One Night in London (8 page)
Edward followed her into the room, trying to ignore the swish of her skirt as she walked before him. It was just a business arrangement between them, he reminded himself. The way she moved—and smiled—was a distraction he would have to ignore. The housekeeper who had admitted him closed the doors of the room, and they were alone.
“May I offer you a drink?” she asked as they sat down, she on a small settee and he on a facing chair. A tray filled with a number of crystal decanters was on the table beside her. Lady Gordon entertained gentlemen often, from the looks of things.
Normally Edward only drank after supper, but tonight he took one more look at those loose curls trailing over her shoulders and said, “Please.”
“Perhaps I should tell you about Mr. Sloan first.” She poured a glass of brandy and held it out to him.
Edward took a sip and nodded. “By all means, if you think it necessary.”
“His father was a stevedore,” she began. “He wanted more out of life, so he cast about for something profitable. Publishing the scandalous secrets of people above him—and to his mind, that includes nearly everyone—not only made him money, but brought him some status as well. He is fiercely proud of his achievement; he is rich, as he wanted to be, and he has made his money off the troubles of aristocrats and other proud people, the sort who have always looked down on him.” She hesitated a moment, rolling her lower lip between her teeth. “If you brought a suit against him, he would react very badly, even if it meant his own ruin.”
Edward inclined his head. “I grasp your meaning.”
A sigh of relief slipped through her lips, and she smiled. “Fortunately, I have an acquaintance with him. Not a close one, really, but cordial enough that I believe our association will sway his inclination. However, to make the most of our chance, it would be best if Mr. Sloan believes you to be a close friend of mine.”
“Ah.”
How close?
whispered some devil in his mind, the devil that was still preoccupied with the lines of her collarbone. Her incendiary gown didn’t cover them at all. “How do you suggest I proceed?” he asked to drown out the insidious little voice.
A bit of that flush he had admired earlier rose in her cheeks again, although her expression remained the same. “You might call me Francesca, instead of Lady Gordon. Permit me to call you Edward a time or two. Allow me to insinuate we have known each other for some time, and have a special affection for each other. I promise not to go so far that he will begin to print rumors of our attachment,” she rushed to add, watching him closely. “Just enough that he will view it as a favor for me as well.”
Her name was Francesca. How unusual—but then, she had mentioned something about being Italian, even though she looked and sounded every inch an Englishwoman. “I have no objection,” he said. He probably should have one, especially since he quite liked the sound of his name in her husky voice. A business arrangement, he thought again; business only.
Francesca.
“Very well.” She wet her lips. “I should probably beg your pardon now for anything I might say. I have a lamentable tendency to get carried away in the heat of the moment, and say more than I intended. I’ve been thinking all day how to persuade Mr. Sloan to issue a retraction, but it will have to be decided by how he reacts.”
“If you can persuade him to retract, publicly and prominently, you may say almost anything you like,” Edward said dryly. “I shan’t be offended by what is, for all purposes, a performance.”
Her eyebrows went up slightly in surprise. “Quite right!” A pleased smile spread over her face. “How fortunate we see it the same way.”
He smiled faintly. “If we did not, I wouldn’t here, would I?”
Her lips twitched but she didn’t look away. “I really am very sorry for haranguing you yesterday.”
“There is no need for regret.” He paused, then decided there was no reason to stop himself. They were on a more intimate footing tonight already. “I gathered you were under some strong emotional influence.”
Her lips parted, and she took a deep breath before answering. “Yes. But I ought not to have succumbed to it.”
Edward dismissed it with a wave of one hand. “No, no. When one’s family is endangered, there is no stricture that cannot be broken. In your place I would have done the same.”
“I very much doubt it,” she exclaimed, and then looked as though she wanted to snatch the words back.
He cleared his throat. “Yes, well. Perhaps not
exactly
the same . . .”
She gave him a look, her eyebrows raised and her lips slowly curling. It was an intimate smile, one lovers might share over a private joke. Edward resisted the urge to shift in his chair, and instead took another sip of his brandy.
“All right, I might have done something utterly different,” he conceded. “But only in deed, not in spirit.” He paused, watching her expressive face glow with subtle amusement. “I truly am very sorry for your difficulties over your niece. I hope the girl is not in any danger.”
She blinked several times, very quickly, then straightened her shoulders. “Thank you,” she said. “I hope not, too.”
