A Lady Never Surrenders

by Sabrina Jeffries

  “I wouldn’t know.”

  She cast him an easy smile. “Because you generally hunt men, not grouse. And apparently you do it very well.”

  A compliment? From her? “No need to flatter me, my lady,” he said dryly. “I’ve already agreed to your scheme.”

  Her smile vanished. “Really, Mr. Pinter, sometimes you can be so…”

  “Honest?” he prodded.

  “Irritating.” She tipped up her chin. “It will be easier to work together if you’re not always so prickly.”

  He felt more than prickly, and for the most foolish reasons imaginable. Because he didn’t like her trawling for suitors. Or using him to do it. And because he hated her “lady of the manor” role. It reminded him too forcibly of the difference in their stations.

  “I am who I am, madam,” he bit out, as much a reminder for himself as for her. “You knew what you were purchasing when you set out to do this.”

  She frowned. “Must you make it sound so sordid?”

  He stepped as close as he dared. “You want me to gather information you can use in playing a false role to catch a husband. I am not the one making it sordid.”

  “Tell me, sir, will I have to endure your moralizing at every turn?” she said in a voice dripping with sugar. “Because I’d happily pay extra to have you keep your opinions to yourself.”

  “There isn’t enough money in all the world for that.”

  Her eyes blazed up at him. Good. He much preferred her in a temper. At least then she was herself, not putting on some show.

  She seemed to catch herself, pasting an utterly false smile to her lips. “I see. Well then, can you manage to be civil for the house party? It does me no good to bring suitors here if you’ll be skulking about, making them uncomfortable.”

  He tamped down the urge to provoke her further. If he did, she’d strike off on her own, and that would be disastrous. “I shall try to keep my ‘skulking’ to a minimum.”

  “Thank you.” She thrust out her hand. “Shall we shake on it?”

  The minute his fingers closed about hers, he wished he’d refused. Because having her soft hand in his roused everything he’d been trying to suppress during this interview.

  He couldn’t seem to let go. For such a small-boned female, she had a surprisingly firm grip. Her hand was like her—fragility and strength all wrapped in beauty. He had a mad impulse to lift it to his lips and press a kiss to her creamy skin.

  But he was no Lancelot to her Guinevere. Only in legend did lowly knights dare to court queens.

  Releasing her hand before he could do something stupid, he sketched a bow. “Good day, my lady. I’ll begin my investigation at once and report to you as soon as I learn something.”

  He left her standing there, a goddess surrounded by the aging glories of an aristocrat’s mansion. God save him—this had to be the worst mission he’d ever undertaken, one he was sure to regret.

  I prefer not to marry a fortune hunter.

  With a scowl, he tucked her bracelet into his coat pocket. No, she only preferred fools and lechers and sons of madmen. As long as they were rich and titled, she was content, because then she knew they weren’t after her money.

  Yet he couldn’t even despise her for that. Traveling between two worlds made him all the more aware of how hard it would be to live in the one he hadn’t been born to.

  Still …

  I know what you think of me.

  If he wasn’t careful, one day he’d show her exactly what he thought of her. But if that day came, he’d better be prepared for the consequences.

  Chapter Four

  Hetty was finishing up a conversation with Gabe’s wife, Virginia, when she saw Mr. Pinter leave the blue parlor, looking agitated.

  Had he been in there with Celia all this time? Alone?

  That could not be good. The others thought he and Celia hated each other, but Hetty was not so sure, at least on his part. The man watched the girl when he thought no one was looking.

  What Hetty wanted to know was why. Did Celia actually interest him? Or was the Runner hoping to further his ambitions by marrying a rich wife? It would not be the first time a man of low degree had levered his position as an employee of a great family into a more direct connection.

  Either way, he should not be having private conversations with Celia.

  Virginia walked off, leaving Hetty to block Mr. Pinter’s path as he approached. “I take it that my granddaughter has been giving you the rough side of her tongue again.”

  He halted, an inscrutable expression on his face. “Not at all,” he said smoothly. “We had a perfectly cordial conversation.”

