“No, but he knows how to get in touch.” A lamp in an upstairs window signaled when Griff placed a message behind a loose brick in the facade at the rear of the club. “I shall see myself out. Good night.”
“I’ll walk you to the door.”
“Not necessary.”
“What sort of hostess would I be if I left you to simply wander off?”
He was tempted to ask how she’d met his father, how they’d come to be, why she’d gone with an old man—but based upon how she lived, his father had done well by her, or someone had. Did she have a lover now? A woman such as she wouldn’t go long without a protector. Before he could indulge his curiosity, he strode for the door. She easily kept pace with him. The advantage of a woman with long legs, and he fought not to envision them wrapped tightly around his hips. It angered him that he should be so drawn to the vixen.
He opened the door, crossed onto the landing, and when he would have pulled the doorshut, he discovered she’d wedged herself into the opening.
“Take care of yourself, Marcus Stanwick,” she said quietly, and yet, it still sounded like a command.
He wondered where she gained her confidence, wished some other reason had brought him to her, one that would allow for all the exploring of her in which he wished to indulge. He gave a curt nod before jaunting down the steps, through the small wrought iron gate, and into the night.
Having returned to her chair by the fireplace in the parlor, Esme Lancaster was soon joined by more pleasant company: Laddie, her black-and-white cocker spaniel. After bringing her companion to her lap, she allowed her thoughts the luxury of contemplating her recent guest.
Marcus Stanwick was certainly more handsome than his father. His midnight-black hair had been recently trimmed. His eyes were a deep blue but when he’d come close to her with a fury that caused them to burn an even deeper hue, she’d realized that within the irises were the tiniest streaks of gray. They’d made him more intriguing than he should have been. She liked that she had to tip her head up slightly to meet and hold his gaze. Unlike his father, he had yet to go to fat, although she suspected he might never follow that route. In spite of the fact that his clothing didn’t fithim particularly well, he was a fine specimen of toned muscle and brawn. He’d certainly not been idle since being tossed onto the streets.
It was also obvious that he loathed her, not that she blamed him. Her association with his father had painted her as a scarlet woman, and it had been a role she’d had no choice except to embrace. She’d gone to a great deal of bother to ingratiate herself to the duke, to intrigue him, and ensure he wanted to spend time in her company. Much to her chagrin, however, their relationship had been on public display for much of the time they were together, which had been a little over two months. Most married men preferred to keep their liaisons secret, but for some reason, Wolfford had felt a need to boast. Perhaps because he’d been nearing the ripe old age of sixty and wanted it known that he still had it within him to attract the attention of a much younger woman. He’d squired her around London as though he didn’t have a wife and grown children to embarrass. His behavior had always baffled her, but because of it, his elder son had now made an appearance at her door. She had guessed at his preference for scotch, had seen the flash of irritation cross his features, and known she’d gotten it right. She wondered what else regarding him she might guess correctly if given the opportunity. Figuring things out about people was one of her strong suits, had been ever since she was a child.
Her mother had spent a good bit of time whipping Satan out of her when she was a wee one, although she’d never fully understood what she’d done to deserve the punishment. She’d begun to suspect it was the manner in which she struggled to make sense of the world, the way she focused intently on anything or anyone she found puzzling until she was able to fit what she knew into some semblance of order that put all her questions to rest. A vicar who visited her mother far too often when Esme’s father was away; a sweets shop owner who paid far more attention to boys than girls; an inordinate number of children in the village who so closely resembled the eldest son who lived in the large manor house on the hill.
From her father she’d learned to be observant. Whenever he wasn’t off fighting for queen and country, he would take her on strolls and periodically question her about their surroundings. What color was the frock worn by the blond-haired girl with the ringlets who’d just gone into the bakery with her mother? How many lads were crouched and playing marbles in the alleyway they’d passed a minute ago? Once, when she was eight, he’d taken her into a toy shop in London to purchase her a doll. She’d been mesmerized by all the choices, had finally found the porcelain one she wanted more than she wanted to breathe—when her father had suddenly knelt beside her and said, “The shop is on fire. People were crowding through the door, and now they are stuck. How do we get out?”
They weren’t in danger. There were no flames, but his urgency had her heart racing. She was expected to know the answer, didn’t want to disappoint him. He was one of Britain’s heroes, but more importantly, he was hers. “Through a window. And if it won’t open, we’ll throw something at it to break the glass, so we can climb out.”
“What if we get cut?”
“Better than getting burned to death.”
With a grin, he’d rubbed her head. “So which dolly would you like to have?”
The doll wearing a fancy pink frock and large bonnet adorned with flowers had gone everywhere with her through the years and now sat on a corner of her vanity. It served as a reminder to always have an escape plan in case danger arrived. And danger had arrived, in the form of Marcus Stanwick. Yet the very last thing she’d been thinking about while he was in her parlor was escaping.
Light footsteps sounded just before her butler stepped into the room and hovered slightly beyond the threshold. “I lost him.”
“How far did he allow you to follow him?”
“He didn’tallowit.”
“Without a doubt he did, Brewster, or you’d have not lost him when he was of a mind to end the farce that he didn’t know you were about.”
Herassistantmore than butler was extremely skilled at tracking but had never been particularly talented at hiding his disgruntlement when she had the right of a situation at hand. “Only acouple of miles or so. Moved at a bloody quick pace, though. Fair wore me out. I caught a hansom back, after he disappeared.”
“Hmm. Farther than I would have thought.” Although he may have done it out of spite. “I don’t suppose he left you with an impression as to where he was going.”
“He seemed to do a lot of circling and backtracking. For a while there, I thought he was lost.”
A man such as Marcus Stanwick never became lost. She’d wager all she owned on that.
“What are you going to do about him?” Brewster asked.
“I haven’t decided.”
But she was fairly certain they’d not seen the last of each other.
Chapter 2
