“Yes?”
“I’ve thought all day about the Duke of Northumberland.”
Isobel’s gaze shot to his face.
“I know,” Hooke soothed, “we were both surprised to serve a duke. Very esteemed patronage indeed. However, seeing him there . . . alone . . . asking to speak only to you? It rekindled my worry.”
“Worry?” croaked Isobel, scanning the street behind him.
“Hmm, extreme worry,” said Hooke. “About an unattached single woman managing the shop alone.”
Not this again. Isobel closed her eyes.
“Is that distress I detect?” he said. “Oh yes, I can see you are so very troubled.”
“I am not troubled,” she assured him. She forced a smile.
He gazed at her with a piteous expression of Come now.
“Mr. Hooke, no,” she said. “You mustn’t devote another second of worry to so-called troubling male clients. The success enjoyed by Everland Travel has been earned, as well you know, by service to the female traveler. Men may accompany women to the shop—they pay the bills—but Samantha and I accommodate the ladies. Truly. It’s what sets us apart.”
“So you say,” mused Hooke, “but imagine the earnings if we cultivate gentlemen clientele as well? What then? You cannot discuss hotel suites and Grecian bathhouses with men. A single woman alone is ill-suited to discuss most things with men—I don’t care if they are dukes.” His faced dipped closer. “I am thinking of propriety for the shop as well as your own safety.”
“My safety,” she scoffed. “I assure you I am perfectly safe.” This was the truth. Even now, as her heart pounded and she scanned the darkening street, she felt no danger. She felt like a juggler spinning two towers of fragile plates.
“Perhaps,” Hooke said, “but it cannot be said enough: it’s very strange for an unmarried woman to conduct business without a male superior in the shop. Highly irr—”
“Please remember,” Isobel cut in, trying to sound reminiscent, “this was never an issue for your dear parents—”
“But I can think of a solution,” he pressed.
Isobel wanted to squeeze her eyes shut. She wanted to dive behind the door and slam it in his face. Don’t say it, don’t say it. Please do not say it.
“If we married,” he went on, absolutely saying it, “then you would not be single or unattached. You would be a respectable matron and a member of the Hooke family. If you must invoke my parents, you might as well know that this is what they wanted.”
“They expressed no such desire to me,” she said, inching sideways.
He stepped sideways too, flanking her. She could smell the herring on his breath and see the barley stuck in his teeth.
“It is what they wanted,” he repeated slowly. “And it is what I want too.”
Jason hovered in the shadows, weighing his options. He could insert himself into the uncomfortable conversation across the street, or he could leave Miss Tinker be.
In favor: her face was pure misery, Hooke’s tone had gone from wheedling to threatening, and he was crowding her like a hungry wolf with a sheep.
Against: she’d waved him off twice already, and she didn’t seem like the type of woman who welcomed intervention.
Ultimately, he elected to keep back. For now. Hooke was more insect than wolf and Miss Tinker was no sheep. She’d evaded Hooke three times in the last ten minutes—slick spins and sidesteps—she could handle herself. Her faux smile was matched tonight with a faux laugh, and all the while she was flashing Jason angry hand signals on the sly. He reached into his pocket for a coin, working it back and forth through his fingers.
“Mr. Hooke,” Isobel said now, “I’ve made no secret of my wish never to marry. You know this about me. Marrying a woman against her will is a recipe for misery.”
No wish to marry . . . Jason had spent the afternoon wondering a great deal about Isobel Tinker. He’d returned to Whitehall and combed through her file, realizing that the facts had not been wrong so much as absent. He’d not gotten bad information; he’d made up details in his head. He’d thought she’d be older because—why wouldn’t she be? What young woman would have already spent years in Iceland, still more years in other countries on the Continent, and made her way back to England to set herself up in a travel shop?
Jason had returned to Mayfair with far more questions than answers and taken up a spot in the shadows to cease the assumptions and start paying attention.
