He was an idiot. The biggest bloodiest idiot ever to walk the earth.
But he was an idiot who loved her, and by God he was going to make this right. The steady beat of hooves and the soft squeak of carriage springs filled his ears as his muddled thoughts fell into perfect order. Air filled his lungs on an intake of breath born from deep realization. He was going to make her his in front of God and the rest of the world. He’d marry her at St. James’s in the biggest ceremony Mayfair had ever seen.
Lord help him. It was so simple.
Turning toward her, he opened his mouth, prepared to make an offer right then, only to pause. This had to be done right. After telling her all she could be was his mistress, he’d have to make sure she knew he was choosing her for the right reason and that he’d be proud to call her his wife. Rushing forward unprepared would be a mistake. It would only give her cause to doubt him more. What he needed was a strategy – a plan of some sort.
Accepting defeat for now, Simon settled back against the squabs with renewed hope and began contemplating the best path forward. He had to prove himself to her. That much was clear. Somehow, he would have to convince her of his devotion.
Chapter Seventeen
“Thank you for agreeing to see us,” Simon told Mr. St. John when he and Ida met him at The Red Rose the following day.
Ida considered the man sitting adjacent to her at one of the round corner tables in the dining room. His gaze slid over her and she instinctively leaned a bit closer to Simon. Even though the air between them had been tense and awkward since the previous day’s outing, she appreciated his nearness and the sense of security he offered.
“My pleasure,” Mr. St. John said. He gave them each a pleasant smile.
Ida’s skin pricked. She’d never liked false sincerity and Mr. St. John practically dripped with it. She thanked the waiter who handed her a menu and gave her attention to the various dishes The Red Rose had to offer while Simon and Mr. St. John engaged in small talk.
Maybe she was just being difficult. She had been in a bit of a mood for the last two days. She sighed. Maybe it was foolish of her to turn down Simon’s offer. He was, after all, willing to give her the sun and the moon. Just not the stars.
She flipped the page. Why did everything have to be so complicated?
“I recommend the lamb,” Simon said, his voice scattering her thoughts like dry leaves in the autumn wind. “With a bottle of Chateau Lafite to accompany it.”
“Sounds good to me,” Mr. St. John said. He snapped his menu shut.
Ida smiled tightly and gave a swift nod of agreement.
Simon threw her an odd look then returned his attention to Mr. St. John. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to get right to the heart of my reason for wanting to see you.”
A waiter came and took their order. Simon waited until the man brought the wine and filled their glasses before saying, “It’s in regard to the break in that took place at one of my properties three nights ago. I know the culprit was in your employ and that Bow Street intended to have you identify him.”
Mr. St. John sipped his wine. Deep grooves appeared on his brow as he set the glass down and folded his arms on the table. “I did so yesterday. The man’s name was Owen Princhet, and like many of my employees, he was a former soldier.”
“Is that customary?” Ida asked. “For munitions companies to hire veterans?”
Mr. St. John’s pale blue eyes met hers. “They know their weapons, have experience using them, and are often able to suggest improvements. Much of the work required can even be done by those who’ve lost a limb and would not be able to find work elsewhere.”
“So you give them a purpose?”
“In a manner of speaking. I give them the means to support themselves and provide for their families.”
“A noble gesture,” Simon declared.
“Very,” Ida agreed. So far, she’d no real reason to dislike the man, yet there was a niggling feeling deep in her gut. It was more than the result of her own misgivings over her relationship with Simon.
“Unfortunately,” Mr. St. John said, “such men sometimes have invisible scars. I’m sorry one such individual threatened your lives.”
Simon glanced at Ida quickly, then quietly added, “It was no accidental break in. He was sent there by someone. The paper found on his person was from your company and had my address written on it.”
Mr. St. John looked at them each in turn before saying, “Forgive me, but I’m not sure what you’re asking.”
“Since neither of us had ever met Princhet before,” Simon said, “it stands to good reason that someone must have hired him to kill Miss Strong, who presently happens to be residing at that address.”
“Kill?”
“He brought a very large knife with him and went straight for her bedchamber.”