Now that he was staring at her, he seemed unable to stop. His eyes roamed over her face, beautifully flushed, and her gleaming hair, so glorious against her skin. The other day, when she railed at him for stealing her solicitor, she’d been magnificent, in the manner of an avenging Fury. Francesca Gordon in a passion was quite a sight. The little devil that had invaded his mind tonight couldn’t stop comparing her to Louisa, who went pale and silent in emotional upset. Francesca—he really mustn’t become accustomed to thinking of her as such—reacted with anger and action. She stormed his house, the home of a total stranger, and upbraided him for inadvertently ruining her hopes. She said she would never forgive him, and smiled wickedly when he called her a managing female. By God, one could have a rousing good row with a woman like this, and then . . .
Edward closed his eyes and inhaled to quell the images springing to his mind in vivid, sinful detail of how they could get over an argument. He didn’t want to have an argument with any woman, no matter how sweet the reconciliation. He admired women like Louisa, who knew when to hold her tongue and be tactful and agreeable. It kept life orderly and predictable.
Unfortunately, tonight would likely be none of those things. And Louisa, who was so perfectly suited to him and claimed to love him, had broken their engagement in the most public, humiliating way possible.
He looked at his hostess. She was a handsome woman, with spirit and courage. If she could achieve what she promised tonight, he would be happy to line up every last solicitor in London for her inspection. Then he would bid her farewell, and that would be the end of their association.
Francesca . . .
With one twist of his wrist he drained the last of his brandy.
“May I pour you some more?” she asked. Flame silk flickered at him as she leaned toward the tray with the decanter. The firelight shone on her hair as if it were a mirror. Edward felt as dry as tinder.
“Absolutely.”
F
rancesca was quickly discovering that she wasn’t quite as prepared for this evening as she had thought.
She wasn’t worried about Sloan. He had replied to her note with a great deal of warmth and alacrity. He might not be anticipating the same evening she was, but he would be here, and she refused to consider the chance that she might fail to persuade him. If nothing else, Sloan appreciated the value of having people in his debt, and this would put her—and Lord Edward—very much in his debt.
But inviting Lord Edward to her house, and seeing him there, was more jarring than expected. From the moment he first stepped into the house, darkly somber in his evening clothes, he seemed to take in everything in a glance before fastening his attention on her, and now he sat and watched her over his brandy glass with those inscrutable gray eyes. Francesca felt on edge. He looked taller here in her bright, cozy parlor than in the chilly blue salon in Berkeley Square, where the high ceiling dwarfed them both. She had dressed very carefully for tonight, in one of her favorite gowns that made her feel strong and beautiful. Female beauty was a form of power, and tonight she needed every advantage she could find. It was meant much more to beguile Gregory Sloan than Edward de Lacey, but the longer she sat under Lord Edward’s regard, the more aware she felt of every whisper of the silk against her body. She could almost tell when he was looking at her; her skin seemed to tingle. There was nothing offensive or importunate in his gaze. He just watched her with a directness she wasn’t used to, as if she were of immense interest to him. Not even Alconbury fixed his attention on her so completely.
And strangely, she didn’t find it bothersome, just unsettling. As if someone who should have taken no notice of her had suddenly become deeply interested. She didn’t know how to respond to his interest. Of course, he was interested in what she could do for him, and perhaps in what he would be required to do for her. She was a little surprised when he asked about Georgina, but she could hear the sincerity in his voice when he spoke of family. Of course, his family had been threatened as well, so perhaps he understood, in a way, how she felt and why she acted as she had.
She was glad when he accepted more brandy. It gave her something to do, and at the same time another excuse to look at him. Even as he was, at ease with a brandy in hand, he looked controlled and reserved. She hoped he would remain so, at least as long as it took her to convince Gregory Sloan to print a retraction. If he were to lash out at Gregory and begin an argument, her whole plan could end in disaster.
Fortunately, the guest of honor arrived then, a good quarter hour before she had specified. Francesca rose to her feet at the sound of the door knocker, smoothing her hands over her skirt and composing herself for the following performance, as Lord Edward had called it. He rose as well. Without a word he moved to the fireplace and leaned one elbow against the mantel, as if he were a welcome and frequent guest in her home. She gave him a nod of approval, then turned as Mrs. Hotchkiss opened the door for Sloan.
He strode in with a look of victory about him, but stopped abruptly as he saw Lord Edward. Francesca went toward him, hands outstretched. “Mr. Sloan,” she said warmly, “how lovely of you to come by.”
He raised her hand to his lips. “As if I would refuse any invitation from you.”
She laughed lightly, ignoring his implied meaning. “A lady must never presume these things. But here—there is someone I particularly wish you to meet. May I introduce you to my friend?” At his curt nod, she turned to the other man. “Edward, this is Mr. Gregory Sloan. Gregory, may I present Lord Edward de Lacey?”
