? When she could not forget his kiss or every act of kindness? Her journalistic instincts screamed that he was somehow tied up in the disappearance of these women. The fact that one of those who had been kidnapped was now married to his half-brother was hardly something to forget. Not to mention him evading her questions.
Everything about their acquaintance from start to finish was wrong. She needed to put an end to any semblance of...whatever on earth this was...and go back to being the pesky journalist who would eventually break the biggest story of her life.
“I just wanted to return this.” She placed the paper package on his desk and pushed it slightly toward him. “And tell you that I will pay for your coat.”
Scowling, he pulled the string and flipped open the paper. The prettiest ribbon she had ever seen sparkled against the brown packaging. Lucy admitted it was one of the more expensive ribbons, but the earl hadn’t asked about the cost, just requested it be added to his account.
So, so much of her wished to keep it. To tie it in her hair and loop it around a summer bonnet. To feel pretty and excited that a man gifted her something. To feel anything other than a poor spinster who hardly slept and whose fingers hurt all the time.
But she couldn’t. Her journalistic integrity would be brought into question, especially if he really was involved in her story.
“I have no use for ribbons.” He pushed the package back across the desk.
“Nor do I.” She eased it over once more.
He sighed, picked up the ribbon and moved around the desk, closing the gap between them. “Well, that’s not true.”
She blinked as he came closer, frozen. Her throat tightened, the pulse in her ears increased in pace. When he reached toward her, her skin prickled. All she had to do was duck away, make an excuse and leave, but her blasted legs would not obey. He reached over, providing her a close-up view of the stubble and his perfectly tied cravat.
“What...?” she managed to whisper, her voice strangled.
“You have so much hair, Miss Haversham. It’s quite beautiful.”
Some strange noise escaped her. A combination of two words perhaps or maybe more but they just came out as nonsense. Her cheeks warmed and she clamped her lips together. If she could not speak English or even escape, it was best she remain quiet and try to salvage some sort of dignity.
She felt a tug at her hair then he stepped back. When she reached up, she felt the silk tied about her locks. “I really shouldn’t...”
“Keep it, Miss Haversham. It suits you far better than it suits me.” He rounded his desk and clasped his hands behind his back. “And I will not hear of you paying for the damage to my coat.”
“But it was my fault!”
“Did you push me to the ground?”
“Well, no—”
“It was entirely my own fault.”
“But what about—”
“Was there anything else?”
“Yes. No. I mean...” She blew out a breath. If she had any sense, she’d tear the ribbon from her head and leave it on his desk. Considering she had rather a reputation for being a woman of sense, her inability to commit such an act was puzzling indeed. So she wagged a finger in his direction. “This does not mean I will cease investigating you.”
His lips curved. “I wouldn’t expect anything less.”
Chapter Twelve
The cloying scent of the woman’s perfume almost made Guy’s eyes water. He opted for breathing through his mouth as she shrugged her bare shoulders, took his coin and turned away. The baron was known to frequent several whorehouses in London, but he was regretting taking on the task of tracking the man’s movements himself. Russell would have been more at ease here or even Nash, but both were married, and he didn’t want to put them in that sort of position.
Especially in a less than reputable place like this.
He was no stranger to some of the more elegant places though, even he couldn’t bring himself to rid himself of his virginity at the hands of a paid woman. Why Lord Pembroke wished to frequent the less salubrious places, he didn’t know. The floors were sticky, the walls were thin and the patrons ranged from drunkards to the criminal sort. Clearly, the man had a specific taste, though Guy couldn’t understand it. One would have a damned high chance of coming away with something nasty in a place like this.
Still, he had his information. Lord Pembroke had his favorite here and never failed to visit on a Wednesday. Which meant Lady Pembroke would be alone. At least almost. All he had to do was worry about how they could slip past the men he had guarding her to be able to speak with her. Guy narrowed his lips. The man was known to be a bastard even here. What Lady Pembroke had to be experiencing every day as his wife hardly bore thinking about. The sooner they helped her, the better.
He pushed through the room, easing past the patrons and whores, narrowly avoiding a generous dousing of ale from an inebriated fellow. He stilled before he reached the door, closing his eyes ever so briefly. He had to be imagining it surely? Determined described her to a fault but she’d never be so foolish as to follow him to a damned whorehouse.
Twisting slowly, he shook his head. A man with fists the size of hams, hair sprouting from every inch of him from the back of his neck to the hand he had placed on the wall beside Miss Haversham had blocked her in. It seemed she was more interesting than the whores here, and he had to admit, he didn’t much blame the man. Even in that wretched coat, her pale appearance and stubborn chin drew him to her. Now all he wanted to do was knock off her plain hat and see her hair spilling about her shoulders.
Her bare shoulders.
He shoved away the thought. The last thing he needed to be considering was any sort of nudity, especially whilst surrounded by the sounds of beds knocking on walls and various bodies wound around each other with little care for propriety.
Well, she had said she wasn’t giving up investigating him, he’d give her that. But, good Lord, did she have to be so bloody insistent on getting into trouble?
She glanced wildly around, a hand to the man’s chest as she tried to slip under his arm. He moved, preventing her from stepping about him, then moved again. He shifted closer. Guy pinched the bridge of his nose and pushed between two couples. Miss Haversham’s gaze met his and her eyes widened—with relief or annoyance that she had been caught, he wasn’t sure.
“Leave the lady be,” Guy warned, tapping the man on the shoulder. “She’s not interested.”
“She’ll be interested if I pay enough,” he said between gritted teeth, ignoring Guy.
“I told you, I’m not for sale!” Miss
Haversham insisted, pushing against the man’s chest again with little effect.
“You’ll be for sale if I want you to be.” He made a grab for her waist and she dodged aside. Then he snatched her wrist, his fingers curling about her with ease, looking as though he could snap her arm in one swift movement.
Guy blew out a heated breath. This was enough. He wanted out of here and he sure as hell wanted Miss Haversham gone. He tapped the man’s shoulder again. He turned slightly, just enough for Guy to swing a punch and connect with his nose. Bone crunched and blood spurted from his nose. The man released her wrist and grabbed his nose.
“What the hell—”
Guy ducked a responding blow, latched a hand around Miss Haversham’s arm and dragged her from the building. They burst out into the fresh air and Guy whirled on her, releasing his hold. “What the devil are you doing here?”
“Well—”
He held up a hand. “Investigating me, I know, but why would you possibly think it was acceptable to enter a place like this?”
She lifted her chin, her posture going rigid. “You entered a place like this.”
“No one is going to mistake me for one of the wh—” He paused. “One of the women here, are they?”
“He had to be blind or drunk. I certainly don’t look like any of those women.”
“You’re too damned pretty and fair. Of course a man looking for a certain service is going to find you appealing.”
She opened her mouth then closed it.
He blew out a breath. He should not have admitted that. Not just because she knew he found her attractive but because he hadn’t wanted to admit it to himself. Now he’d said it aloud, it hung there, like hot sand in the desert, dancing about them. Miss Haversham really did have no intention of backing down and he had little idea what to do with her.
But he also had very, very many ideas of what to do with her. None of which were in any way useful.
ANGER HAD BEEN Freya’s presiding emotion. First at the man practically holding her prisoner, then at Lord Huntingdon for even visiting such a place. It ruined everything really. Even though she thought she was prepared to follow him in, she hadn’t been. Why would the blanket-offering, dog-rescuing, attractive earl frequent such a place? Surely it was only for ne’er-do-wells and those who could afford nothing better.
Taking the Spinster (The Kidnap Club Book 3) Page 8
