She didn’t think anyone spoke thusly to aristocrats, particularly not marquesses.
“My brother.”
Ah, Nick. Bless him.
In silence, Clare handed her up into the carriage, and they were soon on their way, a clearly annoyed Sir Bacon curled on the squabs beside Hortense, the little terrier refusing her lap in protest of her having deserted him, twice.
Gaze hooded, she watched Clare. His jaw tensed and untensed. Sir Bacon wasn’t the only occupant of this carriage annoyed with her.
Clare’s head cocked. “You aren’t thinking of reneging, are you?”
Yes, she didn’t say. Instead, she said, “I shall see it through. You have my word.”
On the carriage trundled through London, across pitted thoroughfares and through traffic composed of pedestrians, carts, carriages, and all manner of conveyances getting on with various days. As a spy doing England’s work both officially and unofficially, when necessary, she’d visited every major city on the Continent, and not one teemed with the life that vibrated through London. London was a beauty. London was a beast. London was a two-headed glory that would never be tamed.
At last, they arrived at Number11. She placed her hand on the door handle, but hesitated before she pushed. “Tomorrow. Arrive here at ten of the clock.”
“In the morning?”
“Night.”
“Why—”
“And bring more coin with you.” It was worth a try, though she knew from experience Doyle didn’t place much value on money. She scooped up Sir Bacon and hopped to the ground before Clare’s gentlemanly instincts bade him assist her.
He leaned forward, his broad shoulders filling the opening. “Until tomorrow.”
At her nod, he pulled the door shut, and the carriage lurched into motion. Relieved, she sighed. She needed time and distance from that man.
While Sir Bacon located the perfect patch of wall on which to relieve himself, Hortense’s mind worked. The objective had been achieved: they’d discovered Mollie Rafferty’s fate. Tragic, that. Then had come the news of the boy, and not just any boy, but a son. It struck her that just as she’d been breaking free of St. Mary Magdalen, Rafe was being born into it and Mollie spending her final days. Young Amelie would have had no notion of them, but life was ripe with such strange overlappings.
And that motherless boy was the illegitimate son of a marquess.Right.And tomorrow she would lead the man to Doyle and attempt to pry the boy away.
Right.
Doyle wouldn’t make it easy, that was certain.
A sudden frustration streaked through her. Just as she’d begun to form the notion of disentangling herself from Doyle’s spiderweb, she found herself tangled tighter. For there was no doubt in her mind that whatever deal they struck for the boy—ifthey struck a deal—Doyle would expect a separate tax from her, even a bigger tax than she’d yet paid.
Logic demanded she step away from this, that she send her regrets by post and have nothing more to do with the Marquess of Clare and his problems.
But logic had naught to do with the matter. Her heart demanded she help. Here was the opportunity to redeem one boy from Doyle’s grasp. There was no choice.
And she would pay whatever tax Doyle demanded.
She knew that, too.
But that was tomorrow. Today was Monday, her favorite day of the week, and tonight was her weekly dinner with Nick, Mariana, and the twins.
She would leave tomorrow for tomorrow.
It would come soon enough.
Chapter Eight
“Iknow Cuvierand Lamarck hold oppositional views on the beginnings of humankind, but I’m not sure either of them has the right end of the stick.”
From her place on the opposite end of the settee, Hortense sipped sherry and let Mariana’s words fill the room unimpeded. Nick’s wife possessed many a view on the subject of scientific progress, and most subjects in general, and Hortense was content to listen in silence, for the woman was well informed on a great many subjects.
