As if he had jolted her awake from slumber, her eyes swung to his, wide and startled. “I will have Thompson return you to your townhome, Your Grace.”
The name of her coachman, he presumed. The fellow had been easily won by the notes Roland had thrust in his direction as he latched on to the carriage before casting himself inside the vehicle. Yet another cause for concern. One presumed it was true that the servant would have understood him to be a duke. However, for all the man had known, he was a villainous duke. Pippa certainly believed him to be one.
Roland clenched his jaw. “How long has Thomas been in your employ?”
“Thompson,” she corrected.
As if it signified.
“The man driving this coach,” he clarified. “Whatever his surname may be, he gladly accepted my bribe and continued on to his destination with nary a pause.”
“You admit you bribed my coachman?” she asked sharply.
Once more, she was affixing importance to insignificant matters. Had she any inkling of the danger in which she may soon find herself, if Chief Inspector Stone’s warnings were to be believed—and Roland had never known Stone to be any less than an impeccable gentleman of his word—she would swoon into a heap of hideously expensive silken skirts.
House of Worth, unless Roland missed his guess. Straight from Paris.
Of course, Shaw would have spared no expense in his wife’s wardrobe. He had been swimming in his fraudulent gains. Rich as Croesus. But where there was a liar and a cheat with untold wealth, there were angry victims lying in wait. To say nothing of the despicable villains with whom he had partnered, any of whom might be dangerous.
“I admit that I recompensed him,” he said slowly, “so that I could speak with you. For your own wellbeing and for that of your child as well.”
Pippa had a daughter.
He knew because of course, they shared acquaintances. Good news traveled amongst their set just as readily as bad. The child would be two years of age now, or thereabouts, unless he missed his guess.
A knock on the door sounded.
“Mrs. Shaw?”
Thomas or Thompson, or whatever the chap’s name was, cut through the carriage.
A note of concern. Hardly timely. No doubt, he had been too preoccupied with thinking of what he might do with fifty pounds this evening.
Pippa cleared her throat. “Just a moment, Thompson, if you please.”
Roland did not fool himself that she was willing to talk or see reason at this juncture. More than likely, she wished to get the last word over him.
“As you wish, madam,” called the coachman, presumably stepping away.
“Not eager to throw me out of your conveyance?” he could not resist mocking. “I am shocked, Lady Philippa.”
He could not abide by referring to her asMrs. Shaw. The fewer times the necessity was visited upon him, the better. And if he nettled her by referring to her asLady Philippa, well, he could not deny he possessed some small measure of enjoyment in the knowledge.
“I would finish this discussion with you properly so there is no need for another.” Her voice was as tight and prim as her posture.
No indeed, no sign of the wild young lady who had kissed him so passionately beneath the Oxfordshire stars. Did any part of her remain, trapped within, or had Shaw doused her fire?
Then again, it was hardly for him to wonder. Mrs. Philippa Shaw was every bit as removed from his reach as if she were on the moon, even if she sat opposite him in this carriage. Not much had changed between them, and yet everything had.
He studied her now, her face as dainty as ever, the tracery of her bone structure elegant and patrician. She was a small woman, her stature reminiscent of atehotikalá·luhe?, one of the little people—mythical creatures of the Oneida Iroquois tradition, which his mother had told him about, who dwelled in forests. Her chestnut hair was swept into a careful coiffure beneath her smart hat, but he knew from watching the chandelier glow glinting in her hair at a ball not long ago that the same threads of fiery gold still shimmered within those lush tresses.
Truly, he ought to cease waxing poetic over the hair of a woman who loathed him. Where was his self-respect?
“There will be need for another meeting if you refuse to heed my warning,” he forced himself to caution her.
His inner search for justice had led to his initial investigation of George Shaw, but the information Tilly and Hastings had uncovered in those letters was as glaringly obvious as it was appalling. Shaw had been guilty of everything Roland suspected and worse. Chief Inspector Stone had warned him. He had also warned him that he believed Shaw had a partner.
One who was very much still alive, privy to all Shaw’s nefarious dealings, and likely quite dangerous. Confronting Pippa had nothing to do with his feelings for her and everything to do with the peril which could be lurking in the shadows, awaiting the right moment to strike. At least, that was what he told himself.
