He drew up his shoulders and marched over to the bench. No more waiting. He’d just tell her, Sorry, Lady Rothmere, but I cannot help you. I’m a busy man and I’m certain your uncle shall turn up soon.
He paused behind the bench and eyed her uptilted features, just visible above the brim of her hat. Her dark lashes fanned across pale cheeks, but he couldn’t see the freckles thanks to the sun glinting off her glasses.
Fool.
Why did he even care to see them again? If anyone was to ask him what his favorite feature of a woman was, he might say her breasts or her waist. If he was feeling gentlemanly, he’d perhaps say her mouth or her eyes. Never before had he been interested in freckles.
Shaking his head at himself, he cleared his throat.
“Oh.” Rosamunde jolted, straightened, and twisted on the bench to look at him. “Oh.”
“Lady Rothmere.” He dipped his head briefly.
“I was beginning to think I would never hear from you.” She rose from the bench and came to his side. “I’ve been waiting for news.”
“Don’t tell me you have been waiting here for me?”
Her cheeks reddened. “Well, you said that you would find me and I had little idea how or when, and I decided that you would want to meet with me on my own, in a busy place, so it seemed sensible to come to the park and ensure you could make contact.”
“Sensible?” he repeated. As far as he could tell, there was not much sense in her plan at all.
“It is better to be seen here, surely? Where no one shall question why we might be together.”
He scowled. “I am no titled gentleman, but I doubt anyone shall accuse me of trying to scandalize you, my lady. After all, no one knows who I am.”
“No, that’s not what I meant at all.” She smiled up at him. “It’s just that, if anything has happened to my uncle, we must be secretive, surely? I would not wish to give away the fact that I am hunting him to anyone nefarious.” She whispered the last part, leaning in as though they were two spies discussing wartime secrets.
Russell straightened. At least she wasn’t ashamed to be seen with him, a man of low birth and with no reputation—rake, gentleman, or otherwise.
“Well, the thing is, Lady Rothmere—”
“You really must call me Rosamunde,” she insisted.
“Rosamunde,” he corrected himself. “The thing is—”
“I really am so grateful you are going to help. You must tell me what you have discovered.” She stilled and her brow creased. “Oh dear, you look as though you are going to tell me terrible news. Is it awful? Should I be sitting? Oh, poor Uncle Albert. He really was the best of men.” She put a hand to her mouth and her eyes grew damp. “I do not know what I shall do without him.”
He blew out a heavy breath. He couldn’t fathom such an attachment to a mere uncle but then he’d never had an uncle to attach himself to. However, he still didn’t want Rosamunde crying.
Damn it. All he had to say was a quick sorry, I cannot help you. How hard could that be?
A tear trickled down the side of her face.
God bloody damn it.
“I just wanted to tell you that I would help you,” he said in a rush.
Inwardly, he groaned. What a fool he was.
ROSAMUNDE ALREADY KNEW Russell was not the sort of man who would appreciate a woman flinging her arms around his neck or beaming beatifically at him, so she forced herself to keep her expression neutral. After all, if she didn’t prove herself to be entirely comfortable with what she imagined Russell’s rather secretive world was, he would never let her help.
She’d been sitting on this bench for days, watching everyone stroll by, waiting for a signal from him that they could start their investigation. When he hadn’t made contact yesterday, she started to give up hope. But now he was finally here, and they could begin searching for Uncle Albert.
“Thank you so much,” she murmured. “I just knew you would be the answer to my troubles.”
He gave her a sort of pained look, which she didn’t quite understand.
“So, where do we start?”
“We?” he echoed. “No—”
“Oh.” Rosamunde snatched his arm and hauled him behind a tree, pressing herself flat against the bark.
“What the—”
She grabbed his arm tighter and gave another tug, forcing him close to her. He stumbled a little, pressed his hand to the tree trunk, and peered down at her.
Swallowing, Rosamunde craned her neck to look up at him. A mere couple of inches separated them. She’d brought him in too close, but they had no choice. If she had not, they would have been spotted.
He peered down at her, a line of confusion creasing between his brows. She opened her mouth to explain but words vanished. She could not deny that a few of these days spent whiling away the hours on the bench had been occupied by her recalling when he’d pinned her to the bed. What would have happened if she’d reacted differently? If she had perhaps leaned up and brushed her lips across his mouth? If she had seduced her way out?
She sighed. But that had not happened, and she would do well to keep her thoughts where they belonged—on finding her uncle. Everyone always told her she let her imagination get away from her and she could not do that with Russell. It would be too dangerous.
Dangerous. The word repeated through her mind, bouncing around until it lodged there.
Lord, everything about Russell screamed danger. From the little scars to the stubble on his chin to the mussed hair that was so at odds with his refined clothing. Not to mention his strong, lean body. Oh yes, and she could not forget the darkness of his eyes that contrasted so captivatingly with the bright blue. His pupils were wide now, his expression unreadable.
The way he looked at her made her chest tight and her skin prickle beneath her gloves. She absolutely should most certainly not like the way he made her feel. Certainly shouldn’t be excited by the danger. She knew how easily she could get swept away in her imaginings and now was not the time for this. She had to prove that she was right about her uncle, that he had not simply vanished off on an adventure, and it would not do to convince herself that Russell was like the pirate or the archaeologist and simply could not live or breathe without her.
