The Scotsman merely swung an arm for Miles’ departure so with the feeling of having been summarily dismissed by a Lieutenant General, he put pace to his boots and marched out.
The gaming room was filled with young gentlemen of theTon, frittering their inheritance or squandering their tenants’ futures. And the night was still young.
Damn it. He sounded like an old curmudgeon but it wasn’t that he begrudged pleasure or people’s pursuit of such, it was just he’d once traded his second pair of army boots for food to stave off his and his men’s hunger until supplies got through, so such a flagrant disregard for the value of coin felt bloody peculiar to him.
Mind you, it obviously paid the Prince well as the room glittered with opulent chandeliers, crimson-furnished chairs and immense green-baized tables.
As he skirted the roulette, a blonde lady eyed him, her blood-red lips curving as she indicated the vacant seat aside her. Butwith a smile, Miles shook his head; he was up to his neck in woman trouble as it was.
So leaving the restless clamour of the gaming room, he passed through the vestibule before the scarlet portal was swung open by the doorman for his departure.
Dusk had descended upon a Pall Mall that was rapidly emptying: hawkers sold the last of their wares and shopgirls rushed home – though a queue of hackneys still plied their trade and an organ grinder coaxed a wheezy tune. Miles peered down the lamp-lit street to behold Lynch turning at Cockspur Street, so he waited, patrolling the pavement.
He ruminated on the mayhem within his life and whether he’d made any progress.
As far as Miss Seymour was concerned, the moment he’d caught sight of her at the art exhibition, the objective had been clear: to kiss some answers from her. But her scent of orange blossom had besieged his senses, her lips had assailed his resolve and then his wits had been taken prisoner by his own damn desires.
So much for control. So much for remaining unaffected. So much for not wanting her again.
He thumped his cane to the pavement and–
A sharp prod to his backside and he spun, wrenched–
Musty wool clattered into him, damp ostrich feathers batting his nose.
“Stonewold! What is the meaning of this!”
“Apologies, Aunt Mildred.” And he settled the lady at arm’s length, also returning her umbrella which had prodded him so rudely. “I’d not realised it was you.”
“Well, who else would poke you on Pall Mall?”
Who, indeed.
Miles twisted to Jeremy. “How fare you, Cousin? What news?”
“He has no news,” Aunt Mildred answered, “have you, Jeremy?”
“Well…” Jeremy’s eyes shifted to the pavement. “Not in–”
“But more to the point, Stonewold, what are you doing outside this abode of sin?” Aunt stabbed out her umbrella towards the scarlet portal of Prince’s hell. “I hope you’re not sullying the Stonewold title or squandering the family wealth.”
Miles raised a brow. “I could ask the same of you, dear Aunt. What brings you to this abode of sin? A high-stakes game of whist?”
Eyes narrowed and lips pursed to a cat’s ars–
“You are not amusing.” She sniffed. “Ihave been attending Lady Nonsuch in St James’s Square but our sole barouche – it being too small to be seen at such a prestigious address – is awaiting us at Waterloo Place. If our stipend was more substantial, I would, of course, not have to suffer this gauche discomfort.”
Aunt glared, Miles sighed and Jeremy tapped his foot in time with the organ grinder’s tune.
The Prince was correct: hell was empty and all the devils were here.
A damp heatwhispered over palm leaves, the world inside alive with shade and shadow.
Verity stood at the door and closed her eyes, felt that whisper upon her skin.
At night, her conservatory became a hushed glass-bound sanctuary, the warmth of the day still lingering in the air to blend with the sharp tang of citrus from the potted lemon trees. Onlythe barely perceptible rustle of a leaf curling for the night and the murmur of moth wings disturbed the silence.
With a polished mahogany box clutched beneath her arm, she stepped from the garden to within.
