Over the years he had found himself becoming known as a fixer of sorts. The man you called on when a more discreet approach was needed to solve a problem.
It was certainly a better avenue of employment than soldiering, and Starling enjoyed a challenge. There was normally also a level of subterfuge needed to resolve such sensitive issues that appealed to his puckish nature.
However, now that he was approaching five and thirty, it might be time for him to consider taking less risky work and focus on something more stable. It appeared that was the expected thing to do, at least.
Just last month he had assisted his friend, Lord Benedict, Viscount Seton, in resolving a distasteful blackmail affair. It had been enormous fun, for Starling that was, to find and flushout the fiend behind the scheme. It had also been decidedly dangerous.
Oh, dear father, if only you could see me now.
Starling was the son of the esteemed Earl of Selbourne, albeit born on the wrong side of the blanket, and the old earl had dispaired when Starling sold the commission he had bought for him in the cavalry.
But fighting on the peninsular had left a sour taste in his mouth, and Starling had decided to take his fate into his own hands, rather than expire at the hands of others.
He flicked open his gilded gold pocket watch, glancing briefly at the time as he sardonically admired his ostentatiously extravagant waistcoat. Deep ruby silk embroidered with gold threaded bees, the colour perfectly offset the dark grey of his morning coat.
Starling did so enjoy making an impression, if that was indeed his objective. Unless he was in disguise for a case, of course. And it was, admittedly, an irreverent delight he took in dressing in a manner that would send most matrons of the ton to reach for their smelling salts in distress. Perhaps it was another way of reminding his father of his annoyingly continued existence, but Starling chose not to examine such thoughts too closely.
Starling snapped the timepiece closed, annoyance making itself known.
Lord Holsen was more than an hour late, but it was perhaps for the best.
The problem was, that Starling didn’t quite know what he was going to report to his new employer.
Yes, I know I was supposed to prove that Helen Montrose is somehow cheating at cards, since you owe her a simply astounding amount of money. But instead, I kissed her senseless and then she slapped me through the face.
Hell’s teeth, but that kiss had been worth it.
Starling had strolled into the Palais du Poussant last night with hardly any expectations. All the information he had gathered on Helen Montrose had focused on her notoriety at the gaming tables, gathered through various conversations with disgruntled gentlemen, many of whom couldn’t accept that a lady had bested them at cards. Not once, not twice, but many times over.
There were of course ladies who frequented such establishments, but it was far more difficult to get them alone and entice them to spill their secrets.
It had soon become apparent that Mrs Montrose owned the markers of many of the ton’s most extravagant gamblers, and Starling had found himself developing a begrudging sort of admiration for the woman who had appeared seemingly from nowhere, but was now almost a fixture in the underworld of London.
The one thing hehadtaken note of, was her apparent lack of romantic entanglement - at least none that he could find any mention of. There had never been any discussion of her attractiveness or lack thereof, so Starling had built a picture in his mind of a woman approaching thirty who was somewhat nondescript, her only distinguishing feature being a penchant for wearing the colour red.
It had amused him somewhat, to imagine her manner of dress as like a metaphorical flag to a bull.
Starling had been woefully unprepared for the sight of her when he did finally spot her at the commerce table last night.
Never had Starling been more wrong about something in all his life.
Helen Montrose was… alluring. Entrancing.
Absolutely stunning.
Her dark lustrous hair had been piled high above a face that seemed made to send a man into a frenzy of lust. Mysterious olive green eyes had shone with intelligence under long sooty lashes, her lips red from more than the wine she had pretended to sip all evening long.
And the dress.
God help him,the fucking dress.
Starling had carefully examined the faces of her gaming companions, noting the way their eyes flickered unerringly to that sinfully low bodice cut from ruby red watered silk.
Not once had she paid any of them a single iota of attention.
It had immediately become apparent that the lack of mention of her appearance was simply down to the fact that no one would care to admit that they had fallen prey to her charms, or that she was not inclined to share said charms with a single one of the gentlemen that surrounded her.
Her beauty was the perfect lure, and the perfect trap.
