“When I know there’s a chance I won’t get home until after dark, yes.” When she said nothing further, he asked, “Do you know how to use it?”
Her gaze met his. “Guthrie showed me.”
“Good.” Stepping forward, he placed the pistol in her hand. His fingers brushed hers and there was a moment – a spark so swift she scarcely had time to acknowledge it before he stepped away again, adding distance. He went to the door and gripped the handle. “You’ve had an eventful day. I suggest you get some rest.”
Upon which he left her.
“Bloody hell,” Simon muttered while heading for home with long strides. Located in St. James’s Square, Fielding House wasn’t far. He’d arrive within fifteen minutes at most. Giving a shake of his head, he quickened his pace. If only Hawthorne and Yates could see him now. If it weren’t for the danger Miss Strong was in, the situation would be amusing. Somehow, within less than twenty four hours, he’d gone from being a stuffy bore, skipped straight past potential rogue, and become a swashbuckling hero.
Well. All right. Maybe that was exaggerating matters a bit. After all, there hadn’t been a swordfight. But, he reminded himself, he had saved a damsel in distress and was now prepared to champion her cause. That had to count for something.
Of course it did, he decided with some satisfaction. He just wished he’d refrained from mentioning Gabriella since doing so could make him look like the sort of man women chose not to pick in the end.
Not that it made any difference.
Miss Strong was a demimondaine, beneath him in every regard, so what did it matter what she thought of him? It shouldn’t. Except it did. God help him but he wanted her to like him.
“Bollocks.”
If she’d been anyone else, he wouldn’t be in this situation, worrying over the opinion of a St. Giles whore.
He halted momentarily and frowned. Miss Strong had referred to her very own aunt using that word, but it didn’t quite fit the lovely, quick-witted young woman with whom he’d been conversing for the past couple of hours. Somehow the connotation lent a lowly grubbiness to it that she decidedly lacked. Courtesan had a more upper crust ring he decided and recommenced walking, satisfied he’d at least found an acceptable descriptive for her.
With a shake of his head, he climbed the steps to his front door with hard and determined footfalls. Once inside, he handed his hat and gloves to Deerford, his butler.
“Mr. Elliot Nugent stopped by earlier this evening,” Deerford said. “He wished to extend his apologies for not being able to meet with you tomorrow for luncheon.”
Simon stilled. He’d completely forgotten the plans he’d made with his uncle. As he was the only close family Simon had left in London, the two made an effort to meet once a week to catch up. “Did he suggest a different time?”
“Drinks at his home tomorrow evening, if you’re able.”
“Thank you, Deerford.” Simon wished the butler a good night and turned away, his thoughts returning to Miss Strong. Distractedly, he climbed the stairs and entered his bedchamber where Gun, his valet, helped him prepare for bed.
“My lord?” Gun inquired with a frown once the task had been accomplished.
“Hmm?”
“I was wondering if there’s anything else you require?”
For a second, Simon was tempted to say, “Yes, please hit me over the head with something so I may forget what I’ve gotten myself into.”
Of course, that would only incite his servant’s curiosity, and besides, Simon very much doubted anything in the world would be able to make him forget the woman who presently slept at Number Five Bedford Street. She embodied an innocent beauty he’d not seen in any woman before – the sort that could easily lend inspiration to poets. Not even Gabriella was as lovely as she. How unfortunate that circumstance had brought her to this point in her young life.
Tired and choosing to favor privacy for as long as he could, Simon shook his head in answer to Gun’s question, relieved him of his duties, and went straight to bed. Lord knew he needed the rest for whatever tomorrow had in store.
When Ida woke the next morning, she stretched and rubbed her eyes before sitting and glancing around. It took her brain a second to adjust and recall why she was in unfamiliar surroundings.
Oh.
Right.
She groaned and flopped back against her pillow. The room she was in, the bed in which she’d slept more comfortably than ever before, belonged to the Earl of Fielding. This was his house and he would arrive at some point during the day so they could discuss their new arrangement.
Another groan left her. What on earth had she been thinking, allying herself with him, a man who represented self-importance, entitlement, and disdain for the common man? He was everything she’d come to despise these past few years, and yet here she was, trusting him with her greatest secrets.
“I must have gone mad,” she muttered when she finally found the courage to climb out from under the lovely warm blankets and face the brisk morning chill. Hugging herself, she fought the instinct to curl her toes into the floorboards. Instead, she hurried across to the chair where she’d placed her clothes. It might be the middle of May, but with the recent weather they’d been having, it felt more like late October.
After donning her stockings and fastening the front of her serviceable stays, Ida moved to the washstand. She fought a shiver and went to work, reminding herself that while she might lack accomplishments and wealth, there was no need for anyone to question her cleanliness. It was one of the things her mother had striven to teach her; no matter what, appearances mattered. It was up to the individual to make sure they made a good impression.
