The Mysterious Miss Flint (Lost Ladies of London Book 1)

by Adele Clee

  Nicole considered the earl’s proposition. What did she have to lose? Despite being the grandson of a viscount, Jeremy hardly ever moved about in society. What were the chances their paths would cross? What were the chances of anyone recognising her? Besides, she wanted something from the earl and offering her help was the only way to secure his co-operation.

  “Very well. I agree to assist you in your bid to find Rose.” Nicole noted the cut to his cheek, left from the whip of the chatelaine. The earl was strong, courageous, just the person she needed should Jeremy ever cause trouble. “Should it prove necessary, you may say I’m your mistress. However, you must promise me one thing in return.”

  “Of course.” The earl inclined his head. “In some things, I am open to negotiation.”

  “Should I be granted ownership of Morton Manor, I want the solicitor to draw up a contract that prohibits the sale of the house unless you are in complete agreement.” The earl was far too astute to fall for Jeremy’s lies and deceit. And she would address the matter of unwelcome visitors at a later date.

  As expected, the earl looked astounded. “Why would you relinquish your independence and be beholden to me?”

  She would not be beholden to him. He had far more pressing matters to address. “Because there is every chance I shall need your protection in the future. Do not ask me to speak of it now. A vow that you will act in my best interests is all I seek.”

  He offered a graceful bow. “I pledge my assistance should the need ever arise.”

  Nicole smiled. She couldn’t run forever. Perhaps this was her one chance to put a stop to Jeremy’s antics for good.

  The sound of raised voices caught their attention. Nicole glanced back over her shoulder to see Mrs Gripes, Baxter and Stokes arguing in the doorway.

  “I shall be glad to be away from this place for a while.” A good night’s sleep and a satisfying meal were simple pleasures denied her these last six months.

  “Then come, Miss Flint.” The earl offered her his arm. “Let us throw this immoral rabble out on their ear and be on our way.”

  Chapter Five

  The mystery surrounding the ownership of Morton Manor and fears over his missing sister were not the only things troubling Oliver. The lady sitting opposite him in the carriage, gripping the open window as she scanned the road looking for Rose, was an enigma.

  One thing was certain. Miss Flint conveyed a quality of character a paid companion could only ever dream of possessing. From her eloquent speech and turn of phrase, he was certain the lady was a gentleman’s daughter. Yet from the shabby state of her clothes, it was evident the woman had fallen on hard times.

  Had the death of her parents left her destitute?

  Had a scoundrel ruined all prospects of marriage and left her with no option but to work for a living?

  It was a puzzle he was determined to solve.

  “There’s no sign of Rose.” Miss Flint thrust her head out of the window and almost knocked off her bonnet. “I told her to stay close to the road.”

  “We’ll stop at The Talbot Inn. Perhaps someone remembers seeing her there last night.” He saw little point searching so close to the manor. Ten hours had passed since Rose had escaped. On foot, a person could easily cover two miles per hour, which would place her much closer to London.

  A sudden sense of trepidation swept over him. “You’re certain London is her destination?”

  Miss Flint turned to him. The wind blew a few curls across her face, forcing her to blink and scrunch her nose so she could see. “These last six months, Rose has spoken of nothing but being reunited with Lord Cunningham. They’re in love, my lord. Where else would she go?”

  “Lord Cunningham is an ass,” he said, repeating Miss Flint’s earlier phrase. It was true. If the fop loved Rose why hadn’t he called at Stanton House once he’d learned of Oliver’s return? Why was he not demanding to know where he could find her, ranting and cursing and threatening anyone who dared to get in his way? “But then some would argue that a lady cannot help who she falls in love with.”

  Or lust with — as was more often the case.

  Miss Flint pulled her head back through the window and fell into the padded seat. The loose strands of hair blown free by the wind danced seductively about her neck. Her cheeks were a rosy pink, and her breath came quickly. The sight caused the blood to pump through his veins. The muscles in his abdomen tightened, and he had to suppress the urge to drag her across the carriage and into his lap.

  Good Lord.

