That a frisson of dread raced through her at the thought was expected. It was the other feeling accompanying it, however, that gave her pause.
Excitement.
There was no other word for what pulsed inside her when he was near.
Blast.
She might be in trouble.
When she visited Doyle tonight, here was yet another job she would keep to herself. Clare was connected to Nick, and she was determined that Doyle have no opportunity to corrupt that relationship.
She was definitely in trouble.
In more ways than one.
Chapter Six
Jamie attempted tosettle himself into his coach and four’s leather squabs, but it was no use. His well-sprung carriage was no match for London’s pitted thoroughfares. The wheels rattled through a new trench every twenty feet as they made their way toward Little Peter Street.
He adjusted his cravat for the dozenth time and smoothed back the errant lock of hair determined to flop over his right eye. He hadn’t been this concerned with his appearance in months, and it wasn’t simply that he was dressed extravagantly enough for presentation at King George’s court.
It was that woman.
She had an effect on him.
The truth was he’d been on tenterhooks since they parted ways yesterday. The possibility that she would change her mind and renege on their bargain had been turning into a very real probability in his mind. He’d even considered adding another condition to their agreement: that she reside in Asquith Court for the duration of the job.
She would never agree to such an arrangement. He may have known her for fewer than forty-eight hours—could it possibly have been such a short amount of time?—but even he understood the high value she placed on her independence. The fact was, even with her pert tongue and cynical eye, the air around her shimmered with vibrancy.
He wanted more of that air, and he’d never been all that disciplined about curbing his desires. She would say it was because he’d been brought up as a future marquess, and she’d be correct, mostly. But once he decided on a path, he committed to it fully, never a half measure with him. Which was how he’d fallen into drink for so many years—and, no doubt, he’d fully committed to becoming a wastrel. But, then, it was also how he’d as quickly walked away from the habit five months ago. Not that it had been easy, but his mind had been made up.
A carriage wheel plonked into yet another deep rut. As he steadied himself, he questioned not why he’d set out on this course—he understood that only too well—but rather the course itself. After all these years, why had he begun the search for Mollie Rafferty?
Sobriety.That was the short answer. No longer was he numb to the past lodged deep within. But, also, boredom—the sort that came of being too much in his own thoughts—had played a role. And once he’d thought of Mollie, a curiosity set in, which had led to the hiring of the Bow Street Runner.
Now that he had a few answers—she’d died, in a workhouse—he needed more. He needed answers to the how, why, and what had happened to her. Why had she ended up in a workhouse? Why hadn’t she come to him for support? If she had, he’d have given it to her, freely, without question.
Again, he felt ten times the fool. He’d taken Father’s word for the truth—that she’d gone on her merry way with a little money in her pocket—when he now knew his father’s word for a lie. If Mollie had funds, she wouldn’t have gone to the workhouse. When he’d been informed of Mollie’s departure, however, his judgment had been clouded. All he’d seen was a rightness in its inevitability. Of course, she would leave him for Father’s coin. When had he ever been enough for anyone to truly love? For anyone to stay?
His parents had certainly never chosen him. Nor had any lover. Why would Mollie have been different?
Now, with years passed and emotions clear, he needed to understand. It was only natural that he would employ Hortense—he couldn’t think of her as Miss Marchand—for the job. He had the power and resources. It was his prerogative.
The carriage began slowing as Number11 rolled into view. He checked his pocket watch. Three of the clock, precisely. Just as he was pushing the door open, he caught sight of a jaunty little terrier barking his head off at a passerby who had ventured too close. He followed the length of the white silk lead to find Hortense at the other end, standing back from the road in the shadow of an alcove.
His gaze made its slow way over her. As was usual, her clothing was nothing to speak of, but her person—it struck him anew how small she was. And young, too. She couldn’t have yet reached her twenty-fifth year. More than a decade his junior in years, if not in life experience. Sobering thought, in more ways than one.
He couldn’t help noticing something more. With her delicate chin and cheekbones, clear pale complexion, raven black hair, sharp Mediterranean blue eyes, and cherry red mouth, Hortense was a beauty. He intuited why she dressed in plain, dull colors and without ostentation. To mask her attractiveness. He couldn’t imagine it fooled anyone.
She glanced up from fussing at the dog—a full time job, no doubt—and met his eye through the window. The storm cloud on her face didn’t diminish one bit. She and the feisty little dog rushed forward. She scooped up the canine and deposited him unceremoniously on the floor before pushing inside to settle on the bench opposite Jamie. She patted her lap, and the dog hopped up and curled into a tight ball. The two of them had clearly made terms with one another.
Jamie gave the ceiling three sharp raps, and the carriage lurched into motion. “Have you named him?” He had to ask.
“Sir Bacon.”
A laugh startled from him. “A more fitting name, there isn’t.”
Her eye roved across him in a slow up-and-down assessment. “You listened when I told you to wear your best.”
