One Night in London (9 page)

But now that danger was averted—from Gregory Sloan’s newspaper, at any rate. She had made no promises regarding any other gossip rags, and Edward hadn’t mentioned them, either. And as soon as Gregory Sloan printed his retraction, Edward would help her find a fierce and able solicitor so she could rescue Georgina.

Francesca took a deep, fortifying breath, trying to forget how he sat so close to her and looked at her so familiarly. Out of the blue she wondered if he had taken it very much to heart that his fiancée had thrown him over. The girl must be soft in the head. Edward de Lacey was shockingly attractive when he smiled, as rich as the very devil, and she was sure she’d never met a more proper gentleman . . . Not that it was any of her business why his fiancée had sold gossip about his family to a scandal sheet—even for two hundred pounds—or why the girl had cried off at all, let alone without having the courtesy to tell him in person. Francesca told herself it would be only decent to allow him to nurse his heartbreak in quiet dignity.

Then she almost laughed at herself, spinning a sad story out of nothing. For all she knew, it had been an arranged marriage without a speck of affection, and he was only angry that it had gotten in the papers. His personal affairs and motives weren’t her concern, and it was mildly embarrassing that she had to keep reminding herself of that. And they still had business together, this time hers. She turned and went back into the parlor.

Chapter 8

E
dward poured himself another glass of brandy the instant the door closed behind Sloan and Francesca, then swallowed half of it in one gulp. For two hundred pounds, Lord Halston, who would have been his father-in-law, had sold his private embarrassment to the meanest gossip rag in London. Thank God Gerard had told him about the earl’s difficulties this morning, or else he never would have believed the man could have done such a thing. Of course he had known Halston wasn’t nearly as wealthy as Durham; nobody was. Of course Louisa’s marriage into the Durham family would have bolstered her family’s fortunes a great deal; that was no secret, either. He knew all that, and yet still, like a damned fool, had given Louisa his heart, his respect, and his confidence, thinking he had hers as well.

In return she told her father what she had promised to keep secret, and one of them decided it wasn’t even worth waiting to see if this potential scandal led to ruin or just a large legal bill for Edward. He had thought her so much better than that. He had thought she genuinely cared for him. He tossed back the rest of his brandy and eyed the decanter, itching for another drink even though he could feel the heat of the liquor in his blood already. Perhaps they ought to put Charlie in charge after all, for it seemed he wasn’t half as perceptive as everyone—including himself—thought.

His hostess came back into the room, almost radiant in triumph. “That went rather well, I think,” she said, going to the table and pouring herself a small glass of sherry. “We shall see in the morning, of course, but I trust everything was to your satisfaction?”

“Yes.” He forced himself to shake off his simmering anger at Halston and focus on Francesca Gordon. It was less difficult than it should have been. As much as Edward tried to deny it, she was fascinating, both in appearance and manner. She was nothing like Louisa, who had been his idealized model of womanhood for years now, and yet there was something about her that pulled at him. Perhaps it was the fact that she offered to help ameliorate his scandal, where Louisa had helped cause it. Or perhaps it was something else. He didn’t want to think about it too much.

She smiled and raised her glass in salute to him. “To a successful partnership, my lord.” The loose cluster of curls at her crown trembled as she tipped back her head to drink. The skin at her neck was smooth, and looked as velvety soft as a fresh peach. Garnet earrings winked at her ears. And when she smiled at him again, her upper lip glistened with wine. He could almost taste it on his tongue . . . and he couldn’t help thinking that he was no longer an engaged man.

When she looked at him inquiringly, he held out his glass without hesitation. Somehow prudence and moderation seemed vastly overrated and unrewarding tonight. He watched the light play over her face as she poured more brandy into his glass. No, “handsome” wasn’t quite the right word for her. Neither was “beautiful,” really, but she certainly wasn’t plain. Her nose was a little too prominent. Her mouth was wide and full. Her eyes, when she glanced up at him, were the color of good brandy and bright with delight. And her hair, in the candlelight, was most definitely some shade of light coppery brown that appeared to have a glow all its own.

