Page 33 of An Extraordinary Lord

“After all,” she mused, running her fingers up his jacket sleeve, “what powers could a small, defenseless young miss like myself—”

He laughed at the absurdity ofthat!

“—have over a strong and dashing man?”

When she squeezed his bicep, he strangled on his laughter.Defenseless?The woman was downright deadly.

“Why, I don’t know the first thing about men.” She brushed her hand over his shoulder to his neck, then played with his neckcloth. “I don’t even know how to properly tie a man’s cravat to put it on.” Her fingers slipped beneath the cloth to tease across his bare neck and sent his pulse spiking. “Or untie it to take it off.” She offered in a throaty murmur that twined through him, “Perhaps you’d like to show me?”

He stared at her, unable to think of a decent retort. Oh, he wanted to show her things all right. But only half a dozen or so involved tying a neckcloth, and none could be described in polite conversation.

“So,” Madame succinctly acknowledged, “we don’t need to spend time on teaching you flirtation.”

Veronica laughed and sashayed away, expertly flitting her fan.

Damnable woman.

With a flip of the pages to straighten them, he forced his attention back to the newspaper. He scoured it to glean whatever new information he could about the riots and the crown’s response to them. So far…nothing.

“I don’t suppose you know how to dance.”

Madame’s question caught Merritt’s attention.

So did Veronica’s answer. “Actually, I do.”

That surprised him. She didn’t learn to dance where she’d learned to fight. She was well educated, certainly—the way she spoke proved that. But dancing was an altogether different sort of education.

He narrowed his gaze on her over the top of the paper. She was far more than a common thief. Whatexactlywas her past? Where did she come from that her life was such a bewildering puzzle? And how on earth did a beautiful woman who knew ballroom dances end up in Newgate?

“In the morning, I’ll arrange a review lesson for you,” Madame said, “once the pianoforte player is through playing in the drawing room. We’re certain to find a gentleman in the house who can partner you and show you—”

“I’llpartner her,” Merritt interjected in a half growl.

Both women stared at him in surprise, as if he’d transformed himself into a goat. Then Madame arched a knowing brow at his jealous reaction. Bloody hell.

“I don’t want her to have any contact with gentlemen,” he explained, his voice inexplicably rough.

Which only sent her brow higher.

Bloody, bloodyhell. “We’re keeping her identity a secret, remember?” A lie. The truth was he didn’t want her to be in another man’s arms, even for a dance lesson. “Your clientele comes from all levels of society. I don’t want anyone who might be present at the ball to see her here.”

“Of course not,” Madame assured him in a purring voice that told him she didn’t believe one word.

He reached for another copy of theTimeson the table beside his chair, shook it out, and held it up in front of him. Most likely, this was the first time in history that twelve sheets of paper had ever functioned as a shield.

He scanned over the page—and stopped. A story about the riots filled the last column of page two, reporting that plans had been made by Whitehall to call in the militia to put down the unrest if it continued. He tightened his jaw. That was exactly the worst thing the crown could do. The rising price of not just bread but everything necessary for day-to-day living and lack of jobs had pushed the poor to the brink. Sending in soldiers against British citizens would only enflame the situation and entrench the rioters even more. The only way to end the unrest then would be for the soldiers to inflict such harsh brutality and slaughter that Londoners wouldn’t dare to riot again.

The Home Office would callously do exactly that.

He bit back a curse. The clock was ticking now. He had to find the men responsible for the riots before innocent blood was shed.

He looked across the room at Veronica as she gave up learning the language of the fan and gleefully tossed it away. As she turned, she caught his gaze and frowned at his troubled preoccupation. He gave her a reassuring smile, which only seemed to distress her more.

A commotion went up from the hall—banging and thumping mixed with a woman’s voice raised in unbridled cursing. In French.

“Ah! That must be Madame Barnaud.” Madame smiled at Veronica and crossed to the door. “I’ve convinced her to make your gown. She’s the best French modiste in all of England. But don’t you dare tell her I said that,” she grumbled, “or the woman will start charging double.” She flung open the door with an ingratiating smile. “Madame Barnaud! How good to see you again.”

The women exchanged air kisses to each cheek.