“If you would but allow me to demonstrate how I might make you happy . . .” Hooke was saying. He dropped a clawlike hand on her waist, and Miss Tinker jumped. Jason shoved off the wall.
“I can persuade you to rethink what you wish,” Hooke insisted. “Your stubbornness stands in the way—”
“I am not stubborn, Mr. Hooke,” Isobel bit out, all trace of cordiality gone. “I am telling you what I want. Please do not contradict me.”
She ducked left, slipping from his grasp. The door was steps away. In half a beat, she had her hand on the knob, pushing it open. “Good night to you, Mr. Hooke.”
“You insult me with your . . . your rudeness, Isobel,” called Hooke. “Of all the ungrateful—”
“Mind yourself, sir,” Isobel warned, spinning around. She stood in her open doorway, stance wide, her reticule swinging from her clenched fist. “If it is rude or ungrateful to make choices about my own future, then—”
“It is the very heart of rudeness. Considering who you are and from whence you’ve come.”
“And what exactly do you mean by that?”
“You may speak prettily and serve fine ladies in the shop,” he snarled, “but pretty speech can be learned and you are no lady.”
If Hooke expected her to flinch, he was disappointed. She was as steady as the sun. Her eyes flashed hot, blue rage.
Like an idiot, Hooke continued. “I’d hoped it would not come to this, but you force my hand. I’ll say it.” A deep breath. “A girl like you is fortunate to receive an offer of marriage from the likes of me. Very fortunate indeed. Your age alone puts you at a disadvantage. Most men want a bride closer to twenty, not thirty. Furthermore, think of the many pressing questions about your past—questions that have never been answered. Your well-placed uncle may have impressed my parents, but . . .”
“Questions?” A dare.
“Fine,” said Hooke. “I’ll say it. What of your father or mother? Who are your people, Miss Tinker? Would you be alone in the world without Everland Travel and the Hookes? Taken as a whole, your life’s story is a very great mystery.”
“What mattered to your parents,” Isobel bit out, “was my work.”
“Perhaps,” Hooke said, “but my parents are dead. And the notion of a person’s breeding matters very much to the rest of the world. Especially when it comes to a young woman who serves fine ladies in a shop, who advises them and arranges for their well-being. However, I would be willing to overlook all of it. If you were married to me, you’d not have to think of your advanced age or your parentage or misspent youth ever again.”
“I don’t think of my—”
He cut her off. “But if you refuse to marry me, well . . . I cannot predict the future or your place at Everland Travel.”
Isobel was silent for a long moment. Jason was reminded again of a fuse, burning to its explosive fringe. Her anger looked incandescent. Hooke took a small step back.
“Pray, find the words, Mr. Hooke,” said Miss Tinker quietly.
He retreated another step. “I should have known you would force me to phrase it so very frankly. Like a transaction.”
“Any union between us has always been, and will always be, a transaction, Mr. Hooke. Whatever do you mean?”
“I mean,” he hissed, “I cannot allow my travel agency to be run by a lot of single women. If you wish to continue in this job, you will forsake your misplaced pride and consider my offer.”
“But what of our collaboration?” she ground out. “The profits? Think of all the money I’ve made you. If we married
, none of that would be the same.”
“I’ve no wish to ‘collaborate’ with you, Isobel,” he said. “I wish to—”
“I do believe I’ve heard enough,” she cut in, holding out a hand. “How long do I have?”
“How long until . . . ?” His strident voice faltered. He sounded as if he’d not rehearsed this bit.
“How long to consider this threat of expulsion?”
“Well, I’d hoped you’d not consider it a threat,” he whinged.
“That is exactly how I consider it. How long?”
“Well, of course, I’ll not name anything so vulgar as a date. When you’ve had time to think . . . when you can comprehend my point of view, I will call upon your uncle and ask for your hand properly. I wish to do this properly,” he insisted. “If only you would see my intent.”
“You’ve made your intent very clear,” she said. “When you decide upon a deadline for my sacking, do let me know. In the meantime, good night.”
Slam.
The door closed so suddenly Jason jumped.
