Rex spun his finger in the air, encouraging the man to continue. Sullivan had never been so coy when delivering his reports. He employed the man to collect facts and didn’t expect to have to cajole them out of him.
“The duke has an unmarried daughter.”
Interesting. “Tell me more.”
“She’s . . . ” Sullivan looked down at the pages open on his lap and then closed the journal with a slap, as if it contained none of the answers he needed. Or he’d memorized everything he intended to say. “Bookish.”
“A bluestocking, you mean.”
“She is a well-read woman.”
Rex imagined a room lined with books, books on the bedside table, piles of books in the morning room. He’d always been fond of books, especially when he was a child, and they’d seemed as unattainable as precious jewels. “I suppose there are worse things. What else?”
“His Grace’s eldest is a woman of mature years.”
“How old?”
“Just turned one and thirty.”
Rex let a chuckle rumble up and spill over, loosening the tightness in his chest. “Come, man. I’m not even one and thirty.”
“You are two years shy of it. Hardly an impassable chasm of years between you.”
Shooting up from his chair, Rex planted his feet on the ground and leaned across his desk. “If she’s unmarried at thirty-one, I doubt she’s keen to enter the trap now.”
Sullivan rose too, matching Rex in height and wearing a stern mask of determination. “You’re wrong there, Mr. Leighton. The lady has merely been overlooked. The duke has four daughters, and the rest are frivolous and pretty. All three married during their first seasons.”
Rex crossed to the fireplace, edging close enough to allow the heat to singe his clothes, letting the warmth soothe the twinges in his hand and leg. He turned his head but didn’t look directly at Sullivan, loathe to allow the man to see any flicker of pain on his face.
“You’re determined to defend this woman, Jack. Do you fancy her yourself?”
The detective gusted out a breathy sound of disgust. “The very notion is asinine. I, of all men, have nothing to offer a duke’s daughter.”
Muscles in Rex’s arm twitched, and he flexed his scarred hand. Any other man who spoke to him so dismissively in his own home was apt to find himself flat on his arse. He gripped the marble fireplace mantel and turned to glance at his inquiry agent.
“I have no interest in the woman,” the detective protested in a more respectful if no less vehement tone. “I merely know what it is to be overlooked.”
There was history behind the comment Sullivan husked out in a flat, cold voice. Before settling on Jack Sullivan as his inquiry agent, Rex had investigated him. Years in an orphanage, never adopted because of illness, and a tendency toward obstinacy. That obstinacy was why Rex chose him. The man’s terrier-like determination—a bit like Charlie, come to think of it—meant he left no stone unturned. Based on his own bleak history, Rex understood that obstinacy in an orphaned child was simply another word for survival. And survival was what mattered most.
Rex turned his back on Sullivan, stealing a moment to push away the memories of hunger and fear that colored all the days of his youth after his mother died. Facing the detective again, Rex fought to secure an expressionless mask.
“Very well. Where can I find this duke’s daughter?” He wasn’t ready for a meeting with Ashworth, so he’d need to encounter the lady when she was outside her father’s home.
“You’re in luck, sir. She’s a busy woman, out of the house nearly every day of the week with some charitable endeavor or the meeting of one woman’s group or another.”
“Give me the best option.”
“She takes tea at the Metropole on Tuesdays and then usually visits the National Gallery.”
Turning toward his desk, Rex inhaled sharply and pushed his shoulders back. He flicked his tailcoat aside and settled a hand on each hip. He could do this. It made sound, practical business sense. Marry a duke’s daughter, and no door in London would ever be closed to him again. Marry Ashworth’s daughter, and the man would be beholden to invest in his venture. He’d give Lady What’s-Her-Name—“What is her name?”
“Emily. Though her friends call her Em.”
He’d give Lady Emily a new hotel where she could drink her Tuesday tea. “Sounds like a worthy prospect.”
Sullivan resumed his seat, sitting tall with the sort of ramrod straightness that always made him appear as if he had his back to a wall. “There is one complication.”