  Not since the first time he’d watched a woman undress had his cock sprang to life so quickly.

  “It sounds as though you have a rather cynical view of love,” she said, oblivious to his lustful cravings.

  “Me?” He tapped his chest. “I doubt you want to hear my theory on forming deep attachments.”

  “On the contrary, I would be most interested to hear your thoughts regarding matters of the heart.” The lady sat up straight. “Have no fear,” she said with some amusement. “You may speak openly. I am not the judgemental type.”

  Oliver considered her honest expression. “No, I don’t suppose you are.” To have a woman listen to the truth without lecturing would be a novelty. Ladies often berated him for his lack of commitment, even though a night of pleasure was the only thing he’d promised.

  “And I am happy to share my views, too,” she said, “should you have any interest in listening to what a woman deems ideal.”

  Oliver shivered. The comments Miss Flint had made about Rose and Lord Cunningham confirmed she was a hopeless romantic, on a quest to find that one person who made her heart sing. It was a mistake often made by those who had never experienced unadulterated passion. Innocent ladies dreamt of being rescued not ruined.

  “Perhaps when you’ve heard what I have to say, Miss Flint, you’ll think twice about expressing your opinion.”

  The corners of her mouth curled up just a fraction, more a smirk than a smile. “Are you suggesting I am shallow, my lord? Do you think I would alter my stance merely to agree with yours?”

  Ladies in society accepted that a gentleman held the informed view. They nodded politely, agreed with everything said, feigned ignorance. Not that he appreciated the quality. He admired a woman who could think for herself. And Miss Flint certainly possessed a strong will and a sense of her own worth.

  Oliver rubbed his chin. “No. You’re right, Miss Flint. I believe you enjoy contradicting me whenever the opportunity arises.”

  “There you go again making certain assumptions.” Miss Flint sighed. “If I felt your words had merit, I would agree with you wholeheartedly. But do not ask me to support you when you’re mumbling like a fool.”

  A chuckle burst from his lips. Never had he met a woman who spoke so openly, so bluntly. Damn. He found it rather charming. The initial stab of desire he’d felt upon witnessing her fetching countenance returned.

  “Then I shall do my best to be succinct when speaking in your company,” he said, somewhat unnerved by this woman’s ability to affect his mood.

  She gave a curt nod. “And I shall certainly appreciate your clarity. Now, you were about to tell me of your cynical view of love,” she reminded him.

  Oliver had the sudden urge to be blunt, to wipe the smirk from her face, to shock with his cold-hearted opinion.

  “The romantic love you speak of does not exist,” he began, his mind engaged in choosing the appropriate words for maximum effect. “Oh, there is such a thing as attraction, and lust, and a host of other carnal emotions that act merely as a way to encourage our species to procreate.”

  Indeed, lust was a devil on his shoulder, whispering licentious things about the woman seated opposite.

  Miss Flint’s eyes grew wide, and she blinked rapidly.

  Excellent.

  “Love is like opium,” he continued with some enthusiasm, for he was enjoying himself immensely. “Something taken to ease a pain or need. Something that people use as a crutch to help them cla
mber over life’s obstacles.”

  “Love is a crutch?” she mocked. “And do you speak from experience, my lord, or does your insight stem from lengthy observations?”

  “Both.” During his time in Italy, and to a certain extent before he left for the Continent, he’d dallied with courtesans, widows and actresses. Pleasure was all any of them sought. Never had any genuine emotion filled the void in his chest. “My parents’ marriage was a complete disaster. A wild and passionate love affair that grew into a bitter battle of wills. My father’s jealousy and compulsive obsessions are to blame for Rose's terrible predicament.”

  Pity flashed in Miss Flint’s bewitching green eyes. “Rose told me of your father’s cruel taunts, that he accused her of being the daughter of a footman.”

  “Over the years he accused us of being the offspring of his groom, his coachman, of any gentleman foolish enough to visit the house.”

  “Then I can see why you have a distorted view of love.”

  “Not distorted, simply realistic.”

  She was silent for a moment. “And so, will you break with family tradition? Will you marry someone you don’t love in the hope the partnership is not doomed to fail?”