Hooke threw up his hands, the reaction of someone who couldn’t catch a ball flying at his face. He stared at the closed door. There was no sign of life from inside—not a curtain flutter, not a puff from the chimney.
Finally, Hooke made an exaggerated hissing noise, muttered angrily, and slunk away.
Jason checked his timepiece—they still had nearly an hour—and looked again to the door.
Well.
Drummond Hooke was controlling and took advantage of Miss Tinker’s talent, but this was entrapment. He wasn’t simply insecure and entitled, he was desperate. And cruel.
Even so, she’d not minced words about his chances. Good for her. She could have feathered him with vague denials or flirted just enough to put him off; instead, she’d called his bluff, bold and unafraid. And so proud. Jason had been transfixed.
Again: good for her.
And good for Jason. Because if she hadn’t needed incentive to help him before, she surely needed it now.
He wondered if she would demonstrate that same boldness and lack of fear with him.
Could she view his work as noble and patriotic? Could she view their collaboration as (dare he say) amicable?
Was there any chance that she would . . . enjoy it? Enjoy him?
Likely—no. Restlessness overtook him, and Jason flicked his coin into the air. It landed in his gloved hand with a heavy pat. He flicked it again.
Typically, women did enjoy Jason Beckett, and the feeling was so very mutual. His job in the Foreign Office occasioned him to encounter beautiful women around the world; it was one of his favorite parts of the job. It was one of the many reasons he hated to leave his post; Syon Hall meant isolation and stagnation.
Jason loved all women generally and quite a few women personally, and it had been a very long time since he’d encountered a woman who was not a . . . a . . . certainty. Flick.
So far, Jason knew far more about what Isobel Tinker didn’t want than what she did. The list was long. And he was at the top. Well, perhaps Drummond Hooke was at the top. But likely he was a close second.
Meanwhile, he felt confounded by her. He was drawn in by her resistance and prickliness and guarded history. It needled him. It should have increased his restlessness and impatience. Flick. Instead, he was intrigued.
Dropping deeper into the shadows, he checked her shop again. If she was peeking out of windows, he couldn’t see it.
Fine. Flick.
He would wait.
He would be needled and restless. He would be twitchy and speculate about Miss Isobel Tinker. There were worse things.
And anyway, the point of their collaboration was not his regard for Miss Isobel Tinker, nor her regard for him. It was about Reggie, and the mission, and putting off Syon Hall as long as possible.
Chapter Four
Isobel scrawled the word Alley on a scrap of parchment and tacked it beneath the knob of her door. Northumberland would understand.
How ambitious she’d been to believe the public street would be an acceptable place to meet him at ten o’clock. She’d come to think of Lumley Street as a safe haven, secure and comfortable, a place she could do as she wished, even after dark. All corners of her new life had felt so very haven-like that she’d forgotten she did not have the freedom to be reckless or imprudent or to meet strange men. How thorough of Mr. Hooke to remind her of all that was at stake.
The sun had only just set when Drummond Hooke had delivered her home and made his ultimatum. She prayed no neighbors had seen. The fact that Northumberland had seen her was an outrage for which she was still trying to find the correct words. Inappropriate, for one. Intrusive, for another. Interesting, for a—No. No, not interesting. Unacceptable.
“You’re late,” she said ten minutes later. These words took no effort. He emerged from the alley gloom as she waited on her back stoop, her emerald cloak pulled tight.
“Would you believe,” he asked lightly, “I’ve been standing just out of view, watching you?”
Isobel felt an annoying tingle in her tailbone. Cursed stone step, cold even in August. She shoved up. “I would believe you’ve been watching, but out of view? Your boast is misplaced. An hour ago, I saw you clearly lurking about.”
He stepped closer, making no response. Just like that, she could see his face. Her first thought was that she had not misremembered. He was—
Well, he was far too much for her already complicated life. A handsome man with a direct, interested gaze and some pressing business that could only be discussed in dark alleys? Too much. The very last complication she needed at the moment. Or ever.
