“Accompany me?”
“I take part in your investigation,” he explained, rather too patiently.
“But why?”
He shrugged and flicked a piece of lint off his otherwise impeccable sleeve. “Call it a whim.”
“A whim?” She scoffed. “You’re not a whimsical man.”
“And what more do you know about me?” he asked low and hard. Only last night he’d caught her sneaking into his study. She knew a few things about him.
Even as butterflies fluttered about her insides, it was vital she stand firm and give back the same as she got. “I hardly know you at all, but I know that much.”
Again, his sardonic smile appeared. “I am involved every step of the way, understood?”
She should say no. She should say no.She should say no.
Instead, she held up the paper. “Double the figure.”
He snorted, as only a lord could. He would refuse, she knew it. Then his hand shot out. “You have a bargain.”
She swallowed before taking his hand. It was warm and masculine and possessed of a firm, assured grip. If his eyes didn’t convey the message decidedly, his handshake did. She wouldn’t be backing away from their bargain. Her fate was sealed.
She experienced a pang of misgiving. She’d always been able to handle any situation and any eventuality, with few exceptions. She had a reputation for it. But now, with this man, she wasn’t so sure.
What had she done?
She made to pull her hand back, but his held fast. “When do we start?”
“Tomorrow.”
“Why not today?”
A laugh startled from her. “Contrary to what you were likely taught since birth, you are not the sun around which the universe orbits.” With those words came a return to her senses and her customary mettle as she reclaimed her hand with a neat, little jerk. “What is this woman’s name?”
“Shall we sit while we confer?” He waved toward the settee.
She swept around him, perched on the edge of the chair opposite, and waited while he sat. “Her name?” she asked, rattling off the first question of any new client interview.
“Mollie Rafferty.”
“Irish?”
“Her parents came over from Ireland when she was a babe.”
“Where did you meet her?”
“At Pett’s Coffeehouse in Covent Garden.”
“And where did you last see her?”
“Her apartment rooms on Honey Lane.”
“Cheapside? Decent neighborhood.” But not Mayfair. A picture of the woman and Clare’s relations with her was beginning to form.
He held her eye. “It was the flat I let for her.”
And here it was, the clear picture. Mollie Rafferty had been kept by him. Hortense couldn’t help feeling a bit disappointed. It was always this sort of business with lords. Yet she’d thought this one might be different.