“Just one more? Perhaps my luck is improving.” Now that was a truly asinine statement. There was no such thing as luck. Luck was a fancy, a myth, like Saint Nick or Spring-heeled Jack, Great Britain’s favorite building-leaping legend. The rich could afford to buy happiness and call it luck. Fortune didn’t randomly smile on any man. Only hard work, diligence, and determination brought men fortune.
“Lady Emily is friends with Miss May Sedgwick, Seymour Sedgwick’s daughter. I know of your desire to avoid Mr. Sedgwick. Does the same principle apply to his daughter?”
May Sedgwick. Her name rang in Rex’s head, arrowing through him with a breath-stealing awareness, somewhere between pleasure and pain. Very like that skin-prickling precognition he’d felt when approaching the townhouse. But this time he could see everything. Remember every detail. Blue eyes above blush-prone cheeks and pitch-black hair lashing out in loose curls around her face. And that mouth—full and lush and forever tilting up in a grin or bursting wide with a smile. He’d only seen her cry once. Six years ago, on the last day he’d met her face-to-face.
“I see,” Sullivan said quietly, almost a whisper.
“What the hell do you see?” Rex stormed toward Sullivan, but the man remained seated, his gaze narrowed.
“Your avoidance of Sedgwick has little to do with business and much to do with his daughter.”
The man had half of it right, and that was too much for Rex’s swirling thoughts.
“I’ve always wondered why it is you push yourself so,” Sullivan continued. “Why you barely take a moment to savor one victory before pushing on toward your next achievement.”
“Stop watching me.” Rex lifted a hand and swiped across his mouth, cursing under his breath at the trembling in his fingers. “Stop seeing everything for a damned minute.”
Jack Sullivan could read a man’s life history in the twitch of an eye. But this was the one page from Rex’s history that he hadn’t shared with the inquiry agent. Miss May Sedgwick was a part of his past he could barely look back on himself, let alone share with anyone else.
Chapter Two
THE PORTFOLIO LAY heavy in May Sedgwick’s lap. Which was, practically speaking, impossible. The dark leather folder carried a handful of papers inside. Seven rectangles of thick-bond paper covered in lightly penciled lines and splashes of watercolor paint—May’s ideas for the redecoration of the Duke of Ashworth’s London residence.
She bit her lower lip and tapped two fingers against the top of the folio. Slow taps, then quicker, to match the tempo of four violinists playing a lively Mozart quartet from the corner of the Hotel Metropole’s well-appointed dining room. In her eagerness to show Emily her designs, she’d arrived early for their afternoon tea. Now she found the twenty extra minutes left her far too much time for reflection. And threads of doubt.
Ladylike accomplishments had been drilled in from youth, and she’d been taught to conquer a drawing room by the age of sixteen. With an infallible sense for fashion that favored her petite figure, May knew how to choose the best coiffures for her wavy black hair and tilt her thick-lashed blue eyes just so to punctuate polite conversation.
But showing Em her sketches had nothing to do with training or comportment. She rarely shared her art with anyone. Despite a talent for drawing, her parents had encouraged her to dabble rather than waste hours dirtying her fingers with pencils and paint.
Perhaps I’ve made too much of a fuss. In business matte
rs, her department-store-owner father always advised “go grand or don’t bother.” The previous night she’d taken his philosophy to heart, staying up until midnight to put finishing touches on her sketches. She’d struggled to capture the vibrant colors in her head with watercolors, the only painting medium she’d mastered.
Covering one hand with the other, she forced herself to stop tapping, then took a sip of water from a glittering crystal goblet. The faceted glass sparkled like diamonds, its design matching the small vase of flowers near the center of the table. May reached out to rearrange the blooms. They were too neat, too symmetrical. With a bit of variety, a leaf arching out to the right of the violets and one plump rose dipping over the left edge, the bouquet became unique. Memorable.
She glanced around to make sure no one saw her boldly rearranging the decor. If Em were here, she’d undoubtedly giggle and urge her to fix the other tables’ bouquets as well.
