Right. That last part was never bloody well happening, was it?
On a sigh, he composed a terse note to Lady Jo Danvers.
I believe I have something of yours.
D.
The note was in Jo’s reticule as she waited for the hulking Scotsman who served as Mr. Elijah Decker’saide-de-campto announce her. Seven words. Signed with his initial. She had instantly known who had sent her the message. And she had also known what he had in his possession. What she had inadvertently given him.
Her cheeks were hot.
Misery churned in her stomach.
Her list had been missing for three days. She had searched for it everywhere. Initially, she had believed she had somehow misplaced it, shuffling it with some of her correspondence. But when a thorough investigation had failed to produce the list, she feared her older brother Julian, the Earl of Ravenscroft, had taken it. However, after his protective, brotherly wrath had not been unleashed upon her, she had reached another, far more troubling conclusion.
She had unintentionally mixed her list into the pages of her pamphlet for the Lady’s Suffrage Society. And she had given it to the odious, sinfully handsome, utterly self-absorbed rake who owned the publisher that was now printing all the society’s pamphlets.
Those seven words written in his arrogant hand, burning a veritable hole of shame through her reticule, confirmed it. Of all the people to whom she could have unintentionally given her list, why, oh why did it have to behim?
She detested him and men of his ilk.
Mr. Elijah Decker was rather like a whore. Agentlemanwhore.
Only, he was no gentleman.
“What is it, Macfie?” growled Mr. Decker from somewhere within his office, sounding irritated. “I thought I told you not to interrupt me for the next hour.”
“Forgive me, sir, but ye have a visitor,” Mr. Macfie offered. “Lady Josephine Danvers.”
Jo clutched her reticule so tightly her knuckles ached. Less than a minute to attempt to compose herself before she had to face him. She inhaled. Told herself she would be firm. That she would not show him a modicum of embarrassment. She would demand he return the list. She would require his silence.
Mr. Macfie turned to her. “He is ready for ye now, milady.”
She thanked him and reluctantly moved into Mr. Decker’s lair. Mr. Macfie snapped the door closed with more force than necessary, making Jo jump.
Mr. Decker rose to his full, imposing height, his impossibly blue stare upon her. “Forgive Macfie. He does not know his own strength.”
She stared at Mr. Decker, trying to make sense of what he had just said. She blinked. No words were forthcoming. Her heart was pounding so loudly, she was certain Mr. Decker could hear it.
“The slamming of the door, my lady,” Mr. Decker elaborated, raising a knowing brow.
Her ears felt as if they were on fire. “Of course. Mr. Macfie is forgiven. You, however, are not. Where is my list?”
Clasping his hands behind his back, Mr. Decker sauntered toward her. “I do not recall asking for your forgiveness, my dear.”
She stiffened. “I am not your dear, and you failed to answer my question. Where is my list?”
He stopped before her, insufferably handsome. “Which list are you referring to, Lady Jo?”
The blighter.
He was toying with her. She would wager her dowry upon it.
“You know very well,” she charged.
“Hmm.” He tapped the fullness of his lower lip with his forefinger, as if he were thinking. “I believe you may have to give me a hint. What did it say, this list of yours?”
Her cheeks were scalding. “You know what it says.”
