Then it had struck him.Merrick—of course. His man of business was straight as a die and would surely know what to do. He’d gone directly to Merrick’s office, but upon arrival, he was informed by the clerk that Merrick would be out of Town until after the weekend. Scrambling, he had gone from there to scout out his banking establishment where he’d spotted dark-garbed figures that could’ve been his enemies milling about the entrance.
They were everywhere he knew to go. His home, his clubs, his bank—all compromised. Without a safe harbor, he’d sought refuge in the darkest parts of London, cloaking himself in the fog and soot-choked air. Finally, when he could stay on his feet no longer, he’d found shelter in a flea-ridden inn that let rooms out by the hour.
He didn’t know how long he’d slept—the first time he’d done so since his escape. But he must have fallen into a deep, restoring oblivion, for when he awoke, it was the next day and he found himself unexpectedly calmer. ’Twas as if the storm was passing, and the solution had suddenly shot like a star through the clearing clouds of his mind.
My papa is London’s best investigator.
Primrose Kent’s father wasAmbrose Kent. Of course. The man was famous for all the cases he’d solved. Kent had helped powerful peers out of predicaments, and, through his sisters’ marriages, was related to a few of them as well. With burgeoning hope, Sinjin had cleaned himself up and made his way over to Kent’s offices. Finding them closed, he’d located the investigator’s home address and gone directly there.
Which brought him to the present moment. From the head of the table, Kent watched over the proceedings like a hawk. Unlike his daughter, the investigator had clearly gleaned that this was not a social call. Strathaven and Tremont, seated beside their respective ladies, were also taking Sinjin’s measure.
Desperation breathed down Sinjin’s neck. He needed to speak to Kent in private, but dinner dragged on, course after course teeming with dishes. His stomach was too knotted for him to eat, so he drank more wine instead. Although it took willpower, he kept up the façade, bantering with Miss Primrose, her tinkling laugh scraping across his eardrums like a fork against china. He felt on edge, his grip on his equilibrium tenuous. A footman appeared at his elbow to refill his half-finished glass.
“My lord.”
He started, his gaze meeting Miss Polly’s over a plate of sweetmeats. She was actually looking at him now, and instead of the witless adoration or coy flirtation he was used to seeing in a female’s gaze, hers was disconcertingly clear and unflinching. He felt as if he were staring at the surface of a pristine lake. He saw his own reflection in her eyes; it wasn’t a pretty sight.
She gave the footman a subtle but firm shake of the head, and the servant backed away without replenishing his wine.
“Perhaps you’d care to eat something, my lord?” she said quietly.
Her underlying meaning could not be clearer:Lay off the wine, you sot.Beneath his collar, his neck burned. Who did she think she was? He’d never liked being told what to do—and by some puritanical slip of a miss, no less. Yet he was aware of the audience around them and the need to court Kent’s favor, which he wasn’t going to do if he issued an acerbic set-down to the man’s youngest sister.
He lifted his glass, draining the remnants to prove his point. Only then did he aim a hard smile at the interfering do-gooder across the way.
“Since you’ve whetted my appetite, Miss Kent,” he said silkily, “what tasty morsel do you suggest I sample?”
A slow blush rose beneath her porcelain skin. “The, um, pheasant is the chef’s specialty.”
“If you say so, then I must try it,” he said coolly.
The dish in question was brought to his side. To his chagrin, his hands were not quite steady with the serving utensils, but he managed to get a portion onto his plate without embarrassing himself. He tried a forkful. The meat, accompanied by currant sauce, melted in his mouth.
“How is it?” she said.
“Young and tender, the way I like it,” he drawled.
Her thick, gold-tipped lashes fanned against her reddened cheeks.
“If you like the pheasant, you must try the other dishes,” Miss Primrose exclaimed.
More dishes were circulated his way. As he sampled the cuisine, he was keenly aware of the charged energy between him and Miss Polly, and he couldn’t help surreptitiously observing her. Burnished by the chandelier, her hair was an intriguing mix of blond, bronze, and gold. Some of the heavy tresses had escaped their pins, wispy tendrils framing her face. It was the kind of sensual boudoir coiffure that ladies spent hours trying to achieve.
Miss Polly, however, seemed annoyed by her hair. She batted the fallen strands, and when that didn’t work, she tried shoving pins at them. It was like watching someone try to catch water with a net. She seemed utterly unaware of her natural appeal: the undone locks made her look as if she’d just risen from a pleasurable romp.
The rest of her looked well suited for bed play as well, and God only knew why she’d chosen to disguise her assets behind the dowdiest dress he’d ever seen. But he wasn’t fooled. A connoisseur of the female form, he’d bet his estate that she had curves that would make a courtesan weep with envy.
In fact, if she’d chosen to make a living in pleasure, her mouth alone would have secured her fortune. Even without paint, it was a coral shade and deliciously plump. The plush ledge of her bottom lip would be a perfect place for a lover to rest his tongue… or some other part of his anatomy.
Christ, why did his mind have to go there? But once thought, the notion could not be swept aside. The image of feeding his cock betwixt Miss Polly’s sultry mouth, his fingers threaded through her bedroom hair, sent an alarming sizzle through his blood.
“Ah, here comes the dessert.” Mrs. Kent’s voice pierced his haze of unacceptable lust. “We are in for a treat. Not only do we have Emma’s lovely cake, but ChefLenôtre has preparedlespetites duchessesfor us tonight.”
As the footmenarranged the desserts on the table, which included a large cake covered in fluffy white icing and a silver tier of pastries, Kent said with an Englishman’s suspicion of all things foreign, “Ado-shess? What’s that?”
“A roll of pastry filled with cream. It’s delicious. Do try,” Mrs. Kent said.
“None for me, thank you.” Miss Primrose gave Sinjin a coquettish look. “A lady must watch her figure, after all.”