“Yes,” he said, forcing his thoughts back into safer paths. “Very successful, indeed. Sloan was as susceptible to your persuasion as you promised, and I am in your debt. Tell me how you wish to proceed in finding a solicitor, and I shall make the arrangements at once. I don’t allow my debts to languish.” The sooner he satisfied his obligation to her, the sooner he would be free of the need to see her, which would in turn dissipate the urge to touch her.

She crossed the room to the fireplace and took a paper out of a carved box on the mantel, then came to sit beside him. He had unconsciously chosen the settee again, and when she sat with a swirl of silk, her skirts billowed over his feet. He could feel the sweep of the flame-colored flounce brushing his ankle.

“I have made a list,” she was saying. “I inquired with most of these gentlemen already, but made little headway. It is my hope that one of them will reconsider.”

Edward tried to ignore that little rustle of silk against his ankle. He could feel it even through the fabric of his trousers. He could smell her perfume as well, some fresh, rich scent that made him think of dark gardens in the moonlight. The brandy seemed to have heightened his awareness of every sensation, unfortunately.

He swallowed the last of his drink, and reluctantly put the empty glass on the table. He needed to marshal his thoughts into order and stop thinking about the texture of her skin and the taste of her lips, neither of which he would ever have cause to learn in truth. He took the list of names and studied it. A couple of the same solicitors had been suggested to him as well, although none with as high a recommendation as Wittiers. “Very well. I’ll arrange it.”

She blinked. “What? You—You’ll just arrange it, like that?”

“I’ll send a note to these two”—he indicated the names he recognized—“and have them call. They were also recommended to me, so I presume they are sufficiently qualified.”

“Oh,” she said in a surprised tone. “I presumed as much . . .”

“Never presume competence.” He folded the list. “May I keep this?”

“Of course.”

He made the mistake of looking at her. Perched on the edge of the settee, hands clasped on her knee and lips parted, she was staring at him as if he were both alarming and wonderful, as if she might throw her arms about him in gratitude. Edward cleared his throat. “Have you any objection?”

“No,” she murmured. “None at all.” Her expression didn’t change.

He found himself unable to turn away from her when she looked at him like this. “Any suggestion to add?”

“No, not yet.” She seemed about to say more, then stopped herself.

He leaned forward. “Oh? You look . . . puzzled.”

She wet her lips. “I’m very sorry,” she said in a hushed, rapid voice. “About your fiancée. I didn’t realize . . . when I first read the piece . . . I didn’t attach as much significance to that as I did to the rest.”

Her face was so expressive. He could see no shade of calculation in her clear gaze, no artful manipulation. She looked genuinely sympathetic, her eyes soft and sorry. There was something very appealing about her frankness. It formed a seductive, and dangerous, combination with her other attractions. It was bad enough that he should be fascinated by her hair and her bosom and the way her skirts brushed so intimately against his leg; to find her even more attractive would be madness. “Neither did I,” he said at last, when he could speak with his normal detachment. “And you really must stop apologizing, particularly for things you bear no responsibility for.”

“Not personally responsible, no,” she agreed. “But I wouldn’t want you to think I rushed to confront you with that evidence; my attention was wholly caught by the other charges . . .”

“The ‘Durham Dilemma,’ as Sloan put it?” Edward sighed. He knew that damned phrase would be on everyone’s lips whether Sloan printed his retraction or not. “I would rather that phrase sink into oblivion. A broken betrothal is a minor furor compared to the thrill of a potential scandal like that.”

“Yes,” she murmured, “but it can still wound.”

It had. Not that he would allow himself to give in to the sting of it. He said nothing, as his thoughts weren’t very suitable for a lady’s ears.

Of course, Lady Gordon was like no other lady he had ever met. And that was also not worthy of comment, Edward told himself.

She cleared her throat at his prolonged silence. “You will notify me when the solicitors respond? I really am anxious to begin. Heaven only knows where Ellen’s taken Georgina by now.”

