“Shedid not throwmeover. Nor have I ever been angry about that.”
“Perhaps it is loneliness that irritates you. Something does.”
Nearby, “Gentleman” John Jackson gave a lesson toa young man of university age. Fists and sweat flew. Ives observed them while he admitted to himself that hehadbeen releasing emotion with his fists. Mostly he had punched out anger with himself.
He had come damned close to offering Padua an arrangement at dinner. In the easy intimacy of their conversation, it had not even seemed inappropriate. Rather the wine and warmth led him to consider it a splendid solution to her sudden lack of home or support.
What had he been thinking?
That he wanted to take her upstairs to bed, and that possibly he could.
It was the calculation of a scoundrel. A rake. A man not only with wicked tastes—all men had those—but also with a wicked heart. His worst side had gotten the better of him, because she was lovely and interesting, and, yes, damn it, vulnerable.
“Whoever she is, do not allow her to make you an idiot. Find another if she is not amenable,” Belleterre said. “Remember Mrs. Dantoine? You had a tendre for her once. She has returned to town.”
“Has she now? It has been, what, five years.” He had had more than a tendre for her back then. Lust had almost deranged him. She had chosen another. One with a title and enormous wealth. She had enjoyed carte blanche for several months, then disappeared.
“She will be at Charlene’s salon on Tuesday,” Belleterre mentioned, pacing back into his position. Charlene was his own paramour, who entertained friendsevery Tuesday evening. “You should come. I am told Mrs. Dantoine has asked after you.”
Ives stood opposite Belleterre and raised his fists. He tried to remember Mrs. Dantoine’s beauty. Small, neat, and blond—his memories got that far. But while he sparred, and tried to picture her face, the mental image that kept forming was of a dark-haired woman with luminous skin and sparkling eyes.
***
If one is going to live in a palace, even for a few days, one wants to show it off. Padua decided to do just that after indulging in several delicious hours in the library. So she wrote Jennie again in the late afternoon, and invited her to visit at Langley House the next day, if she could get away from school.
At twelve o’clock the next day a footman found Padua on the terrace, working up her courage and spirits to make another visit to Newgate. The footman provided a reprieve by informing her a visitor had called. At her instruction, he left and returned with the caller.
Jennie hid her amazement until the footman left them alone. Then her eyes widened. “‘Safe’ hardly describes your situation, Padua. Whose house is this?”
“It belongs to the Duke of Aylesbury.”
Jennie looked over her shoulder, alarmed.
“The family is not here,” Padua explained. “I have been put here as an act of charity for a few days, while I find other accommodations.”
Jennie sat on the bench beside her. Her eyebrows knitted. “Who offered you this charity? Lord Ywain? He is Aylesbury’s brother. It was odd enough he called on you at the school, but if he has now given you a home—”
“It is only for a few days.”
“If you say so.”
“You appear unconvinced.”
“I am sure you know what you are doing. Only... do you? Such a man... his interest in you does not—”
“Does not make sense? I agree. So you can rest assured he isnotinterested in me.”
“I intended to say something else.”
“Perhaps you should say it, then.”
Once more Jennie looked over her shoulder. Then she angled her head closer. “His interest in you does not speak of good intentions. There. I have done my duty.”
Padua could hardly defend Ives, considering that dinner. “You sound as if you are familiar with his character. Have you two met?”
Jennie laughed. “I may be a gentleman’s daughter, and related to a baron by marriage, but I never moved in such rarified circles. I do, however, know people who know of him.”
“Knowofhim, but do not actually know him, you mean.”