She inhaled slowly. His gaze snapped from hers and jerked back.
“Why are we hiding?” he demanded.
“My Aunt Effie,” she explained a little breathlessly. “I could not let her see me.”
A dark brow rose. “You are a widow, are you not? And you already said no one would question why we are here together.”
“Oh, it’s not that.” Rosamunde wrinkled her nose. “My family does not agree with me that Uncle Albert could be in danger. They think it, well, a flight of my imagination.”
“I see.”
“But it is not,” she added quickly. “I always hear from him on his adventures. He never fails to write to me. Never,” she said firmly.
“Indeed.”
“You think it is my imagination too.” She looked down to her feet.
“I tried to find some trace of him and failed.” He tapped a finger to her chin, forcing her to look up at his unreadable expression. “It could be nothing but there should be some trace of the man.”
“So you believe me?”
He whipped off his hat, thrust a hand through his hair, and nodded. “I believe you.”
“And you are going to help me?”
“I said I would; did I not?”
“You did.” She couldn’t help but beam at him.
Russell’s scowl deepened. She just knew he was the sort of man who wouldn’t appreciate a woman grinning at him. She straightened and tugged her bodice back into place. Now was not the time for childish excitement or silly smiles. She needed to be sensible, focused. With any luck, there was a simple explanation for his disappearance, and they would track him down and she could be assured he was safe.
And Russell could go back to kidnapping women and doing
whatever else the mysterious man did.
“So,” she clapped her hands together, “what do we do first?”
“We talk to your family. Then I follow up any leads.”
“No.”
“No?”
“My family thinks I am a fool and I insist on helping.”
He pinched the bridge of his nose. “Your family is the sensible place to start and I do not need your help, my lady. You hired me to help find your uncle and I’m quite capable of doing that myself.”
“Yet, you found no leads in the time we’ve been apart.”
“I made a few, quick enquiries. That is all.”
“But I know my uncle better than anyone. My expertise will be invaluable.”
He eyed her for a few moments then his shoulders dropped. “Fine. You can help. But you do as I say. No getting into trouble.”
She widened her eyes. “Do you think there’ll be trouble?”
“Of course not. But I still don’t want you in any.”
“I can look after myself.”
“Rosamunde,” he pressed through a tight jaw.
“I shall keep out of trouble.”
“And we do need to speak with your family.”
She grimaced. He likely wasn’t wrong. As much as she had tried speaking with them about Uncle Albert, they had given her little information, and no one could pinpoint when they had last seen him. Perhaps if Russell came in in all his imposing presence, they would give him some actual information.
“Very well. But be warned. They like dogs.”
Chapter Eight
They like dogs. She hadn’t been exaggerating. As soon as he pulled the bell on the door to the generous London townhouse, a cacophony of barking and yapping started up. The door opened and a young woman who he almost mistook for Rosamunde dashed past him. It was only when he glanced back did he realize a dog had darted out ahead of her. She scooped up the small pile of ginger fur and made an apologetic face.
“Forgive Mr. Pompadour. He gets excited when visitors are here.” She glanced him over, narrowing her gaze in on his face, and gasped. “You must be the investigator Rosie spoke of.”
Investigator? Well, that was one way of describing him. “That’s me.” He didn’t offer his name. He avoided giving it considering his role in The Kidnap Club. Far better for him to skirt around the edges of society than be identified accidentally by someone.
“You must come in!” the young woman declared and grabbed his arm, hauling him in past the butler.
Russell scarcely had time to remove his hat and gloves and fling them at the butler before being dragged into a large drawing room. The barking continued and several dogs wound themselves around his legs whilst a large black and white dog propped his paws on his chest. He blinked at the dog and gave it a little pat. “Um, good boy.”
“Down, Rusty,” a woman commanded.
He peered around the dog to see Rosamunde trying to herd all the dogs back toward their various owners.
Various owners who were all staring at him, cups paused halfway to mouths or biscuits clasped in their frozen hands. He scanned the room that housed several sofas and chairs—none of them matching—and grimaced inwardly. There had to be at least a dozen women in here but no men. In another room somewhere, he heard the giggle of children. Exactly how many family members did Rosamunde have?
He dipped his head. “Forgive my intrusion.”
Rosamunde met his gaze and he concluded he must have looked panicked indeed. “Maybe I should speak with Mr. Russell—”
“Oh you must sit, Mr. Russell.” The young woman scooted over and patted the seat beside her.
Well, so much for his anonymity. Considering how against him meeting her family Rosamunde had been, she had given up on the idea of this being secretive fairly quickly. He supposed there would be no more hiding behind trees after this.
Shame, really.
No. No, it wasn’t. It was for the best. The last thing he needed was to be pressed up against her yet again, looking down and trying to count those freckles or glancing at her lips and wondering how they would taste.
He did not do relationships or entanglements. How many times did he need to remind himself of that?
He especially did not do entanglements with wealthy women from huge families who owned far too many dogs.