After over a year in London, Emily was the only true friend May had made. She’d attended more balls, dinners, country house parties, and intimate soirees than she could count. Still, English noblewomen tended to snub her because of her American upbringing. Apparently earning one’s wealth through trade, as her father had, didn’t sit well with aristocratic ladies. Her viscountess grandmother didn’t signify with them either. Her mother had married an American, and that mattered more than any English blood in her veins. Even other “dollar princesses”—Americans who’d taken up residence in London to snag a duke, marquess, or earl, as she had—treated her with chilly disdain. They viewed her as a competitor in the hardscrabble marriage mart rather than a sympathetic fellow countrywoman.
Finding her own aristocratic husband was proving difficult. Or, if her father was to be believed, she was proving difficult. Today she’d declined another invitation from the Earl of Devenham to take luncheon with him and his sister, opting to spend time with Emily and art. How could she resist?
Despite being raised to seek a titled husband, and a youth spent watching her mother scrabble for social standing, May had radical notions. Marriage had to be more than a business transaction, as cold and practical as her father’s money-making stratagems. Papa called her stubborn when he was in good spirits and impossible when he wasn’t. After a year in London, she still couldn’t bring herself to marry a man who desired her for her father’s fortune, rather than any qualities of her own.
“Forgive me for being late, my dear,” Emily called out as she rushed toward the table, plucking her gloves off as she approached. Despite her refined upbringing, Em exuded a fresh, unpolished charm. She was tall enough to make any gown look magnificent, but her ruffles were always askew and her light brown hair forever escaping from under her hat.
“I’m early. You’re not late. Please don’t apologize.” May stood and lifted a hand to greet her friend, reaching the other down to keep her portfolio from falling to the floor.
“Oh my goodness, is that what I think it is? Let me see!” Em reached for the folio as she brushed a kiss on May’s cheek.
As soon as the case slipped from her hands, a rabble of butterflies took flight in May’s belly.
“Oh . . . ” Em tugged sheaves of paper out as she sat and spread them in a swash of color across the tabletop, reaching to resettle the little vase of flowers out of the way. “Oh my . . . ”
The pauses were the worst. In each sharp little inhale and drawn-out silence, a tickling at May’s neck made her want to pull at her gown’s high collar. Tightness in her shoulders prevented her from settling against her chair.
A waiter strode up to their table. “Lady Emily, how fine it is to see you each Tuesday. Shall we have tea brought over now?”
“Thank you, yes, Dunston.” Em was scrupulously polite with everyone, yet she barely spared the young man a glance. Her eyes were busy roving over every detail of May’s painted designs.
“Perhaps I’ve been a bit too audacious.” May took a deep breath and tried not to ruin the cluster of delicate lace on the front of her skirt by crushing it between her fingers.
“Tell me about this one.” Em pulled a particular watercolor out of the group and placed her finger in the center. “The colors are extraordinary.”
“I thought red should dominate in that room.” May swallowed a lump in her throat, breathed deep, and plunged ahead. “You did say your father has a fondness for Chinese pottery and tapestries. Though I’ve never been admitted to the inner sanctum of his library, I assume he keeps many of his favorite pieces there. You said he uses it as an office to conduct his business affairs too. Red is a color of good fortune in China. It has a vibrancy and power to it. Why not represent that in the walls and drapery?”
Em sat back in her chair and crossed her arms.
May’s throat burned, and heat spread to her cheeks. She barely resisted blurting the radical notions she’d been harboring for months.
“It’s brilliant.” Em leaned in again, her fingers tracing elements in the nearest sketch. “No, I take that back. They are brilliant.” She turned her honey brown gaze on May. “You’re terribly talented. You do know that, don’t you?”
“Oh . . . ” This lump in her throat wasn’t one of anxiety but joy. The fluttering in her belly was less worry than her body humming with delight. No one knew art and design had gone from her hobby to a passion. Papa tolerated her impulse to beautify spaces and once had allowed her to arrange a window display for Sedgwick’s while they lived in New York, but he’d never praised her artistic efforts. And he dismissed any notion of turning her interest into a profitable business. Strange, that, seeing as she’d spent years watching him build his own fortune as a successful man of commerce.
