“I am not asking about Lady Roundtree.” He took a deep breath. “I’m asking about you. If I call tomorrow at teatime, may I request the pleasure of your company?”
The silence was deafening.
“I don’t understand,” she stammered.
More proof that he was a blackguard.
“Because you are a paid companion and I shall inherit a barony?” he asked.
Miss Winfield nodded slowly, as if he had stated the exact reason why his words made no sense. She was right.
He didn’t care.
“We are so much more than our professional capacities. I would like to get to know you, if you would be amenable.” He held his breath.
“Why?” she asked, her tone mystified.
For the moment, he could promise little. But he wished he were in a position to give her everything. “Why not?”
She licked her lips. “Teatime?”
“Teatime.” He did not trust himself to touch her again without stealing another kiss, so he forced himself to keep a proper distance.
He returned Miss Winfield and her wrinkly pug-lion to their patroness, and begged his leave after promising Lady Roundtree he would return on the morrow.
With a final lingering glance at Miss Winfield, Heath strode to his carriage and sat for a long moment with the reins in his lap. He was too on edge to head straight home, so he turned his horses toward a haven of friends and shadows.
Familiar sights and smells greeted him when he walked through the front doors of the Cloven Hoof. Raucous card games, tumbling dice, glasses of port and ale, giddy laughter mingling with groans of despair.
“Problem-fixer,” said a deep, low voice to Heath’s side. “Just the man I was hoping to find.”
He turned to face Maxwell Gideon, a client and an old acquaintance. Max was many things: clever, crafty, dangerous. Some called him ruthless and controlling. Others called him risk-taking and arrogant.
Heath was fortunate enough to call him a friend.
“Is it the caricature?” he asked. Of course it was. It had instantly become the talk of the town.
“I do look fetching with cloven hooves.” Max’s eyes glinted in amusement. “I’m afraid I owe the caricaturist a debt. From the moment fashionable gentlemen read ‘the road to me is paved with gold intentions,’ the club has been filled nearly to capacity. ’Twas as if thetonviewed the caption as a personal challenge.”
Heath wished he were more surprised. “Then how can I help you?”
Max motioned for them to settle around an out-of-the-way table before responding. “Business has never been better. Which leads me to an opportunity I am hoping you can arrange for me.”
Heath allowed a cautious smile. “What are friends for if not to help each other? Enough fencing. Tell me what you need.”
“I need all ofthis.” Max’s dark eyes raked in their surroundings. “Without my silent investor, the Cloven Hoof would not exist. That contract turned my dream into reality.”
Heath nodded. Old news. He had consulted on that contract himself.
“Are you unhappy with the terms?” he asked. “The interest is high, but if I recall correctly, the terms enable buy-out negotiations within the next year.”
“I can’t wait a year.” Max leaned forward, his gaze intense. “I want to buy him out right now. Today.”
“That wasn’t the deal,” Heath reminded him.
“Let’s make a new deal,” Max countered without hesitating. “I have the money.”
Heath frowned. “Mayhap owning the deed has become an investment too lucrative to sell. What makes you think your partner would be amenable to alterations, when the current deal is weighted so heavily in their favor?”
