“They won’t dare ask, not while they’re in awe of you.”
“But you have a role worked out, don’t you?” He couldn’t resist asking. This woman was an expert at her vocation. She wouldn’t leave such a detail to chance.
“Of course.”
“Humor me.”
“I am the niece of your old nanny, a servant now in her dotage, but who remains dear to you. A beloved cousin of mine fell on hard times some years ago, and you have taken an interest in the matter.”
“That’s a rather convoluted story.”
“If you can’t make a lie simple and close to the truth, then make it difficult for others to remember.”
A second ticked by. “You’re rather excellent at this.”
She glanced away. He could see she didn’t want to feel anything at his praise, but the twin patches of pink staining her cheeks betrayed her.
She clenched her fists, and her resolve steeled before his eyes. “You will take the lead.” She hesitated. “But don’t let on that you know Mollie Rafferty is deceased.”
“Why not?”
“You’ll put them on the defensive if you do. They’ll close ranks, and you’ll get nowhere.”
“And what will you do?”
“I will appear overwhelmed by the whole situation and won’t speak a word. Who is the most pompous and overbearing lord you’ve ever met?”
He snorted. “It would take a while to whittle it down to just one.”
“Be him,” she said.
Through Southwark streets the carriage rattled, its air a little more rancid, its buildings a little more moldered, its citizens a little more hard-bitten. This was a London as far from the civilized drawing rooms of the West End as one was likely to find. The carriage rounded onto Russell Street, and the grounds of St. Mary Magdalen rolled into view. Jamie sensed a return of Hortense’s tension. On impulse, he reached out and touched her knee. Startled eyes met his. “You are not truly returning.”
He wanted to say more—as long as I’m alive—but he held it inside, taken aback by his fervency of feeling on the matter.
A war in her eyes, she, at last, nodded, and he pulled his hand back. The carriage slowed to a stop, and he pushed the door open. His feet hit uneven cobblestones, his gaze casting about this new environ.
Hortense settled Sir Bacon on the squabs beside her and met his brown gaze. “You shall remain here. Try not to make too much of a nuisance of yourself.” She tucked the lap blanket about him. “Now, stay.”
About to hop to the ground on her own, she noted Jamie’s outstretched hand and hesitated. “A marquess doesn’t help his old nanny’s niece alight from a carriage.”
“I’m a rather odd marquess. I do as I please.”
Still, she didn’t move. She was tempted not to accept his assistance. The woman wasn’t accustomed to men acting like gentlemen, that much was clear.
The contact lasted no longer than a trio of seconds as she descended. Her hand delicate within his, the woman weighed no more than a bird. But it was a different weight he felt, one peculiar and unsettling, one that traced down to his toes.
Desire.
It had been dancing around the edges of their interactions, but the way it hit him just now was troubling.
Then her touch was gone, and she swept past him, and he was left feeling not unlike a fool. Never had he been affected this way by the fleeting touch of another person. When it was the two of them, he was able to forget who he was—a lord, her employer. As such, he had a responsibility to her. That was what he’d been taught all his life about his position, not by Father of course, but by teachers and by observing men better than his father. Never once had he dallied with those in his employ, and he wasn’t about to start now.
She turned to shush Sir Bacon, who had taken to barking through the window.
“He’s going to yap the entire time we’re away, isn’t he?”
“Very likely.” She faced Jamie, ignoring the feisty terrier. “Are you ready?”