Edward jerked out of his thoughts. He had business with her, he reminded himself yet again. He was a bloody fool to sit here brooding on Louisa’s betrayal and his hostess’s charms when he owed Francesca Gordon a great deal, and had no business with her except finding a suitable attorney. “Of course. I shall send to them tomorrow, and notify you.”

She walked him to the door and bade him good-night. The evening seemed colder once he left the house, and Edward buttoned his coat as he walked down the steps to his carriage. He caught one last glimpse of her, still standing in the bright rectangle of her doorway, her hand lifted in farewell as his driver started the horses. He raised his own hand before realizing what he did, and then spent the entire ride home trying not to think that it would only be a few hours before he saw Lady Gordon again.

Chapter 9

T
he first thing Francesca did when she woke was rush downstairs to read Gregory Sloan’s paper. To her relief, he had kept his word and printed a retraction. It was quite a humble one for Sloan, and she hoped Lord Edward was satisfied. He had appeared to be, last evening. He’d thanked her and been far more gracious than she had expected from their first meeting. In fact, he’d been a great deal warmer, even when Mr. Sloan had gone and it was just the two of them on her settee.

She was still at the breakfast table when the knocker sounded. For an instant a wild thought flashed through her mind that it would be Lord Edward, and she leaped to her feet in alarm at being still in her morning gown with her hair loose. She should have told Mrs. Hotchkiss to delay, so she could run upstairs and dress more appropriately, or at least put up her hair. But a moment later Henry Alconbury came through the door, beaming brightly. Her shoulders relaxed in relief and she smiled back at him.

“Good morning,” he said, coming to give her a kiss on the cheek. “I see you’re rising early now.”

She laughed and resumed her seat. “Were you trying to catch me unprepared? I retired early last night, if you must know.”

He stepped back and inspected her face. “This is at least two nights in a row you’ve kept early hours. It’s quite unlike you, my dear. I hope you’re not making yourself unwell.” He had come by the other night when she was sunk in despair over losing both Georgina and James Wittiers’s services, and he had worried over her then, too.

“No,” she assured him. “After last night, I am much better.” She reached for the teapot. “Would you like some tea?”

He made a face but nodded. Mrs. Hotchkiss had followed him silently into the room, and rushed to set out another cup and saucer, and Francesca poured him a cup. “One of these days I shall corrupt you into drinking coffee,” he said, dumping sugar into his tea.

“Never,” she scoffed. “Coffee is a vile drink.”

Alconbury rolled his eyes. “Mrs. Hotchkiss, you must conspire with me,” he said to the housekeeper, who was still straightening dishes in the sideboard. “I shall not be satisfied until I am served coffee in this house.”

Mrs. Hotchkiss shook her finger at him. Francesca knew Mrs. Hotchkiss thought Alconbury could do no wrong, so she ignored it. “Now, sir, you’ll not be costing me my position. Lady Gordon wants only tea, and tea I shall serve.”

“Traitor,” he said mildly. “I shall bribe you later.”

Mrs. Hotchkiss sniffed. “There’s only one way you’ll be telling me what to serve in this house, my lord, and that’s not it.” Alconbury gave her a beatific smile. Mrs. Hotchkiss put up her chin and marched to the door, where she turned around and sent Francesca a meaningful look over his head. She might as well have cried out,
Marry him, madam!
Francesca said nothing and waved one hand in dismissal.

“What has improved your situation?” Alconbury asked as the door closed behind the housekeeper. He sipped his tea with an air of long-suffering. “Has Ellen written and agreed to let you see Georgina again?”

Francesca sighed. “No. But I have great hopes of securing a solicitor very soon, and then I intend to hire the best investigator in London to find them.”

“Oh?” Surprise lit Alconbury’s face. “That’s quite a turnabout. Not two days ago you were sunk in gloom over solicitors, and now you’ve got one?”

She hesitated. “Not quite. But I expect to, in a day or so.”

