“But that has nothing to do with what would interesta girl!”
He did not know how to respond to that. In his opinion, his sister wasn’t the typical sort of girl at all. So, whatever would interest some generic girl would definitely not appeal to Gwen. But then again, he was a man, and therefore, unable to appropriately judge what Gwen or any other girl would want in a man. The preferences of the many women he’d met over the years had never made sense to him.
Which left him unable to satisfy his mother and thereby get her out of his bedroom. “Mother, what do you want me to do?”
“Get married to a girl who can help Gwen!”
“Seems a rather roundabout way of doing things.”
She threw up her hands. “I give up. There is no talking to you.”
Which is exactly what he had been thinking but would never say out loud. And then—in an absolute miracle—his mother spun on her heels and walked out. He stared after her, determined to memorize the conversation so he could repeat it whenever he wished to be alone. But in the meantime, he had his morning toilet to accomplish, plus he had remembered a few more tidbits from last night that he must get to his secretary before he forgot. It was the endless lifeblood of his political career, this memorizing of useful facts about people and families. Who had a talent for what and who was in need of it? If he could match the one with the other, then both owed him a favor, which he then applied to his political desires.
He would get his resolution passed no matter how many favors he had to curry because his conscience demanded it of him. And because his father had never fully recovered from his battle wounds—in mind or in body. In the end, Elliott believed that is what had killed him. Not the pneumonia, but the weakness that came from frequent nightmares and a pain in the hip and back that never eased.
If his father, despite all his advantages, had died from his military service, then what was to become of all the other soldiers? Those not well fed and with more grievous wounds? They were dying, or they were turning to thievery and worse to survive. It was a national disgrace, and so he would end it if he could. And in order to do that, he needed to return a blasted brooch to get a vote. Which meant he had best dress to meet Miss Gold right away.
He arrived barely on time and in his high perch phaeton. If anyone saw him—and he was sure they would—he planned to create a bit of mystery around who was the unknown woman sitting so openly in his carriage. His political influence traded on secrets, and it never hurt to dangle a bit of drama in front of gossipmongers just to see what other information he could glean in return.
He hopped down from his seat and entered the Dragon’s Hoard jewelry store. It was a modest place but kept sparkling clean. The windows were nearly transparent as the sun streamed through to illuminate display cases of stunning jewelry fashioned in traditional and fantastic designs. And in the middle of the room sat Mrs. Dove-Lyon in her widow’s weeds as she sipped her ever-present cup of tea. Standing nearby was Miss Gold’s father, who looked refined and severe. Elliott had the brief impression that he was reporting to the headmaster’s office for a hard dressing down.
Elliott turned on the charm beginning with the lady. “Good afternoon, Mrs. Dove-Lyons. I must say you are looking quite fine in this light. Your skin is like porcelain.” What he could see of it, which was very little. The lady’s face was veiled beneath a fine black netting, and only her mouth and chin were touched by the sun’s rays. Then he turned to Mr. Gold. “An excellent day to you, sir. I have recommended your shop to a few of my intimates.” Absolute truth. “I told them to drop my name and that you would assist them in finding exactly the kind of baubles they need. Though two of them had already heard of you. Your reputation is growing, Mr. Gold.”
Meanwhile, he sniffed the air. “Is that a special blend of tea, Mrs. Dove-Lyon? I believe I scented it yesterday, and it has haunted my thoughts ever since.” A bald-faced lie, but a harmless one. His thoughts, when they had wandered, went directly to the mysterious Miss Thisbe Gold and what she looked like beneath her plain scarf. Speaking of which, he looked around in confusion. “I don’t see Miss Gold anywhere. I do hope she’s not taken ill.”
“Not ill,” Mrs. Dove-Lyon said firmly. “Just waiting for the right moment to appear.”
“Of course,” he said. Mrs. Dove-Lyon did have a sense of the dramatic. “That’s every woman’s right, isn’t it? To make us men burn with anticipation.”
Mrs. Dove-Lyon didn’t respond as he expected. In fact, she pursed her lips and said not a word. But her message was clear as one by one, very large men stepped out from the back of the room. He recognized them as the bouncers used in the Lyon’s Den. Military men by the looks of them, all of them injured in some fashion but no less threatening.
And once a half dozen men had crowded into the back of the shop, Mr. Gold spoke. “My daughter is my greatest treasure,” he said quietly. “And we all protect her.”
“Of course—” he started to say, but Mrs. Dove-Lyon interrupted.
“I support your cause, Lord Byrn. Our veterans have been treated shabbily, and we wish the government took better care of them.” She paused to see if he would interrupt, but he’d learned from the cradle that one did not interrupt a woman when she was delivering amessage. It took a bit, but eventually, she continued to speak. “However, even broken, hurt, and ignored by the Crown, we take care of our own, and Miss Gold is definitely one of our greatest gems. I would hate to find out that your passions overran your good sense.”
In other words, don’t take advantage of Miss Gold. “I am counted a man of great sense, Mrs. Dove-Lyon.” That was the absolute truth. Then he looked at Mr. Gold. “Your daughter is safe in my care. I stake my life on it.”
“Yes, my lord,” Mr. Gold said. “You do.” And every man there nodded in agreement.
Well, that was chilling, and not the reception he was used to getting from the lower crust. But he was a man capable of listening, so he nodded. Such a show of brute support was rare for any woman—titled or not—and he was anxious to get to know the subject of such devotion.
Then—almost like magic—Miss Gold appeared. She stepped out from a hidden alcove behind the smallest display case. And when the light hit her face, he couldn’t contain his gasp of surprise.
She was not beautiful; neither was she maimed in some way. Stupidly, he’d thought that she wore a scarf in the den to hide either exceptional beauty or a deformity of some kind. His best guess was an ethereal beauty given the amount of devotion of the men around her and the smooth, delicate way she moved. But there was none of that. Her face was average, her expression bland, and her clothing modest. And yet he couldn’t stop looking at her.
She wasarresting,and he couldn’t figure out why. At least not until she stepped out from behind the counter, extended her hand to him, and smiled as if she were the Queen of England. “Good afternoon, Lord Byrn. Such a pleasure to see you again.”
Poise.That was the word for it. Poise that stemmed from the confidence of knowing who you are and where you fit in the world. Never had he seen such assurance in a commoner, much less one so young and female. It drew his breath straight back into his heart, which squeezed tight. He found himself bowing over her hand and pressing her palm as a way of maintaining her touch. It was inappropriate given the number of hostile men staring at him. He released her hand reluctantly before mentally putting himself in order. He needed to be respectful, damn it, not gape at her like a boy at his first ball.
“The pleasure is all mine,” he said, his tongue thick and unmanageable. “You look divine.”
“I look respectable, unimportant, and uninteresting,” she returned, “but that is the point, is it not? I’m a cousin from the Continent come to see a Joseph Wright portrait.”
“Er, yes, but I meant what I said. You look divine.” Because she did. Only a goddess could catch his attention so completely. He held out his arm, and she reached for it only to stop short. Stupid of him to have his forearm tense in reaction to her absence. She hadn’t even touched him once, and yet he tightened in anticipation and grew impatient the longer she delayed.
“My sketchbook,” she said, and one of the men handed over a well-worn book. She took it with a smile and a sweet, “Thank you.” The man—six foot and with a missing ear—blushed down to the roots of his hair.