His expression stiffened at the name, but Sloan bowed every bit as politely as Lord Edward did.
“May I pour you a drink?” Francesca asked her new guest.
Sloan said nothing for a moment, his eyes on Lord Edward. “My dear Francesca—” he began softly.
“Oh, yes, you know I had an ulterior motive in inviting you tonight.” She poured a generous brandy and pressed the glass into his hand before seating herself. “But really, Gregory, how could you print such things and not expect to stir up a tempest?”
His eyes darkened, just a little, but Francesca saw it. A mask slid over his features, almost as an actor slipping into a part. Sloan lifted one shoulder as he took the chair opposite her, where Lord Edward had been sitting a few moments ago. “It was business, my dear. Nothing but business.”
“As if that excuses everything,” she murmured.
“In my world it does,” he replied, and took a large swallow of his drink.
“Would you print such things about me?” she asked in reproach. He just looked at her. “Because it was every bit as distressing to me as it was to Edward.”
“I told you not to pay it any mind, my dear,” said Lord Edward, to her surprise. He left his post by the fireplace and came to sit beside her on the settee. It wasn’t a large piece of furniture, and he made no effort to keep his distance. Francesca’s pulse jumped as their shoulders bumped, and she had to stop herself from inching away.
Sloan looked between the two of them. “I’d no idea you were even acquainted with his lordship,” he said stiffly. “Even so, I cannot withhold every bit of news just because it affects you or any other friend of mine. I’d have nothing to print.”
Francesca felt the tension spring up in Lord Edward’s arm, so close to hers. “I do understand, Gregory,” she said quickly. “You know I read your naughty paper every day—such a bad influence you are.” She pursed her lips in a teasing imitation of a grimace, and Sloan smiled a little. “But in this case I had to speak to you. You must admit it was rather shocking and exceptional, what you wrote, and bound to cause quite an uproar. And Edward and I have known each other for some time,” she added. She tilted back her head to flash a brilliant smile of warning at the man in question. “He’s simply not in town much.”
Lord Edward smiled back at her. “To my regret. The moment I saw your face yesterday, I couldn’t remember why I stayed away so long.” To Francesca’s shock, he was looking at her as if they were much more than friends, with that dangerously attractive smile she had noted before—and warned herself to be wary of. Flustered, she yanked her attention back to Sloan, who was watching with a mixture of skepticism and interest.
“I won’t deny your scandal sheets are very amusing,” she said to Sloan, “but this time you’ve gone too far. Where on earth did you hear such lies?” She wagged a finger at him in mild admonition. “Someone will bring a suit against you one of these days.”
His eyes turned on Lord Edward, amused and a little mocking. He leaned back in his chair, almost gloating. “Not this time they won’t. My source was sound.”
Francesca burst out laughing. “Oh, don’t be silly! Of course Edward wouldn’t dream of doing such a thing—my friendship runs both ways, you know, Gregory darling.” She gave him a meaningful smile. “But one day you’ll cross a hothead who won’t have my good counsel to restrain his foolish impulses.”
A dull flush rose in his cheeks. “Then I don’t know what you wanted to discuss.”
She had thought about this, and realized she would have to toss Sloan some sop. If she tried to get him to retract every word, he’d dig in his heels like a mule. She knew she should have broached this earlier with Lord Edward, but it was too late now and she would have to take a chance. “Well, of course, I’m sure your source had his sources,” she began, choosing each word with deliberate care. “Not everything was a
complete
fabrication, you understand—but on the key point, your source has sadly misled you. I think you should retract the parts that could come back to haunt you. After all, people buy your papers because they believe them to be true. If it should appear that you print anything, even that which is demonstrably false . . .” She made a helpless gesture with one hand, letting her words trail away.
“Oh?” Sloan sat forward, expression sharpening. It made him look a bit like a rat, sharp-nosed with quivering cheeks. Francesca didn’t even want to think what he would have looked like had she accepted his proposition, but she had a bad feeling it would have been very much like this. “Which parts are false?”
“I understand your position, sir,” said Edward unexpectedly. Francesca glanced at him from the corner of her eye without altering her expression, even as her mind raced. Oh dear, what was he about to say? He had agreed she would handle this . . . But Lord Edward moved to the edge of the settee and set his empty glass down on the tray. “Your source is obviously a member of the Halston household.” Sloan sat back warily and jerked his head in a single nod. Lord Edward sighed. “I had hoped to keep it out of the papers,” he said to Francesca with some regret. “I only spoke to her yesterday.”
