Page 9 of Sir Durham’s Disarming Asset

Rafe grinned, unsurprised at that from her. “We can visit with a young lady in London who owns her own shipping company. She will know more about American law.” Scarlett Hawthorne would be very interested in meeting the young woman who had bested René Vaillancourt. Not only did the two women have export-import businesses in common, but a refusal to participate in the triangular trade that made the sale of human beings a profitable enterprise. “She will know a few good men to refer to us.”

“Good.” She pressed her lips together, her sign that she did not wish to discuss this further.

They rounded the main road leading into Brighton proper. His home here was a small, butter-colored townhouse within a few doors of the rocky-sanded shore. He had inherited it from his father, along with a fine coterie of devoted house servants. Rafe kept them year round. He even pensioned them off when they wished to retire.

For Zephora Butler, his lovely charge, who had suffered so dearly, his townhouse was the perfect solution to her continued reluctance to go near other people. He saw how she mentally withdrew from others, and he would not have her remain that way. It was not right for a lady of such importance to be a recluse.

She had come far in the past four months, but she was too well known to remain in the shadows of London Society. Gus—Lady Ashley—and Amber—Lady Ramsey—and perhaps other women who had gone to Campan’s finishing school with Zephora would shepherd her into her rightful place in the world. So would Inès, the new Countess of Halsey, who had helped to rescue Zeph from the Paris prison. He would see Zeph into her rightful place in the world. Inheriting her father’s wealth and trade, and freeing his slaves. Even marrying.

His guts clutched. He blinked. He would have to become inured to that prospect.

Of course, men would want her. He would ensure they wanted her for her character, strong and free. Not her money. Nor her notoriety. There would be a rapacious infamy attached to her lovely person, and many men would think her loose, sexually available, simply because she had wallowed in the mire of a French prison. None of his friends who had rescued her would tell of her abuse by the guards. But people had imaginations and could dole out vicious rumors.

He knew not how she would react to that. But he would help her. She was still tender from her confinement, in body and spirit. She might always be, though he had inklings she would surmount the past.

He’d spent his every moment rebuilding her into the woman she had been. He’d not allow any man to take her for less than she was—and all that she could become.

*

Rafe banged on the roof of the cab with his fist and shouted, “Take us to the kitchen door!”

To Zeph’s surprise and relief, they would not enter from the street, where she would be seen…and others would wonder about her. Gossip, the very possibility of it, clawed at her throat. Her mother had endured such pain with her father’s endless rounds of mistresses. Zeph had vowed never to tolerate such in a man, friend, or lover—or even husband.

She snorted. I’ll never have a husband. No one would take me, not after…the cell. I can have a friend. She smiled at Rafe now. He was everything a friend could be. Tolerant, reliable, honest, a man she had confided in about everything, except…that.

She had told no one, nor ever would.

The carriage door swung wide.

Rafe stepped out and offered his hand to her. “You will like my servants. All paid very well. Always have been. Mine alone and, therefore, they know that what they see here, stays here. Come now. Hurry. You need breakfast, and I need a brandy.”

She grasped his hand. How she wanted to kiss his cheek in thanks. But he would not want it. Somehow she knew that. He would hug her and hold her during carriage rides, but at other times, he wanted a courteous distance between them. She understood that now, as they entered a small portion of British Society, he would maintain a friendly decorum for propriety’s sake, for her future. But she would be herself with him, as ever, and so she said, “I want a brandy, too.”

“Plucky girl,” he tsked at her. Then he led her to the door, where a silver-haired lady stood with a smile on her face so big that Zeph could see all her teeth. Good ones, they were, too.

“Sir Raphael, I despaired of not seeing you until Christmas, sir.”

He patted the woman on the back, chuckling all the time. “Mrs. Pratt, I would have come sooner, but we had a few problems in the Channel.”

“Small? In the Channel? Of course you did! And this is…?”

Rafe took Zeph’s arm. “My ward, but we will say here in Brighton she is my niece. Miss Zephora Butler, lately of Paris, now with me.”

“Come in. Do.” Mrs. Pratt glanced up and down the carriageway. “Have you luggage?”

“Only two small valises,” Rafe told her.

“Rumors are true, then.” She gestured for them to precede her into the house. “You have escaped Paris.”

Rafe paused, frowning. “You will tell me the rest, eh?”

“All of it,” she said. “Come inside.”

Rafe and Zeph crossed the threshold with the housekeeper right behind.

“You’ll want hot tea and coffee, sir. Cook has made scones.”

Rafe led Zeph through the door off the hall and into the bright daylight of the cavernous kitchen.