She finally managed a “Thank you, Em.”
“Nonsense. We’ll have you to thank when we transform Ashworth House with these stunning colors. Good-bye, dove gray. Hello, scarlet red.”
Tea arrived, and two waiters worked to cover the table with delicately cut sandwiches, scones, jams, and dishes of clotted cream. Emily scooped up the drawings, stacked the pages in her lap, and continued to leaf through them as a teacup and plate were arranged in front of her.
Hope. That’s what surged up in May as she let Emily’s praise for her work sink in. Counting her time in London a failure, her father had recently insisted they return to New York. But she had no desire to go back. Painful memories colored her feelings for the city. She’d come to love London, despite moments of loneliness. Painting and sketching had given her an outlet for her energies, and if she truly could make a go of designing spaces for others, she might just grasp what she’d sought for years. Purpose.
“Do you really think your father will like these ideas?”
“I do.” Emily grinned as she bit into the edge of a scone.
“Perhaps this is more than he had in mind when you said he wished to give the place a lift.”
“Not at all. If there’s one thing I can say for Papa, it’s that he’s open to new notions. He’s forever investing in this invention or that entrepreneur’s idea.”
Entrepreneur. It’s what they called May’s father. Weren’t children supposed to follow in their father’s footsteps?
“Are they always men?”
Em reached for her teacup, taking a long quaff before meeting May’s gaze. “Most of those who approach him for investment funds are men, but I’m not certain Papa has any rule about giving money only to men. You’re thinking of taking this beyond a few watercolors, aren’t you?”
“Yes, quite a bit further. I’ve considered making a business of it.” May began chewing her lower lip and lifted a hand to her mouth to stop herself. Not only to curb her nervous habit, but to keep from gushing her wildly ambitious ideas for a design business. They’d been brewing for months, and she’d never find a more sympathetic ear than Em’s. Yet it was still frightening. She wasn’t at all certain she could pull it off, even with the support of an investor like the Duke of Ashworth. Asking her father for funds was out of the question. He wishe
d to see her become a duchess, not a designer.
“Is it practical, my dear?” Emily asked. “Will you have time for such endeavors when you marry and become a countess or duchess?”
“Practicalities have never been my forte.” Each year that passed without a proposal seemed to make Emily increasingly eager for matrimony, whereas May had become less interested in the fate for which she’d been groomed. After a failed match the previous year, the prospect of becoming lady of a grand estate had dimmed for May. Following in her father’s footsteps held much more appeal. If noble bloodlines were Emily’s inheritance, perhaps May’s was the drive to succeed in business.
“Your designs are beautiful, and I do admire your spirit.” Though sincere, Em’s tone held a note of finality. She carefully placed May’s designs back in the folio and set them aside. “Now, speaking of practical matters, are you coming to the Devenham soiree this evening?”
“Of course.” May tried for an enthusiastic smile.
Em seemed determined to play matchmaker with her cousin, Lord Henry Devenham. A young earl, he was wealthy and charming and precisely the sort of man Mama would have chosen for her. And he was persistent, despite how often she declined his invitations.
“Were you expecting someone to meet you here, May?” Em’s question swept away thoughts of balls, marriage, and designing interiors.
“No, why?” May noticed her friend’s gaze directed over her left shoulder and turned to spot a face she hadn’t glimpsed in over a year. “Mr. Graves!”
The elderly gentleman dipped his head in acknowledgment but didn’t smile or indicate he shared her pleasure in their encountering each other after such a long separation.
“Is he a suitor? He seems rather . . . dour.” Em leaned toward her as she spoke, never taking her eyes from Mr. Graves. “And old.”
May shook her head as the gentleman approached. “He’s a business associate and friend of my father’s.”
“Mr. Graves, how good it is to see you after all this time.” She stood and reached to embrace him.
One Dangerous Desire (Accidental Heirs) Page 2