“Of course,” she said, playing along, trying to think what the Halstons had to do with this.
Sloan stared at him, stone-faced. “Then you’re not engaged to Lady Louisa Halston.”
“Not any longer.”
“She broke it off?”
Lord Edward flicked one hand. “A gentleman cannot possibly answer that question.”
“Oh, Gregory, must you dig for more information?” cried Francesca. “I won’t have my drawing room made into a gossip mill for your paper.” Good Lord—she had hardly paid attention to the bit about a broken engagement, but she now had a terrible suspicion Lord Edward had discovered it was over when she showed him the gossip sheet. She couldn’t tell a thing from his expression, but surely no man would appreciate being jilted, let alone in the gossip papers. She remembered how he had stood so stiff and still at the window that morning, his shoulders tensed up, and her heart softened a little. What a dreadful way to learn such a thing.
“I’m not digging, Francesca dear,” said Sloan, still watching the other man with a calculating expression. “Just verifying what I was told by someone who assured me it was sound and true in every way.”
“I’ve no wish to call anyone a liar publicly. Lady Louisa was very upset yesterday,” said Lord Edward in his cool, crisp voice. “I am sure some strong emotions sprang out of our conversation, and that is perfectly understandable. But I really cannot allow this . . . slur on my family to stand unchallenged. My brother has taken to his bed because of a broken leg. I hired a solicitor to see to some of my late father’s rather complicated and extensive affairs. There is nothing exceptional about either event, and to knit these matters into a full-flown scandal is really beyond the pale.”
Sloan’s eyes narrowed. “What do you suggest?”
“Nothing,” replied Lord Edward, “except that the story you were told may have been amplified to increase its value.”
“Hmph.” Sloan shot a dark glance at Francesca, as if blaming her for the undermining of a scandal that might have provided a legion of profitable stories. She returned his look with one of sympathetic disappointment, as if he only had himself to blame. Which he did, mostly, although apparently with some help from a vindictive woman. Why had Lady Louisa Halston jilted Lord Edward? Or had he dropped her?
Lord Edward leaned back, looking at ease. “I presume Lord Halston was compensated for his story. He’s been in financial difficulties for some time, and no doubt this additional distress overset his mind. But in essence, he sold you a bill of goods.” He paused. “If I were to make good your loss . . .”
Sloan was silent for a moment, calculation visible in his eyes. “Two hundred pounds,” he said at last. Francesca gasped, and he cut a harsh scowl at her. “I suppose it’s right fair of you to make compensation, as you say, for any loss I may have suffered.”
Edward raised one eyebrow. “And for my loss?”
“I’ll print a nice retraction on the front page tomorrow morning, of all those rumors about your father’s secret marriage.” Sloan’s eyes glittered. His accent had degraded rapidly, and now he sounded almost like the dockworker he had once been. “Will it please you, Franny m’dear?”
Mouth still open from the whopping sum Sloan had demanded for his retraction, Francesca scrambled for a reply. Lord Edward said nothing, so she stammered, “Y-Yes, I— That sounds eminently fair to me. See, Edward,” she added, recovering to turn to her other guest. “Didn’t I say Gregory was a reasonable man?”
“And very right you were, my dear,” he replied with a smile. He laid one hand on hers and pressed lightly. Francesca wasn’t sure if it was in thanks or in warning, but she felt it to the tips of her toes. “I would be lost without you.”
Sloan’s mouth turned down at the corners. He lurched to his feet. “When will I have the money?”
Lord Edward didn’t move from his seat. “Shall we say, first thing tomorrow morning?”
“Aye, after you get your morning papers.” Sloan snorted. “Understood.”
Francesca jumped up. “Oh, there,” she said with a smile. “A pleasing resolution! I knew we could find one. Thank you so much for coming, Gregory; it was such a pleasure to see you again.”
He gave her a look. “I’ll just bet it was,” he said under his breath. “Perhaps our next visit will be less about business.”
She gave a low laugh. “Of course! You can’t imagine I enjoy talking about business.” She walked him into the hall and bade him farewell, smiling brightly until Mrs. Hotchkiss had shown him out and closed the door. Then she placed one hand against the wall for a moment as her knees went weak. She could hardly believe that had worked, even if not the way she’d anticipated. Two hundred pounds! Edward hadn’t batted an eye at the figure, but it was a large amount of money. She hoped he wasn’t put out by that bit of extortion. Had Gregory really paid so much? Francesca considered the magnitude of the scandal suggested, and thought he might well have paid close to that amount. If true, and if the news could be doled out one drop at a time, enlarged upon and embroidered from time to time, he could publish it every day for months.