“Your pomegranate will be my next artwork. Will you visit tomorrow, so we can discuss what you came to say? I won’t kiss you. I promise.”
Those had to be the second worst words a pretty woman had ever said to him. “No, I’m busy for the rest of my days.”
As he turned, he nearly banged into the Duke of Repington. The man pushed his invalid chair closer, rolling the big front wheels near Daniel’s feet. His back must be aggravating him.
“Ashbrook, you’re here? Have you rescued Mrs. St. Maur from her suitor? My meeting ran a little long.”
How not to appear guilty? “Yes. I . . . I helped.”
The duke leaned forward. “Is everything well, Ashbrook?” Mrs. St. Maur opened the door, every hair in place. She looked pristine.
Daniel tweaked his lenses. This escapade was starting to feel like a Widow’s Grace exploit. Or a dream, something forbidden and sweet.
“Your Grace,” she said, “is your back hurting you?”
“A little, Mrs. St. Maur. Too much crawling with Lionel and horsey. My son said Papa before his nap. Tell my duchess he said Papa, not Wellington.” He brought his thumbs up to his lips. “Is everything in order here?”
Daniel said nothing. The duke might not be at his best today, but a bullet from his side arm didn’t need to fly that far. He peered at Mrs. St. Maur, almost begging her to say nothing.
“Your Grace, would you mind seeing Lord Ashbrook to the door? I’m going to check on Patience,” she said, her tone even and calm. “Ashbrook, we’ll finish our conversation later. I’ll find you.”
Not willing to think about the implications of herfindingandchoosinghim, he buttoned his lips and nodded.
She curtsied and went deeper into the house.
“What does that mean, Ashbrook? She’ll find you?”
“Women, Your Grace. What does anything mean?”
The duke leaned back and looked up with narrowing blue eyes. “You’re in trouble, Ashbrook. I don’t do trouble here, not with my wife’s dearest friend.”
“Understood. Good day, Your Grace.”
Daniel bowed, then retreated to the outer door. A footman had readied his top hat and sleek onyx gloves.
Tugging them on, Daniel stormed out, never looking back, never intending to come back. He kept his head down until he stood by his carriage outside Sandlin Court.
As he climbed up the step and plopped onto the sleek tufted seat, he laughed at himself. Jemina St. Maur had won this round, getting him attacked by Willingham and further ensconced on the duke’s suspicions list.
Daniel’s orderly life had no need for an unpredictable widow, even if she tasted of fire and chocolate.
CHAPTER 16
JEMINA—BARRISTERSURVEILLANCE
Ikept my head low in the hedgerow, peeking out at the lone estate on Finchely Road. It looked the same in the moonlight as it did the day I first visited—big, fanciful, so many windows.
Never would I forget that night the barrister freed me from Bedlam. He took Patience and me here, fed us pheasant and fresh bread while we waited for Lady Shrewsbury to arrive. The roast was juicy and the buttery shortbreads with caraway seeds and currants so crisp. My tongue hadn’t known such delight in two years, maybe more.
Had I ever thanked him?
No.
Instead, I kissed him to drive away a suitor.
A noise like a crunch sounded close, but I saw nothing, so I turned back to the house.
The lower level had darkened but not the second floor. It glistened with light.
