Page 30 of The Dangerous Lord

“At night, you don’t want the cock sleeping in the hen house,” he bit out.

She colored. “I suppose that’s one way to put it.”

Under other circumstances, he might have been insulted. But Sara was merely behaving as Felicity had intended. He couldn’t blame Sara for being taken in. Felicity could play righteous indignation very convincingly, and Sara was just the sort to believe in a martyred heroine.

Well, Felicity’s martyrdom would come at a price, whether she knew it or not. Though he preferred to stay at Jordan’s anyway, he didn’t intend to let Felicity think for even one moment that she’d won.

An idea had sprung into his mind that was sure to work on the imagination-plagued Felicity. “All right, I’ll move my things to Jordan’s.” He continued toward the door, then paused to cast Sara a cool smile. “Oh, and do pass on a message to Miss Taylor for me, will you?”

Sara regarded him warily. “What?”

“Tell her that even John Pilkington has his price.”

“John Pilkington? Who is he? What on earth⁠—”

“Just tell her. She’ll know what it means.” Then whistling to himself, he sauntered from the room.

Chapter Eight

Novels are not as awful an influence upon young minds as some would have us believe. Can anyone deny the inspiration of Defoe’s Robinson Crusoe or the caution against pride that is the entire plot of Pride and Prejudice?

Lord X, The Evening Gazette, December 13, 1820

Even John Pilkington has his price.

With a frown, Felicity slapped The Mysteries of Udolpho down on her lap. Drat it, why must Ian’s insidious threats about Pilkington plague her even while she read a novel? At home with the boys underfoot, she seldom got to indulge her love of reading. Now she’d been given a few hours to herself, and he had to intrude.

A chill hung in the air of the Worthing’s card room, made all the more harsh by the lack of a fire. Felicity tugged her heavy wool shawl more closely about the simple day dress she’d kept on instead of dressing for dinner. Sara had told her no one ever used this room, which is why she’d come here while the others were dining. She’d excused herself from attending the meal by telling Sara she was too embarrassed to face Lord St. Clair. The Blackmores were here, and Ian was with them for the first time in three days.

But the truth was—she was a coward. The prospect of eating dinner across from a man determined to ruin her life—and invade even her thoughts—was unendurable. He would surely see how his parting words to Sara worried her. And how could she keep from blurting out some revealing statement?

Worse, how in creation could she keep from remembering those kisses he’d given her? No, stolen from her. He’d stolen more than kisses—he’d stolen a long ago dream of experiencing a man’s passion. Now that she’d seen how easily men could feign it, she could never trust a man’s kisses again. So dining with Ian tonight was unthinkable.

Besides, she had another perfectly good reason for avoiding him. The man was clearly bent on revenge. Why else make that statement to Sara? And why else accompany the Blackmores to dinner at Worthing Manor tonight? He’d been noticeably absent when the Blackmores had come for luncheon the day after his conversation with Sara. Then he’d gone off to London on business the next day, prompting her to congratulate herself on being rid of him.

But he was back, and now she was worried. Why had he gone to London in the midst of a country visit with close friends? What business could be so compelling? And why had he returned?

She could guess some of the answers. It could have something to do with her column. She’d sent it in an express to Mr. Pilkington Monday, so it had undoubtedly appeared in the Gazette while Ian was in town. If so, he must have seen it.

Unless he’d succeeded in preventing it from being published at all. She turned his words over again in her head. The only meaning she could extract was that he’d intended to bribe Mr. Pilkington into either censoring her words or refusing to publish her columns. The question was, what would Mr. Pilkington say to such a despicable offer?

Surely he wouldn’t cut her off. Why, Mr. Pilkington always professed she was his best correspondent.

Then again ... even John Pilkington has his price.

She lifted her eyes to the heavens. “Can’t you give me a hint?” she muttered at God. “Ian must have some plan in mind. Lord knows—I mean, You know—Ian has enough money to make Mr. Pilkington salivate. I hardly think my literary prowess would sway the publisher if the wealthy Viscount St. Clair bombards him with gold.”

“To whom are you speaking?” asked a familiar female voice from the doorway, and she nearly jumped out of her skin.

The countess entered the room with the rest of the party behind her—Sara’s husband Gideon, both of the Blackmores, and worst of all, Ian. Only the Drydens were absent, and they’d probably already retired for the evening.

Felicity sprang to her feet, her book sliding off her lap and onto the floor with a thud. “I wasn’t speaking to anyone!” Heat flooded her face. Oh, to be acting like such a ninny in front of this crowd, especially him! How much had they heard? How much had he heard? “I-I mean, I have this bad habit of talking to G- ... to myself sometimes when I’m distracted.”

“Are we distracting you, Miss Taylor?” Ian asked as he sauntered past Sara. With a quick motion, he picked Felicity’s book up off the floor. When she reached for it, however, he ignored her outstretched hand and tucked the volume under his arm. “We didn’t mean to do so.” Amusement laced his voice. No doubt he’d guessed precisely why she’d not been at dinner.

Guessed, and was pleased about it. Indeed, he looked abominably self-assured and handsome, with his tail coat of cobalt saxony fitting the broad shoulders to perfection, his pantaloon-trousers of fine kerseymere hugging thighs too muscular for a nobleman, and his cravat simply tied, as if he had more important things to do than wait for a valet to engineer a complicated knot. Next to him and his finely dressed friends, she looked like the drabbest creature in the realm in her muslin day dress and old woolen shawl.

“We’re so pleased to see you up and about,” Ian continued. “We thought you were ill. A headache. That’s what Sara told us.”