  “And may I ask what it concerned?”

  “No, you may not.”

  She frowned. “How very unaccommodating of you, Mr. Pinter. Have you forgotten that you are in my grandson’s employ?”

  “I have obligations to others in your family also, which means I owe them my discretion. So if that’s all—”

  “What obligations could you possibly have to my granddaughter?” Hetty demanded as she saw Celia leave the parlor and catch sight of them.

  Celia hurried up. “Leave him be, Gran. He’s doing what Oliver hired him to do—investigating my suitors. We were consulting on that.”

  “Oh.” Hetty glanced at Mr. Pinter. The man could be so damned hard to read sometimes. “Why didn’t you say so, Mr. Pinter?”

  “Because I’m in something of a hurry, madam. So if you’ll both excuse me, I’ll bid you good day.”

  With a cursory bow, he strode off. Hetty noticed that Celia watched him go with the same sort of veiled interest that he sometimes had in watching her.

  Her eyes narrowed. There had to be more to this than they were saying. They had been in that parlor an awfully long time. And Mr. Pinter’s responses had bordered on rudeness. The man was direct and frank, but never rude.

  Her granddaughter, on the other hand … “He seemed in an awful rush to get away. What did you say to him in there, anyway?”

  Two spots of color appeared on Celia’s cheeks, another alarming sign that something was afoot. “I merely laid out everything he needed to know to gain the full background on my suitors.”

  “And which suitors are these? The last time I asked, you said you had none.”

  “Things are progressing well with Lord Devonmont, the Duke of Lyons, and the Visconde de Basto. That’s why I need more information.”

  Ah. Well, that wasn’t so bad. Devonmont and Lyons were eminently eligible. Devonmont was a bit wild, but that never worried her. Her late husband had been wild until he married. Her grandsons, too. Marriage had settled them right down.

  It did not settle your son-in-law.

  Hetty grimaced. All right, so that had been her one failure. She should never have encouraged Lewis Sharpe to marry her daughter—although then she would not have five delightful grandchildren, with two great-grandchildren on the way.

  With any luck, Celia would bring her more. “Basto,” Hetty mused aloud. “I do not recall that one.”

  “Oh, we met at the ball where Gabe and Virginia first danced together a few months ago. Since then we’ve seen each other often enough, but rarely at the affairs you attend. He hates leaving his ailing sister alone in the evening. But he’s very nice and seems to dote on me when I do see him. He’s Portuguese, I believe.”

  “Foreign, eh?” Hetty frowned. “Then I am glad Mr. Pinter is looking into his background. You have to be careful with foreigners.”

  “Right. I wouldn’t want to rush into marriage with a stranger,” Celia said tartly. “Oh, wait, yes, I would. My grandmother has dictated that I must.”

  Hetty stifled a smile. “Sarcasm does not become you, dear girl.”

  “Draconian ultimatums don’t become you, Gran.”

  “Complain if you must, but I still mean to see you married by year’s end.”

  Firm treatment was the only way to handle her grandchildren. Celia in particular had been too much indulg
ed; it was time to nudge her out of the nest.

  Celia glared at her. “Fine. Then I’ll need your help.”

  That put Hetty instantly on her guard. Celia never asked for anyone’s help. She had some fool notion she was an independent woman. “What do you wish from me?”

  “I’d like you to add the duke and the viscount to the guest list for the upcoming house party. Having them visit here will make it easier for me to determine their intentions.”

  “And bring them up to snuff?” Hetty prodded.

  Her granddaughter bristled. “I’ve no doubt they’ll all make offers if given the chance,” she said hotly. “They are half in love with me already.”

  “And what about you? Are you half in love with them?”

  Celia’s eyes glittered. “I didn’t think love was part of this equation, Gran.”

  “It most certainly is. Do not mistake that. I want you to marry for love.”

  Seizing Hetty’s hand, Celia turned earnest. “Then don’t give me a deadline. Let me do it in my own way.”

