He gave a surprised laugh. ‘You are dismissing me?’
Thank God, he understood. And she should thank God as well that their relationship had returned to being dull and professional instead of dangerously exciting. ‘Yes,’ she said, pointing towards the front door with her fan. ‘You may go.’
He raised a hand to his face, cupping his chin and drawing a single finger across his lips as if to seal in the laughter that seemed to be happening somewhere deep inside him, for his shoulders shook and his eyes sparkled like sunlight dancing on choppy water. When he had regained control of himself sufficiently to speak, the hand fell away. ‘Or, I could stay.’
‘I do not think that will be wise,’ she whispered. ‘What if someone sees us speaking?’
‘I do not know,’ he whispered back. ‘Perhaps they will think you are flirting with me.’ Then he raised his voice to a normal tone. ‘It will be much less intimate if we do not whisper. Even less so if we return to the ballroom, where the rest of the guests are gathered.’
‘The rest of the guests?’ Perhaps he misspoke, for that almost seemed to imply that he belonged there.
‘I am sorry,’ he said with mock surprise. ‘I assumed you were invited as well. I must compliment Ellingham for the novelty of hiring a young lady to guard his door. Was I expected to bring the card he sent? I left it at home for my valet said it quite spoiled the line of my suit.’
‘You have a valet?’ It had been an exceptionally stupid question, but it was too late to call it back.
‘Since my skills do not extend to pressing coats and starching linen, I thought it sensible to hire one.’ His eyes hardened, ever so slightly and his smile chilled. ‘I also have a butler, a housekeeper, a cook and as many footmen and maids as they deem necessary to effectively run my house.’
‘Oh,’ she said, softly. She had not given any thought at all to Mr Drake’s living arrangements. Nor had it occurred to her that he had friends who might welcome his company. She had certainly not expected to find that they had any in common. She was as bad as Charity claimed if she assumed he appeared like a djinni, then disappeared again, existing only to serve her.
Before she could frame the apology that he so richly deserved, he was speaking again. ‘But you must forgive me, Miss Strickland. Since we have met tonight, I have talked of nothing but myself. How are you, Miss Strickland? And how did you come to be sneaking out of Lord Ellingham’s study? Most importantly, why is your reticule leaking ink?’
‘Oh, dear Lord.’ In her rush to reclaim the family property, she had ignored the purpose of the item she took. ‘I forgot to empty it.’
He was staring at her. It was clear the explanation was not sufficient. ‘It’s the inkwell. The Comstock inkwell,’ she added, for clarity. ‘Grandmama sold it. Lord Ellingham must have found it in the shop and bought it. I was retrieving it from the study.’
‘With Lord Ellingham’s permission, of course.’
That would have been the sensible thing to do. She could have written him a letter tomorrow, requesting the chance to purchase it back. Instead, she had decided, on a moment, to take it now. ‘No,’ she admitted.
‘You stole Lord Ellingham’s inkwell.’ He was staring at her now as if he could not quite believe the words he’d just spoken.
‘I did,’ she said, horrified.
He held out his hand, resigned. ‘Give me your reticule.’
He had been here to enjoy an evening with friends and she had embroiled him in a burglary. ‘You should not have to...’
‘Give it to me,’ he said firmly.
She held it out and he took it from her, pinching the strings between two fingers of one white gloved hand. ‘Now go to the retiring room and get yourself cleaned up. You have ink on your hands.’
‘Oh, dear.’ Her own gloves were likely ruined, just as the reticule was.
‘We will speak later,’ he said.
Actually, she rather hoped they would not.
Chapter Seven
When Gregory had been offered triple his fee to deal with Hope Strickland, he should have taken the warning and run, as far and as fast as his legs could manage. After finding the blighted painting of the Blue Earl and shipping it to the Comstock town house along with his apology, he had sat down to write a letter to Leggett in Italy, tendering his resignation.
One of his favourite things about the job he had made for himself was the lack of awkward attachments once the task was finished. He had been left with casual friendships, of course. But there was no scorekeeping, guilt, recrimination, or even embarrassed gratitude attached to the things he had done for them. Once the bill had been paid for a service, all behaved as if it had never happened.
But when one started kissing the employer’s family, one should quit the employment. Even if it had been an accident. Even if it was not going to happen again. Even if...a hundred other excuses and conditions he had run through trying to explain what had happened this morning.
Even if he never saw Hope Strickland again, there was no way to forget what had happened this afternoon. Perhaps it was a sign of an inherited weakness of character. Perhaps it was only her extreme desirability. But the more aloof she became, the more he wanted to ruffle her feathers. The more untouchable she appeared, the more he’d wanted to tug on the one wayward curl that she could not seem to stop worrying at.
And the more covered she was? The more he wondered if the body underneath matched that of her worthy ancestress. Tonight’s gown was nothing like the modest day dresses she wore to go about with him. The primrose net clung to her full hips and the décolletage was so deep that a man could lose his soul it.
