She’d located a copy ofDebrett’s Peerageand looked up his family.
In a particularly low moment, she’d hired a cab and rode past his opulent London townhome.
She was a foolish, foolish girl who’d clearly had learned nothing at all.
But Northumberland had simply been so—
Well,adorablewas not the correct word.
Puppies were adorable. Five-year-old boys in tiny, grown-man suits were adorable. There was nothing fluffy or tiny about the duke. He was an adult male, older than her by more than five years. He projected an attitude of certainty about himself and the world andthe future. He filtered through the dark London streets with confident stealth, an operator. It was clear why men had followed him in battle—she followed him without question and she prided herself on questioning everything done by any man.
His interview of her had been so intuitive and skilled it felt more like a very important conversation than an interrogation. He’d asked all the correct questions and she’d sung like a little yellow bird. How could she not, when subjected to his easy charm?
He portrayed himself like the friendly older brother of a beloved classmate, his trustworthiness guaranteed by association. The longer they spoke, the more she felt herself trust. But he was no one’s brother, no one that she ever knew, and she had absolutely no reason to trust him.
One striking problem was that he was so very handsome. No matter how he sat or leaned or stalked, no matter how the moonlight struck him, Isobel gobbled up the sight. He was tall enough to see over the shrubs and so broad shouldered he blocked the moon. His hair was sandy brown-blond, mussed but not unkempt. His eyes held a sweetness but also... heat. He was dressed finely but without stiff formality. His attractiveness was so very obvious and known and enjoyed, it felt dangerous. She knew about dangerous levels of attractiveness; she’d learned this the hard way. And yet—
And yet she almost clipped the picture of his face from the newspaper. Like a schoolgirl.
She permitted herself all of this silliness only because sheknew.
Girls who worked in travel shops served no purpose for a duke except as, well, as travel agents. On the very, very rare occasions, perhaps they served as informants.
She also knew that girls whose mothers were actresses could potentially serve a wholly different purpose for dukes—and she’d very nearly performed this service on the park bench—but Northumberland was a gentleman and he would not seek her out for another go. He would not gossip. She would never see him again.
Sheknew.
Safe in this knowledge, she allowed herself freedom from regret. Oh, she was mortified and shocked at her behavior, but she did not regret the kiss so much as worry over her lingering response to it. Her fixation. Her daydreams—good Lord, her actual dreams.
What bothered her the most was coming to terms with her longing. She’d wanted the charming duke—yes, but what she really wanted wasmore. More of him, and more of life in general.
Being staid and respectable was a challenge, and she might be terrible at it or she might eventually manage it. What she would not manage was thewant.
Dark gardens with handsome men were exhilarating. She’d forgotten how much. And she longed for it.
She’d been deceiving herself all along.
The cab continued west, picking up speed as the London traffic thinned to the occasional wagon and men on horseback. The stacked houses and shops of town gave way to tidy cottages or clusters of outlying shops. Isobel checked her timepiece. It was not far to Hammersmith, but she mustn’t make the dowager wait. Nor should she turn up distracted and flushed by memories of the duke.
She thumbed through her folios, seeing very little, until the cab reached Queen Street in Hammersmith. The driver located the tearoom, a charming stone shop with petunia-burst window boxes and a cheerfulawning. Isobel paid the fare and then some, imploring him to return for her in two hours. She smoothed her dress and straightened her hat. She screwed a smile onto her face and hurried inside.
The dowager was easily identified in the dim interior, the only fabulously dressed middle-aged woman. She was flanked by a lady’s maid snoozing at the table behind her and a footman hovering nearby. She presided over a window table laid heavily with a full tea.
“Lady Harriet Braselton?” Isobel asked, bobbing a shallow curtsy.
“Yes, indeed,” enthused the dowager, “and you are Miss Tinker?”
“The very one,” said Isobel, bobbing again and reaching out her hand.
Lady Harriet gushed her gratitude for the remote meeting, complimented Isobel’s green dress, and thankfully forwent all the usual comments about her youth and gender. She invited Isobel to sit and began to pour tea, maintaining a steady stream of pleasant chatter. Isobel liked her immediately.
After they’d praised the tearoom (the dowager’s family owned the entire block, she said), the distance from London (Isobel would surely be home in time for supper), and the condition of her ladyship’s ankle (only a concern when it rained), Isobel pulled the watercolor prints from her satchel and began to spin a tale of Italian adventure, casting Lady Harriet as the protagonist.
The spry, open-minded dowager was transfixed, poring over the watercolors, making breathless sounds of excitement and clapping her hands in delight. In only a half hour’s time, Isobel had sold the woman on a six-week holiday from Rome to Venice, invoking every luxury. She was just jotting down the woman’s details,preferred dates of travel, and scheduling their next meeting when Lady Harriett dropped her teacup in the saucer with a clatter.
“Oh, but I’d nearly forgotten,” exclaimed the lady. “It was my excitement over the journey. But I do have a second purpose here today. He’s the very reason I sought you out. My dear nephew. He knew of my desire to travel and wrote to me at Meadowlane to insist I contact you straightaway. But you must speak to him—my nephew, Jason... Ah, yes, here he is...”
Isobel’s hand froze over the parchment.