  “As you have been until now, keeping every man at arm’s length, scaring them away with your target shooting?” Gran shook her head. “You cannot fall in love if you do not let a man close. And you will not let a man close unless you have a reason. I know you. If I rescind that ultimatum, you will bury yourself on this estate and never come out.”

  A sad smile crossed Celia’s face. “I told him you’d say that.”

  “Who?”

  “It doesn’t matter.” Celia drew a heavy breath. “So will you add them? Two more guests can hardly make much difference.”

  Hetty stared at her. “Maria wanted it to be a more private affair, only Oliver’s closest friends and family, since she is so far along in her confinement and can’t see to the guests the way she would like.”

  “I thought that was why you and Minerva and Virginia were doing most of the work,” Celia retorted.

  “Well, yes, but—”

  “And the duke is a friend of the family. He may be more a friend of Gabe’s than Oliver’s, but I don’t think Oliver or Maria would mind.”

  “They might mind having that foreigner Basto wandering the house.”

  “Do you want me to marry or not?”

  Hetty clutched her cane. “I tell you what. I shall include them if you will reveal what you discussed with Mr. Pinter in the drawing room.”

  “I already told you—”

  “Nonsense. He said something about having an obligation to you.”

  “Yes. An obligation to research my suitors.”

  “Nothing more?”

  Guilty color rose in her granddaughter’s cheeks. “Why would you think there was anything more between me and Mr. Pinter?”

  Because you blush when his name is mentioned. Because he follows you with his eyes. Because I do not know what to make of him, and that worries me.

  It was always better to play dumb until one had all the facts. “Is he to be invited to this house party?”

  “Of course,” Celia said with false-sounding lightness in her voice. “It’s the best way for him to discover information about my suitors.”

  “Then I hope the man has appropriate clothing for the affair. I doubt that Bow Street Runners wear the sort of evening attire suitable for dining with dukes and marquesses.”

  A frown knit Celia’s brow. “I hadn’t thought of that.”

  Good. It was time she considered such things if she had any romantic interest in the man. “Well, no matter.” She waved a hand dismissively. “Considering the large fee he charges, I am sure he can afford to buy what he needs.”

  “I-I didn’t mean for him to suffer any financial burden over this.” Celia’s face showed a worrisome amount of concern for the strain on Mr. Pinter’s pocketbook.

  Hetty levied a searching glance on her. “Should I invite his aunt as well?”

  Celia looked genuinely confused. “I don’t see why. This is no social visit. He’ll be here to work.”

  “Of course.” Hetty let out a breath. Perhaps everything was just as it appeared. Though the girl seemed to be up to something suspicious, it didn’t seem to involve any deep feelings for Mr. Pinter.

  Now if only she could be as sure about Mr. Pinter’s feelings for Celia …

  STILL BROODING OVER his unsettling bargain with Lady Celia, Jackson hurried into his uncle’s house in Cheapside and headed for his study. He had less than an hour to be at his office to meet with his client, and he had to pick up the report he’d promised the man.

  “Jackson!” Aunt Ada called to him from the parlor.

  “Not now, Aunt,” he barked. “I’m late.”

  Ada Pinter Norris came out into the hall, a wiry little bundle of sheer will. It sometimes amazed him that she and his mother had been sisters. Mother had been tall and dark like him, while the top of Aunt Ada’s graying blond head barely reached his shoulder. “Have you eaten? Don’t answer that—I know you haven’t.”

  He entered his study and scanned his desk but didn’t see the papers. “I have to be at the office by—”

  “Is this what you’re looking for?” she asked.

  He turned to find her waving a sheaf of paper. “Yes, thanks.”

  But when he reached for it, she shoved it behind her back. “Not until you eat.”

  “Oh, for God’s sake, Aunt Ada—”

  “None of that swearing, now. If you mean to be chosen as Chief Magistrate, you can’t talk like a dockworker.”

  With a lift of his eyebrow, he held out his hand. “I won’t be chosen as anything if I don’t satisfy those who require my help.”