She clipped down the steps. “What were you thinking, turning up in my street when I was . . . was meeting with my employer?”
“Oh, is that what was happening? I had no idea the idiot was going to propose to you.”
“He didn’t propose, he—” She couldn’t finish. Explaining Drummond Hooke’s extortion was not part of her civic duty.
“It makes no difference about my conversation with Mr. Hooke,” she finished. “I’ve agreed to your interview, and so now here I am. Are we meant to talk in the alley? The rats take over after dark, I’m afraid.”
“Indeed. I don’t suppose you would invite me inside?”
“Ah, no. I do not entertain men alone inside my house.”
“Quite so. Which is why . . .” and now he sounded like he was improvising, “. . . I’ve scouted Grosvenor Square. You’d suggested this, did you not? If we clear the fence and take a side path to the center, we should be out of sight and undisturbed. Well chosen. Very sensible.”
“I’m always sensible,” Isobel muttered, more to herself. A reminder. She’d taught herself to be sensible. Since returning to England, sensibility had been her guiding force.
Pulling her hood around her face, she picked her way to Duke Street. Northumberland fell in beside her, a large, silent presence over her left shoulder. Before she could stop herself, Isobel asked, “You heard every word, then? With Hooke?”
“I’m a spy, Miss Tinker. Hearing every word is part of my job. It’s why I came early to Lumley Street. It’s why I was late to the alley.”
She glanced at him. He was neither gloating nor threatening, simply stating a fact. She watched him scan the street like a wolf hunting in a dark wood.
Isobel felt the tingling again, this time on the back of her neck. If she hadn’t sworn off men—which, absolutely, she had—she might have wondered why her body always conjured tingles for the wrong men. Why not tingle for someone like . . . a Boring Rule Follower or Dependable Office Hack? Why not tingle for Drummond Hooke and make life simple for everyone?
Isobel recoiled at the thought. Anyone but Drummond Hooke.
She knew the way to Grosvenor Square and he allowed her to take the lead. She kept to the shadows, head down, cloak barely fluttering. They reached Grosvenor Street, and the square loomed like a black void in the center of torchlit Mayfair
.
Northumberland stepped around her, gesturing for her to stay back, but she’d already tucked herself into the recess of a building. She knew how to navigate a dark street, for God’s sake.
Go on, she said with a nod of her head.
He considered her a long moment and went, a silent shadow darting into the abyss. The gate to the square was locked at sunset, and the duke didn’t try it. He chose the most overgrown stretch of fence and vaulted over it with a swift bounce, disappearing into the trees.
He’d not suggested her next course of action. Isobel had been surprised by this—surprised and a little bit thrilled. She knew well how to slip into a locked park but this would be a secret skill to him.
Shrugging deeper into her cloak, she followed his path to the fence. She detoured slightly to retrieve an empty crate on the corner and propped it against the black iron. Working quickly, her movements small, she climbed first the crate and then the fence, balancing a booted foot between the spiked iron slats. With one hand, she clasped the top of the fence, and gathered her skirts with the other. She was just about to bring her second foot to the fence when giant hands caught her around the waist, lifted, and whirled her over the fence in a smooth arc.
She made only the slightest yelp.
“Shhhh,” he warned.
This is not exciting, Isobel lectured herself as the duke plunked her down beside a rosebush.
This is not diverting.
He is not exhilarating.
I’ve been sacked from my job and will be evicted from my home. This man wants to know too much about things I’ve vowed never to discuss.
I’m having no fun at all.
When she was steady on the ground, the duke ducked between two bushes, signaling her to follow into the foliage. Isobel returned to the crate, reached between the slats of the fence, and tipped it gently away. Without waiting for the crack of wood against stone, she hurried after the duke.
When it rains, it pours, she thought unhelpfully, pushing through leafy fronds and low-hanging boughs.
If one trouble comes, wait for the other.
Didn’t respectable ladies spout wise-but-baseless idioms during trying times?
When You Wish Upon a Duke Page 4
