CHAPTER FOURTEEN
“We are all imperfect creatures.”
Private Education: A Practical Plan for the Studies of Young Ladies.
Elizabeth Appleton. 1815.
Pall Mall at nigh ten in the morn was one place Hugh would rather forgo but his superior, Sir Edmund Twyford, had requested a meeting at Whitehall, so with little choice, he dodged and weaved through the hectic street. The spring day, for once, was clear and although a vague warmth voyaged from the sun, it still demanded a greatcoat.
At this hour, scores of clamouring merchants were abroad – knife sharpeners trundling their carts with grinders and whetting stones, baskets of hot loaves jostled beneath one’s nose and Moroccan slippers brandished aloft for a shilling and sixpence a pair.
In fact, that was quite reasonable, but no time as he had to attend this meeting and then dash home in order to summon Miss Jones.
Last night, as he’d caged her in that chair, he’d desired and burned and…
To be blunt, he’d wished to rip that damn-awful gown from her and have her naked and gasping beneath him. Wished to burn away his frustration deep within her delectable body. Wished to be scorched by those gold-flecked eyes and slaked till he was smouldering ash.
But as he’d before asserted, wishes were for fools.
Therefore… He would dismiss Miss Jones.
He’d procrastinated for too long, found too much pleasure in sparring words, playing the scoundrel and…watching her.
But no more.
Hugh cursed low as Charing Cross ahead looked to be a heaving mass of tangled carriages and an overturned turnip wagon, so he nipped through Spring Gardens, a smart street with houses owned by bankers and civil servants. Then he twisted left down the narrow Buckingham Passage and back to–
Darkness. An arm locked to his neck.
He heaved scant breath, clawed at the material covering his head.
A man growled in his ear.
Hugh jabbed back an elbow.
A grunt and he was released.
He swung low, sightless, seized the knife from his boot.
Swiped.
A clout to his jaw.
Heard a snarl.
A slam to his nape.
Crumpled to his knees.
Fought to stand…
Slumped.
Wheels. A horse’s snort.
Blackness…
Drip.Drip. Drip.