  “Humph. They can wait a few minutes.” Her eyes glittered a warning. “I mean it. Don’t make me throw these in the fire.”

  He flashed her his darkest scowl. “You wouldn’t dare.”

  She set her shoulders. “Try me. And while those black looks of yours might intimidate criminals, they won’t work on me. They didn’t when you were ten, so they certainly won’t now.”

  “Then I’ll have to resort to force.” He fought a smile as he stalked toward her. “I outweigh you by a good five stone. I could snatch those papers before you got anywhere near a fire.”

  “I could bash you over the head with a skillet, too.”

  The idea of his sweet-natured aunt bashing him over the head with anything made him laugh. He held up his hands. “Fine, I’ll eat. But I must make it quick.”

  Clucking her tongue at him, she headed for the kitchen. He followed, shaking his head. It had been so long since he’d lived in the same house with her that he sometimes forgot how stubborn she could be.

  “I don’t know what to do with you,” she groused as he sat down at the kitchen table. She filled a plate with stew and set it before him. “Always in a rush. Never taking time to eat properly. That will end now that you’re living here. I won’t see you work yourself into an early grave like Wil—”

  She broke off with a little moan that cut him to the heart.

  “I’m sorry, Aunt,” he said. “I didn’t mean to upset you.”

  “Don’t mind me,” she whispered, wiping tears from her eyes. “It’s just … I miss him so. It comes up at the oddest times.”

  “I know,” he said softly. “I miss him, too.”

  Uncle William, the magistrate, had taught him everything. God only knew what would have happened if Jackson and his mother had continued to live their hand-to-mouth existence in Liverpool. The day his uncle had responded to Mother’s letter by coming to snatch them from the jaws of poverty had been the day Jackson had finally started to breathe again.

  “Eat.” His aunt pressed a fork into his hand. “I don’t want to make you late.”

  He snorted but started right in on the stew. He hadn’t realized how hungry he was.

  With open curiosity on her face, she sat down beside him. “So how did the meeting with the Sharpes go?”

  “Well enough,” he said between bites. “I’ve been invited to their house part
y.”

  Her face lit up. “That’s wonderful. I knew that your association with them would do you good. Is it very exclusive? Will there be many important people there?”

  “A duke and an earl, for one.” He swallowed some ale. “Do I have any clothes suitable enough for the evenings there?”

  “Lord, no.”

  “I was afraid of that.” He sighed. “There’s no time to get anything made up at the tailor’s, either. The house party is next week.”

  “Next week!” She pursed her lips. “Your uncle’s clothes ought to be fine enough. He dined with lords of Parliament occasionally. You’re the same height as he is—was—and I could probably take in the waist…”

  “I hate to ask you to do all that work.”

  “Nonsense. You can’t pass up a chance to make important connections simply for lack of a decent coat.”

  “It’s not what you think. I’m working.”

  Her face fell. “Working?”

  “I’m investigating Lady Celia’s potential suitors.”

  “Oh,” she said in a small voice.

  He glanced at her, surprised to find her looking stricken. “What’s wrong?”

  “I didn’t know she had suitors.”

  “Of course she has suitors.” Not any he could approve of, but he wasn’t about to mention that to his aunt. “I’m sure you read about her grandmother’s ultimatum in those reports you transcribed. She has to marry, and soon, too.”

  “I know. But I was rather hoping … I mean, with you there so often and her being an unconventional sort…” When he cast her a quizzical look, she went on more forcefully, “There’s no reason you couldn’t offer for her.”

  He nearly choked on his bread. “Are you out of your mind?”

  “She needs a husband. You need a wife. Why not her?”

  “Because marquess’s daughters don’t marry bastards, for one thing.”

  The coarse word made her flinch. “You’re still from a perfectly respectable family, no matter the circumstances of your birth.” She eyed him with a sudden gleam in her eye. “And I notice you didn’t say you weren’t interested.”

  Hell. He sopped up some gravy with his bread. “I’m not interested.”