Hesitating, he glanced around the room. The offered seat was now occupied with another ball of fur, this one white and slightly curly. A single chair remained empty, so he sank onto that one. A loud sound that could only be described as an excretion of gas from a person ripped through the room. He jumped up and a young boy dashed in.
“Oh that was the best.” The boy lifted the cushion seat and drew out a wind bag and waved it in front of Russell. “You must be heavy, sir, because it never makes that loud a noise with my aunts.”
“George!” Rosamunde scolded. “Aunt, tell him he should not do that to guests.”
“Oh it is only a joke. I’m sure Mr. Russell played many a trick when he was younger,” one of the older ladies said with a wave of a hand.
Actually, he didn’t. He had no time for jokes or playing when he was a child. He’d spent most of his childhood wondering where his next meal would come from then when he was older, where his next coin could be earned.
Rosamunde’s cheeks reddened and she gestured for him to sit again. “It should be safe now.”
He eased himself gingerly down, relieved when no more bodily sounds burst from the chair. Rosamunde took the seat up next to the young woman who looked similar to her.
He glanced around, finding all eyes upon him. This had been a mistake. A big, huge mistake. He couldn’t recall the last time he had been in a room with this many people, especially ladies of the wealthier variety. His idea of socializing was meeting with the other members of The Kidnap Club for an ale. Hell, he’d even avoided the wedding breakfast for Nash and Grace, keeping himself quietly at the back of the church then slipping out once their vows were complete.
“Rosie says you are looking into Uncle Albert’s whereabouts?” the young woman with…Mr. Pompadour?...asked.
“I am.”
“There’s no need,” said the lady to his right. “He’s perfectly safe. He does so love to vanish off at a moment’s notice. He’s always been that way.”
Another woman nodded. “Indeed. This is quite normal behavior.”
“Lady Rothmere does not think so,” he interjected.
“Rosie doesn’t think anything is normal,” the older woman in the chair next to Rosamunde said.
“Mama,” Rosamunde hissed.
“Well, it’s true,” her mother said. “I do not think Rosie has ever had a normal thought.” Her eyes widened—eyes that were similar to Rosamunde’s, if a little faded with age. “That is, not that she is addled or anything, Mr. Russell.” Her mother reached over and patted Rosamunde’s hand. “She has quite the vivid imagination and I have had many a man tell me they do so enjoy a woman with imagination.”
Russell stiffened. There was no chance Rosamunde’s mother realized quite what she was saying but his own imagination could not help but dart to the bedroom, where even he who avoided the opposite sex these days could not help but think of how an active imagination could certainly be to a man’s benefit.
“Mama,” Rosamunde said through gritted teeth.
“Anyway, Mr. Russell, enough about this Albert business.” Rosamunde’s mother leaned forward. “Tell us of you. Where do your family hail from? What does your father do? Do you own property?”
EACH TIME HER mother spoke she could swear a little bit of her died inside. Soon she would be a husk of a woman with no soul left. Just a dried up, wrinkled case of skin, barely held together by bones.
It didn’t help that Russell had this constant uncomfortable expression. Nor did it help that her cousin had concealed a wind bag under his chair. If only she had realized.
This had been one huge mistake. She could have questioned her family on h
er own. She should have. Instead, her mother was eyeing him up as a potential suitor. If she was honest, she almost didn’t blame her mother. Russell might look a little rough in places, but his clothing screamed wealth and he was mightily handsome. He’d even shaved today.
Not that she should be noticing such things.
She glanced at the parlor room door. If only she had put her foot down and said in no uncertain terms that they were not meeting with her family. She supposed she had thought Russell might be better at getting useful information from them. Whenever she conversed with her aunts, it inevitably turned to talk of marriages or if she was eating enough or whether she had stayed in the sun too long and goodness, why did such a pretty girl have to have freckles?
No one could deny Russell had a certain imposing sort of presence. Surrounded by her aunts and cousins in varying feminine shades and the muted pastel tones of the parlor, he was like a tall oak tree surrounded by spring flowers, casting his shadow and drawing the attention of each and every one of them. Even Mabel seemed a little breathless and Rosamunde didn’t think anyone could tear her attention away from her beloved fiancé.
“I have no family,” Russell replied curtly.
Oh. A pang of sympathy struck her. As much as her family drove her to the edge of madness, she could not imagine life without them.
“I’m sorry,” she murmured.
He shrugged and swung a quick glance her way. “It doesn’t matter.”
Her mother straightened a little. “So it is just you? No...wife or children?”
Good Lord. Rosamunde resisted the desire to drop her head into her hands. “Mama,” she said, clenching her teeth.
“Just me,” he replied.
“Interesting.” Her mother pressed fingers to her lips. “Would you like a cup of tea, Mr. Russell? Or some cake? We have plenty.”
He shook his head. “No, thank you, my lady. I really must ask you—”
Aunt Effie interjected then another of her aunts and even Cousin Emily began asking him questions. He evaded all of them, revealing little about himself. She did not blame him for avoiding the questions, but she had to admit, it left her a little curious.
Stealing the Heiress (The Kidnap Club Book 2) Page 5
