What was this, the Spanish Inquisition?
He slammed his palm on the desk, rattling the inkstand. “I deal with adulterers for a living. I know guilt when I see it. Harland knew exactly why I danced with his daughter.”
“Ruined his daughter,” Ramsey corrected. “Don’t dress revenge up with ribbons and pearls. No decent man would offer for her now.”
“There are no decent men in theton,” he snapped, refusing to include himself among them. “Perhaps she should pay me. I’ve saved her from a life of misery.”
Ramsey shrugged. “You are the injured party. It’s not every day the infallible Dominic Hawke is ravished at a ball.”
Would he ever live it down?
The most feared man in London, outwitted by a woman.
“Be thankful I can think on my feet. From every angle, I looked the heartless rake.” Yet his reaction to the way she felt in his arms had been anything but staged.
The sooner Miss Harland was on the road back to town, the better. He’d send her to Charlotte with a list of instructions. And a terse reminder that he did not run a boarding house for wayward girls and fallen angels.
Steeling himself, he rang for Beattie.
“The new maid. Limit her duties to the servants’ quarters. I’ve no wish to see her in the house until I’m certain she’s staying.”
Beattie surprised him by speaking in her favour. “I doubt she’s used to hard work, but she’s light on her feet and pays attention. I’m confident she’ll come right, given the chance.”
Bloody hell. Was there no end to Miss Harland’s talents? She’d worked with Beattie half the morning and would probably make sergeant within the week.
“Remind her there’s no place in this house for singing.”
Beattie nodded and was halfway out the door when a footman intercepted him and muttered something in his ear. The housekeeper gave the younger man a reassuring tap on the shoulder, then turned back to Dominic.
“The local magistrate is here, sir, with a sergeant from Bow Street. They’re asking for you. Said it can’t wait.”
Dominic inwardly groaned.Sir Lionel Deane. Obnoxious prig. His wife occasionally attended Shadowmere’s gatherings, always when the man was out of town.
What crime did Sir Lionel wish to accuse him of now?
Luckily, he had an alibi.
Still, Ramsey looked a shade uneasy.
“Show them in.” He answered to no one, and he’d make damn sure they didn’t forget it. “No need to draw two chairs. They won’t be here long enough to catch their breath.”
As soon as Beattie left the room, Ramsey leaned forward. “A man doesn’t travel from London to Kingston over some rumour about a duel. They have something on you.”
Dominic eased back in the chair. “They have nothing.”
The footman returned, opening the door. Sir Lionel entered, puffed up and as self-important as ever, trailing a waft of expensive cologne that failed to mask his stale breath.
The younger man behind him smelled of damp wool and horse sweat.
One spent his days sipping port behind a desk; the other walked the streets come rain or shine. A wise man would trust the one with mud on his boots.
Dominic remained seated. He wouldn’t stand even if someone lit a fuse beneath him. “Sir Lionel. To what do I owe the pleasure, and with Bow Street in tow, no less? If you’ve come begging for tickets to the Autumn Masque, I’m afraid you’re too late.”
Sir Lionel’s imperial moustache twitched. “We come on a serious matter, not to discuss your lewd parties. You ought to be arrested for the disgraceful things that go on here.”
“Private orgies aren’t a crime.” Dominic rather enjoyedthe blush that rose to Sir Lionel’s red-veined cheeks. “I count members of the bench among my regular patrons.”
It was his way of saying they’d better have a bloody good reason for disturbing his meeting.