  The steely rod of determination running down the length of his spine forced him to straighten. “I have no intention of marrying anyone.”

  Miss Flint snorted in a rather unladylike fashion. “As a peer, do you not have a responsibility to the nation? Is it not your duty to sire an heir?”

  She was mocking him.

  “As a man, I have a responsibility to myself first and foremost.” How the hell had he ended up having an intimate discussion with a paid companion? Then again, Miss Flint hardly conducted herself like a servant. The woman behaved as though she were his equal in every regard.

  Perhaps that was why he found her so damn interesting.

  “Hmm …” She tapped her finger to her lips. “So, as well as realistic, you admit you’re selfish, too.”

  Had they not been sitting in a carriage, Oliver would have shot to his feet to defend that ridiculous remark. “You call it selfish. I call it practical. Besides, we are straying from the original point, delving into matters that I would rather not divulge to … to others.”

  “By others do you mean to a lady or a servant?”

  An odd puffing sound left his lips, and he shrugged.

  “Then have no fear,” she continued. “I’m told it is acceptable for a man to discuss personal matters with his mistress.”

  She cast a sensual smile his way, and it hit him so hard in the chest he could barely breathe.

  Damnation.

  Now he knew why his father had left Miss Flint the blasted manor. This woman was a beguiling temptress sent to torture him in the old earl’s absence.

  “If I were you, I would refrain from mentioning the fact you’re my mistress,” he drawled, feasting on her fine form. Beneath the shabby dress, she had curves in all the right places. A lady possessed of such a forthright manner would make for a satisfying bed partner. Of that he was certain. “I might forget it is all an act and pounce on you when you least expect it.”

  Oliver sat back, convinced he’d said enough to rattle her steely composure. When it came to the voracious appetites of men, it was evident Miss Flint lacked experience.

  “Then I must thank you for your counsel,” she said, not showing the slightest sign that his remarks affected her. “With your hardened heart, I imagine it would make for a wholly unfulfilling affair.”

  Oh, she would be more than satisfied with what he had to offer. “Should you wish to test the theory, I am more than willing.”

  The image of Miss Flint writhing and panting beneath him flashed into his mind.

  “As that is clearly not an option, I shall have no choice but to die in blissful ignorance.” She gazed out of the window as the carriage rattled through the stone archway and into the courtyard of The Talbot Inn.

  Miss Flint’s refusal to pander to his whims or fawn over him as one would a new puppy intrigued him. A few minutes spent at the inn would act as a distraction. It would give him an opportunity to gather his thoughts, calm his heated blood, and adjust his damn breeches. “Wait here while I go inside. I shall—”

  “Perhaps it would be best if I went into the inn and asked about Rose.”

  “You think the landlord will refuse to speak to an earl?” he mocked.

  Miss Flint exhaled slowly. “As a man who considers himself practical and realistic, surely you see the flaw in your plan.”

  Miss Flint’s obstinacy was beginning to grate. Why could she not nod her head and mutter sweet words of approval?

  “The events of the morning have left my mind a little frayed. Would you care to enlighten me as to the obvious flaw I appear to have missed?”

  “Certainly. With any luck, Rose will make it safely to London without incident,” Miss Flint said in a rational tone. “Therefore, it stands to reason we must do our utmost to protect her reputation.”

  “That goes without saying.”

  “How will it look if you charge into the inn and ask questions about a missing young woman? A man of your status will attract attention. It takes but one wrong word from the mouth of a gossip to ruin Rose’s reputation beyond all redemption.”

  If Rose had eloped with Lord Cunningham, a ruined reputation was the least of her worries.

  Oliver gave a resigned sigh. Miss Flint was nothing if not logical.

  “I shall bow down to your divine wisdom,” he conceded. “No one in Town knows Rose stayed at the manor or of the circumstances surrounding her incarceration. I would prefer to keep it that way.”

  “Then it is settled.” She smiled sweetly this time. “No one knows me here. I shall ask about a friend I was to meet and describe her without mentioning names.”

