“A man like me? What does that mean?” Then he arched a brow. “You expect I spend all my free time in gambling dens and bordellos?”
I tripped at that last word, and Mr. Dorian was forced to grip me more tightly. “No,” I said, once I recovered, but his hold didn’t loosen. He gave me an expectant look, and I scoffed. “I do not think you spend all your free time at such establishments.”
The corner of his mouth lifted. “You can’t say the word, can you?”
“Well, of course I cansayit,” I shot back. “I just choose not to. It isn’t proper,” I added, then immediately regretted it.
Rightly, Mr. Dorian laughed. “Since when are you concerned with what is proper?”
“Never mind,” I grumbled.
Luckily, I spotted the lace-trimmed windows of the tearoom up ahead. This one was called Polly’s.
Mr. Dorian paused at the door and shot me a look. “And just to be perfectly clear,” he began, “I don’t spendanytime at such establishments.”
My cheeks heated and I gave a nod. “Understood.”
He then held the door open for me, but I couldn’t meet his eyes as I entered the tearoom. I sat down at the first empty table I spotted, and Mr. Dorian joined me.
“The scones are particularly good here,” he said conversationally, as if we hadn’t just been speaking of houses of ill repute.
I cleared my throat. If he was going to act unbothered, then so would I. “You do seem to like them,” I commented. He had ordered scones at the last tearoom as well.
Mr. Dorian looked affronted. “What kind of Englishman would I be if I couldn’t appreciate a good scone?”
The corner of my mouth lifted. “Quite right. I suppose I will have to try them then.”
A girl came over to our table, and Mr. Dorian ordered scones for us both along with a pot of strong black tea. Once we were alone again, Mr. Dorian took off his gloves and folded his hands on top of the table.
“All right,” he prompted. “What did this gallery owner tell you?”
I let out a sigh as I stripped off my own gloves. “He claimed not to know much about Charles Pearson’s business, but did say that there was a private auction he always attended each month.”
Mr. Dorian looked up, distracted. “Where is it?”
I had the strangest suspicion that he had been watching me remove my gloves. But no. That was ridiculous. “He gave me the address,” I began, as I searched through my reticule for the slip of paper. “It’s run by a man called Sir Armstrong-Hughes. Do you know him?”
He shook his head. “Never heard of him. But then, I don’t spend my leisure time at private auctions.”
My fingers tightened as I recalled how Mr. Dorian did spend his leisure time: at various shows, salons, and restaurants, always with a different lady. “Here it is,” I said as I pulled out the slip and handed it to him.
“This is an address in Belgravia,” he commented as he scanned the paper.
“Then I suppose Sir Armstrong-Hughes really is a knight.”
Mr. Dorian rolled his eyes. “They will give anyone a knighthood these days.”
“It could be a completely legitimate organization,” I pointed out.
But he didn’t look convinced. “If it’s a private auction held in someone’s home, there is a fair chance at least a portion of the items are stolen from somewhere. But there is a larger issue.”
“What?”
“There will be a guest list,” he said with a frown. “They won’t just let anyone waltz in and start asking questions.”
I sat back in my chair, feeling defeated. “I see.”
Mr. Dorian gave me a sympathetic look. “Give me some time. I’ll ask around and see if I can find a way to gain entry.”
