Page 38 of A Perfect Gentleman

“Oh, I am sure Lord Montclair was just trying to lift my spirits,” Mrs. Ponsonby hastened to say. His grandmother’s companion cast a timid smile at Graeme. “So good of him.”

“What nonsense, Philomena. The boy is obviously champing at the bit to go somewhere, and we are delaying him.” Lady Eugenia arose regally from her chair.

Graeme started to deny it, then stopped. What was the point in clinging to courtesy when the truth was he was itching to leave? Abigail was right; there was something freeing in candor. He stood up and bowed to his grandmother as she left the room, trailed by Mrs. Ponsonby, who paused to give him a small, apologetic curtsey.

The butler carried in a bottle of port, but Graeme waved him away. “Not tonight, Norton. I’m going out.”

“Very well, my lord. Shall I send round for your carriage?”

“No, I’ll walk. Clear my head.”

There was no reason to turn his steps toward the Langham. Wherever Abigail was going and whoever’s company she would rather keep, it was nothing to him. He was glad she was undemanding; it would make their arrangement far easier.

It was just that she had so obviously lied about her plans—the stumbling answers, the way her gaze shifted from his—the same way she had lied about the note slipped under her door a few nights ago. That incident had been the impetus to her slipping out secretly to meet someone in an unsavory part of town, which, by the way, she had never adequately explained. What if she was doing it again? And why the devil was she determined to keep it a secret? It was enough to make anyone suspicious.

Just because he had thoroughly enjoyed last night didn’t mean he could turn a blind eye to Abigail’s scheming. No matter how exciting and enticing she was, he would be a fool to trust her. It would be even more foolish not to make clear to Abigail that she had not deceived him.

The doorman at the Langham greeted Graeme with a smile; it turned even brighter when Graeme handed him a gold coin. “How can I help you, guv’nor?”

“Has Lady Montclair left the hotel yet?”

“Yessir, you just missed her.”

“Where was she going?”

The man’s face fell. “Sorry, sir, ’fraid I don’t know. She won’t tell me anymore.” He sent an accusatory look at Graeme.

“Ah. Sorry.” Graeme gave the man a rueful smile and headed inside. It took him only moments to wangle a key to his wife’s suite from the manager. When he opened the door, his wife’s maid jumped up from a chair as if she’d been shot, the petticoat she was mending falling to the floor.

“Oh. It’s you.” Molly scowled. “What are you doing, coming into Miss Abby’s room like that?”

“Are all American servants like you?” he asked, returning her frown.

She crossed her arms. “We’re not afraid of a man just because he’s got a ‘lord’ in front of his name, if that’s what you mean.”

“Actually, rude was more what I was thinking. Where is your mistress?”

Molly’s frown deepened, but there was now as much worry as dislike in her expression.

“What?” he asked sharply, taking a step forward. “What do you know? You’re afraid of something; I can see it.”

“Not of you.”

He sighed. “That’s hardly remarkable, since I have no intention of hurting you. Nor Abigail. Why are you worried?”

“Because she’s not safe!” Molly burst out. “I told her that little popgun wasn’t enough to—”

“She has a gun now? Good Gad, the woman’s a walking arsenal. Where has she gone? Why does she need a gun?”

Molly looked at him, torn. He waited. Finally the words rushed out of her. “The Crimson Pirate.”

“The what?”

“It’s a tavern. By the Thames.”

“The docks?” His voice rose. “She’s gone to a dockside tavern?”

Molly nodded. “That’s where he said to meet him.”