  Oliver raised a brow. “You forget one thing.” Ha, she’d missed an important point, too. “By now, the staff will have informed the landlord that a coach has arrived. Once noting the crest on the door, everyone will know a person of quality has pulled into the courtyard. How do you propose to explain the reason you alighted from an earl’s carriage?”

  Without warning, Miss Flint shot forward and seized the door handle. “Then there is no time to waste. Meet me further along the road in ten minutes. I suggest you find a reason for returning should the landlord approach you.”

  She opened the door, jumped to the ground and closed it quietly before creeping around to the servants’ entrance at the rear of the inn.

  Lord. He’d met one or two spirited women in his time, but Miss Flint had the courage of an army battalion.

  Was that why he found her attractive even though she challenged his opinion at every turn?

  Was that why desire burned in his veins at the thought of bedding her?

  Yes, she was beautiful, but so were many other ladies of his acquaintance. Was lust not supposed to be a simple thing based on nothing more than the sum of her physical attributes?

  Oliver was still mulling over his dilemma when the landlord scuttled out into the courtyard. The tubby man rubbed his hands, and his eyes gleamed at the prospect of receiving another paying customer.

  Oliver groaned inwardly and lowered the window. “Good day, Mr Parsons.”

  “Good day, my lord. Is it Mrs Parsons’ roast lamb that’s brought you back again so soon?”

  “Your wife is a culinary genius,” Oliver said, exaggerating the truth somewhat. “And I shall be certain to call in again when on my travels. But I wonder if your maid found a silk handkerchief? I seem to have mislaid a blue one and have no idea where I left it.” Good heavens, he sounded like a scatty-brained fop. No doubt the innkeeper was wondering why a gentleman who could afford to lose a hundred handkerchiefs had travelled back to enquire after this one. “The item was a gift, you understand.”

  “It’s my daughter, Fanny, who cleans the rooms. I’ll nip inside and ask her.” Mr Parsons hurried back into the inn.

  Some min
utes later, Miss Flint sauntered past the carriage door, her eyes fixed straight ahead.

  Oliver watched her walk under the stone arch and disappear off down the road to her right. The lady walked with the poise and elegance of a duchess. A fact he’d not noticed until now. Someone had tutored her in the art of deportment as her movements were far too graceful for a servant.

  The clip of shoes on the cobblestones saw Mr Parsons hurrying back to the vehicle. “Fanny found nothing in your room, my lord.” He put his hand on his chest to ease a bout of breathlessness. “But you’re welcome to come inside and speak to her yourself.”

  “No, no.” Oliver gave a dandified wave. “No doubt it is somewhere amongst my luggage. That’s what happens when I travel without my valet, though I thank you for taking the time to look.”

  Mr Parsons appeared a little shocked at his polite response. Some gentlemen accused a maid of theft to avoid paying for a night’s accommodation.

  “Should Fanny find it, my lord, I’ll be sure to keep it safe.”

  Oliver nodded, raised the window and tugged on the silk tassel dangling from the roof to communicate his intention to leave. Jackson reacted instantly and manoeuvred the carriage out of the narrow courtyard with the usual expertise.

  Miss Flint was waiting on a grassy bank further along the road. As the carriage rolled to a stop, Oliver opened the door and offered his hand.

  She stared at him. Uncertainty flashed in her eyes, but she slipped her palm into his. A shiver of awareness shot up his arm — made a slight detour to another part of his anatomy — before journeying down to his toes. The lady sucked in a breath and averted her gaze. Feeling somewhat triumphant that he possessed the ability to unnerve her, he could not prevent the confident grin from forming.

  “I spoke to Mrs Parsons, the innkeeper’s wife,” Miss Flint said as she settled back into the seat while Oliver conveyed his instructions to Jackson and closed the door. “No one of Rose’s description entered the inn last night.”

  The news, whilst frustrating, eased Oliver’s fears somewhat. “A lady would need to be desperate to enter an inn, unaccompanied. While Rose would take passage with a family or elderly matron, she would not ride alone with a gentleman. From what I recall, mine was the only carriage in the yard.”