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He absently rubbed the bridge of his nose, searching the archives of his memory. He couldn’t recall a time. But to call at the rooming house using the dashed umbrella as a pathetic excuse?
Not bloody damned likely.
Most probably, that gray-draped dragon of a proprietress would be there. Even her skin held a peculiar shade of gray. Ansley wouldn’t put it above her to tow him into her tea room and force her dainties upon him.
His ballocks promptly shriveled at the notion. Egads. The woman had to be fifty if she was a day. And she’d all but offered herself to him last night with her not too subtle invitation to take tea.
Besides, Willow Harwood was not his responsibility.
He’d done his gentlemanly duty and seen her safely to the lodging house. He’d even replaced her umbrella. So, why couldn’t he rid his thoughts of her beguiling face? The elegant way she walked? Her petite hand on his arm. Or the laughter sparkling in her splendid eyes?
Why had he even noticed those things in the few minutes of their very brief acquaintance? He, who couldn’t recall what color either of his mistress’ eyes had been, though he’d endeavored to remember all morning.
While they parried, he’d even asked Sterling if he recalled what color the demimondes’ eyes had been. He’d so dumfounded his friend, Sterling had set the tip of his foil upon the floor and, eyebrow arched, eyed Ansley as if he’d asked the man what his favorite position during bedsport was.
“How the devil do I know, Scarborough?” Sterling had grumbled, examining Ansley as one would a madman. “They were your mistresses.”
True, but Sterling was also acquainted with the courtesans. Zounds, several other members of the ton knew the women in a Biblical sense, as well.
Ansley supposed some sort of manly outrage ought to assail him with the knowledge they’d shared their favors while under his protection. But the truth was, he couldn’t muster a jot of ire.
What he did care about, however, was the attack upon his person last night.
As he had predicted, the thieves had been long gone when he retraced his steps. Odd that the stout fellow had called him m’lord.’ Coincidence perhaps, but more likely, the sot had been lurking outside the club, looking for a gentleman to rob.
Ansley had merely drawn the short straw when he’d been the first to leave the Wicked Earls’ last night.
Devil take him. He was already halfway to an apoplexy from the deviations to his routine today. Well, that might be an exaggeration, but his deuced eye hadn’t stopped twitching the past hour.
He mentally ticked off the rest of the day’s agenda, prior to meeting with the fellow Wicked Earls’ Club members to visit Tattersalls: an appointment at his tailor followed the registry office, then his regular weekly meeting with his man-of-affairs.
Directing Cinnabar around a pile of fresh horse droppings, Ansley squinted in contemplation. If he ate his midday meal during the latter appointment, he’d be back on schedule with a few minutes to spare.
He quirked his mouth up on one side.
Yes. Perfect. That was precisely what he’d do.
While he supposed most men of his position would’ve delegated the task of acquiring a new housekeeper to their man-of-affairs or perhaps, even a solicitor, he wasn’t such a man. He required someone with more than the skills and abilities to efficiently run his household.
It was imperative that his housekeeper understood his eccentricities and idiosyncrasies. He was most particular about his domestics here in London and at Fawtonbrook Hall. One ill-suited servant could destroy the orderly mechanisms of his structured life, much like a stone tossed in a lake caused ripples.
Upon Ansley’s entering the registry office, a lanky, rather pompous clerk rose from behind his desk. Shoving his round spectacles up the bridge of his reedy nose, he hurried toward a closed door upon which was displayed a gold-lettered placard: Artemas T. Snodgrass-Executive Manager.
A less ostentatious sign on another door decried it as Robin Birdwhistle’s office. He hid a sympathetic wince. Poor sot. His parents must’ve been foxed when they picked that particularly unfortunate choice of a name.
“Your lordship, we’ve been expecting you.” After a brisk knock and a summons from within, the man pushed the handle to admit Ansley. With a subservient nod, he bustled back to his desk.
In the stark and unadorned waiting area, two gentlemen in ill-fitting suits regarded Ansley with thinly-veiled hostility that he should be seen before them. Three fresh-faced women, perhaps in the middle of their third decades, and who looked to be nannies or governesses, also waited. Their regard was somewhat more…avid.
Something that might very well have been a flush heated his neck, and an uncanny urge to yank at his cravat overcame him. He might’ve been a pastry displayed at a bakers from the hunger in their not-so-subtle ogling.
He barely suppressed the urge to turn on his heel and complete the necessary arrangement via correspondence, after all. He wasn’t that good looking. As he stepped across the threshold, another door opened inwardly. A woman glided out wearing a simple blue cloak and a familiar, sinfully ugly bonnet.
Willow.
His happiness at seeing her again defied logic. Nonetheless, warmth spiraled inside his chest, and by damn, a smile actually bent his mouth upward.
The woman was a bloody enchantress. There could be no other explanation for his fascination. Except, he was a man of logic and reason. He didn’t believe in bewitchment or any of that other nonsensical codswallop: love at first sight. Soulmates. Destiny.
