“I’ll bring tea!” she said, and dashed off.
He could not deny that, exasperated or not, his heart gave a leap when he saw his tall son standing in the center of the little reception room. It was admittedly good to see him. He was as lanky as James, and better-looking, and probably a nicer person. He had his mother to thank for that.
“Arthur. How did you...”
Arthur spun around to greet him, grinning. “I pestered your Man of Affairs to tell me where you were staying. You haven’t answered my letter.”
“My Man of Affairs is a bit of a tough nut to crack, given that he both worships and is frightened of me. Well done on the pestering, I suppose.”
“I learned conquering from the best. Whatareyou doinghere, Father?”
“I’ve promised my publisher I’d have my book finished by the end of the month. It was a bit difficult with all the hammering going on at the townhouse, and too many other distractions.”
“Ah! So you’ve taken a room in this little plain place... a bit like... like a monk’s cell?”
If only he knew how far, far from the truth this really was.
James snorted. “No. Not at all like a cell. Good God, I think perhaps I’ve allowed you to live too sheltered a life if you think this place is anything like a cell.”
“But... the furniture doesn’t even match, does it?” Arthur looked more puzzled than censorious.
“Of course it does. It all has legs and backs and seats. What more does it need?”
James was being deliberately perverse.
“It’s...” His son, unbeknownst to either of them, was looking curiously around the little room as every guest who’d seen it had previously done, with its worn but pretty furniture that didn’t quite match, and the carved pilasters fashionable last century, and wondering at the source of its charm.
Because itwascharming and welcoming immediately.
“It is actually rather nice,” Arthur said finally, sounding surprised. “For a little building by the docks.”
“It’s very comfortable and pleasant, it came highly recommended by a friend I hold in high esteem, and it was peaceful up until five minutes ago. I have a feeling you’re going to say something to change that,” the duke said dryly.
“I’m just . . . well, I came about one thing, originally. But on my way here, I saw this in a shop on Bond Street.”
From inside his coat he produced a handbill for the Night of the Nightingale.
James took it.
Mariana Wylde. One Night Only. The Grand Palace on the Thames.
It was instantly, oddly disorienting.
He’d been so nearly cloistered here that he’d forgotten the name of the woman with whom he’d spent mad, endlessly sensual nights was currently distributed around London. Because she was an entertainer. Not only that, a notorious one.
He remembered very clearly how he had once viewed her.
How his son no doubt viewed her now.Common.
For a mad, jarring moment, he wondered: was his affair merely the inevitable result of forced proximity?
Was this, indeed, how men like him became fools for women like her?
One Night Only.
Soon, it would be all they’d have left.
The thought of that tensed his muscles again, and his face went grim. He knew at once that proximity had nothing to do with the inevitability.
