She hummed, disinterested in the explanation. Instead, she grabbed my nearly empty glass and raised it to her lips. Her eyes caught mine and held them. Only when she was sure of my attention, did she tip the glass back, finishing the drink. She swallowed, then dipped her tongue out to catch a wayward drop of scotch.
It was an effort designed to entice. And were I anyone else, it probably would have worked. I let my gaze drop back to the desk.
Then I felt the brush of fine fabric against my wrist. I turned to face her as she made to sit on the arm of the chair. I shot up, backing away from the chair.
I scrambled for the drink cart and rolled it between us. There, I tipped a heavy pour of scotch into a new glass and downed it in one swallow.
From her perch on the arm of the chair, Lady Davina studied me. Her head tilted questioningly.
Before either of us could speak, Michael returned with no maid in tow. “They’re all off until a more reasonable hour. We’ll have to risk it. Gather your things. We’ll leave out the back entrance.”
“But Mr. Summers…” she protested.
“We’re going to Mr. Summers. I need to discuss what to do with Beaumont anyway.”
“Oh, all right then,” Lady Davina replied, more agreeable than she had been all evening. She pulled the neck of her shirt back and tucked the bank note into some undergarment I wasn’t interested in considering too closely. Then she snatched the wig off the desk, and another cloud of old wig powder settled atop the wood.
Without being asked, I followed them from the room. If they were going to Kit’s, then that was where Rosehill would be. And, pathetic though it might have been, I wasn’t about to miss the chance to see him again.
Eleven
HART AND SUMMERS, SOLICITORS, LONDON - JUNE 16, 1816
XANDER
Sleep had provena fantasy in recent days. Instead, I rose hours before the sun and padded down to my little makeshift painting room. Far from a landscape, my newest inspiration was… different.
In the candlelight, with wishful brushstrokes, I brought him back to me. Dark curls caressed his forehead, escaping the attempt he’d made to tame them. Thin lips pressed together in a pleased smirk—lips that had brushed my cheek. His teasing eyes, the ones haunting my dreams, peered back at me from behind matching silk. Something about them wasn’t quite right. I’d stared at them morning after morning and failed to capture the essence of him—Tom.
A sharp knock interrupted my evaluation, and I rushed to toss a bedsheet over my work—hoping it was dry enough for such efforts.
“Come in.”
One look at Godfrey’s expression was all I required.
“What has she done now?”
“A Mr. Ainsley for you, Your Grace.”
My head hinged back on a sigh. Sororicide was frowned upon. Even if she really, really deserved it… Was it not?
Less than half an hour later, I found myself flinching at the damned bell at Hart and Summers, Solicitors once again.
Will rose to greet me, another gentleman trailing him out of the office.
It took a moment to place Mr. Grayson. His face bore at least a night’s growth, his hands had destroyed any order he’d once tamed his hair into, and his cheeks bore the ruddy flush of liquor. More distracting, he wore only his shirtsleeves and waistcoat. The sleeves of his shirt had been rolled up to reveal masculine forearms with a dusting of auburn hair.
In short, he was so distractingly handsome that I quite forgot my intended purpose. When had the gangly lad learned to look like that?
Fortunately, Will reached me, pulling my distracted gaze from the beautiful, disheveled man before me.
At this point, greetings were unnecessary. “Is she in there with Mr. Summers?”
“And Wayland. I’m sure they’ll be out in a few moments,” Will replied.
“She was gaming at the club then?”
“So I’m given to understand. I believe she won, at least. Have a tart and a seat—catch your breath,” he added, gesturing to a side table ladened with tarts. Tarts and Mr. Grayson’s derrière where he leaned back against the table. He rose with two tarts in his hand and urged me toward the office.