“How did you manage that?” He reached for the sugar, despite her severe look, and added more to his tea.

“I found a gentleman in need of my assistance, and offered to help him if he would help me in turn. We struck a bargain.”

For a moment Alconbury’s face froze. His startled blue gaze flew to meet hers. Francesca just raised her eyebrows; he was not her husband or her father, to criticize her actions—and she had done nothing shocking or improper anyway. Not that she was about to confess to him, at any rate. Alconbury picked up his teacup and took a long drink. “Who would that be, my dear?” he asked, his voice carefully light. “I thought I was your gentleman in need.”

She laughed. “Yes, ever in need of something! It was just a trifle, but it put him in my debt, which shall suit me very well indeed.” Of course she had maneuvered to create that debt, but that was beside the point. Another thing she didn’t feel moved to reveal.

“Indeed,” he said. His jovial manner had dimmed noticeably. “Who is it?”

“Lord Edward de Lacey.” She poured herself more tea, more for the occupation than because she wanted more to drink. Alconbury, for all his good looks and general charm, had become a bit too proprietary toward her of late. It would do him good to realize she was still her own person, and capable of solving her own problems.

Alconbury’s forehead creased as he tried to place the name. “De Lacey?” he murmured, then repeated it incredulously as comprehension dawned in his eyes. “Edward de Lacey? Of the Durham de Laceys? Of the Durham Dilemma?”

“
Tsk
, Alconbury. You know better than to believe Gregory Sloan’s rubbish.”

“I don’t care if it’s rubbish, you should be careful about getting tangled up with that sort!”

“Why?” she asked just as sharply. “What sort do you mean—wealthy, aristocratic, and with such consequence everyone rushes to do his bidding at once? Because that sort of help appeals to me very much right now.” He scowled. She relented, a little. “Then what do you know about him, not his family? For it’s only Lord Edward I’ve dealt with, and he’s been utterly unremarkable—very civil and completely proper.”

Alconbury was not persuaded. “I don’t know much—yet—but to be in the gossip papers—”

“As if one can control that!” she exclaimed. “I’d have no friends and no amusement if I shunned everyone in the gossip papers, and that includes you, my dear sir.”

He waved one hand. “That’s different.”

“Yes, I daresay it is,” she agreed wryly. “You land in the gossip papers because of your outrageous behavior, while people like Lord Edward arrive there due to the actions of others.”

“That’s not what I meant.” He sighed. “What I should have said was, men of that sort are accustomed to getting what they want, no matter whom they harm in the process. They would think nothing of taking your assistance and then never finding a convenient time to render you theirs.”

Francesca pursed her lips. It hadn’t occurred to her that Lord Edward might break his word—not that she would allow him to do so. She had faced him down once before, and wouldn’t hesitate to do it again if necessary. “I shall keep your warning in mind.”

Alconbury closed his eyes for a moment. “Very well. I see your mind is made up, and that I cannot change it. Dare I ask what you did to obligate him to you?”

She smiled and held out Sloan’s scandal sheet. “The ‘Durham Dilemma’ was sadly exaggerated, it appears.”

He read the paper. “You—
you
persuaded Sloan to print this?” he asked in astonishment. “Francesca, what did you have to promise
Sloan
?”

“Nothing,” she replied. “I asked him very sweetly, and he indulged me.”

Alconbury looked as if she’d clubbed him in the head. “Gregory Sloan doesn’t do favors without getting something in return. You know that.”

“And yet I promised him nothing.” She paused, shooting him a look of mild warning. “Lord Edward struck that bargain, and it was solely between the two of them.”

He passed his hand over his face. “So now Sloan will be keeping his eyes on you, and you’ll be hounding de Lacey to fulfill his promise to you. How did you manage all this in the space of a day?”

“You make it sound so nefarious.”

“Don’t you see that it could be?” He jumped to his feet instead of laughing. “I don’t know much about Edward de Lacey, but his brother is the Earl of Gresham—or now Duke of Durham, I suppose—and he’s a regular hell-raiser. A rake of the highest order, a daredevil, a spendthrift who’s done his best to run through the Durham fortune . . . They’re not a good family to tangle with.”

“I shall be fine,” she said firmly, trying to curb her growing impatience. Alconbury had been so sympathetic all the previous times she’d confided in him about her troubles; what had gotten into him today? “Lord Edward promised to help me secure a solicitor. I asked nothing more, and he certainly offered nothing more. Once he does so, I expect we’ll never have cause to see or speak to each other again.”

He paced to the window and stood in silence for a moment, staring out at her garden with his hands clasped behind him. “Don’t you think,” he said quietly, “that perhaps your quest to raise Georgina is becoming impractical?”

Francesca felt as if she turned to stone for a passing second. “What do you mean by that?”

“I mean . . .” He made a frustrated gesture with both hands. “John Haywood didn’t name you as her custodian. You’ve had trouble finding a solicitor willing to plead your cause. Now Ellen’s taken the child, and you might spend a fortune on investigators before finding her, without any assurance you would be able to take her in even when you do. Isn’t it time to consider leaving this search to Mr. Kendall?”

“John didn’t name Ellen as custodian, either.” She had to say the words very precisely to avoid losing her temper entirely. As it was, her fingers clenched into a fist around the butter knife, and her chest hurt from the sharp, angry beating of her heart. “I found one solicitor who believed my case had merit, and I shall find another soon, one who will take the case and win it. Georgina is my sister’s child, left without a father or mother, and I will not abandon her because of the expense, certainly not to the derelict oversight of Mr. Kendall!”

He must have heard the rage in her voice, for in a moment he was beside her on his knee, covering her fist with his own hand. “I never meant you should abandon her. I know how you care for her. But Francesca . . .” His fingers stroked along the taut lines of hers. “Georgina needn’t be your only family. You deserve to have your own children—and a husband—to love.”

She supposed, dimly, that could be construed as a marriage proposal. Unfortunately, she was still shaking with fury over his suggestion that she give up on something,
someone
, so dear to her. Alconbury had plenty of family—his mother, three sisters and a younger brother, a growing pack of nieces and nephews. She could laugh at his bemoaning their demands and the headaches they caused him because she knew he loved them all, to some degree. But it meant he couldn’t know what it was like to lose everyone; her father died when she was a child, and her mother left her behind for Italy. Her husband died after only a few years of marriage. She had loved her sister Giuliana even if they only became well acquainted later in life, but Georgina absorbed all the love she would have given her own children, if she’d had any. And the thought of quitting her search now, when she didn’t even know if Georgina was well or where she was, was harsher than a slap in the face. Alconbury didn’t understand her at all if he thought she would do that for him, even if she had been madly in love with him. Which she most assuredly was not.

At her silence, he squeezed her hand. “You know I adore you. I don’t want to see you hurt, or worn down by a long legal battle that may well be impossible to win. You’ll drive yourself mad over this.”

Losing Georgina would carve away part of her heart and soul. It was impossible to think of quitting the fight. She slid her hand out from under his. “Then I shall have to win quickly.”

His shoulders fell. Alconbury looked at her gravely. “And I suppose this de Lacey fellow is part of your plan to do that.”

As if on cue, someone rapped the knocker on the front door. Again, irrationally, Francesca’s heart shot into her throat at the thought that it might be Lord Edward, appearing as if summoned by Alconbury’s talk of him. She heard Mrs. Hotchkiss answer the door, then a murmur of voices before the door closed. She realized she was gripping the edge of the table, and got to her feet just as her housekeeper opened the door.

She was alone, with a letter in her hand. “A message for you, my lady.”

Francesca recognized the crest on the seal as she took it from Mrs. Hotchkiss and tore it open. Her eyes flew over the brief message, and she exhaled in relief. “Yes, Lord Edward is part of my plan,” she said in belated answer to Alconbury’s skeptical question. “And he appears to be working out splendidly.”