Page 30 of His Improper Lady

Desiree had skirted the truth a bit when she told Brock she wasn’t interested in finding a husband. That much was true. Several years ago, she had realized that marriage was probably not in her future. She met a lot of men at the club; some of them had stirred a feeling in her—a liking, an enjoyment of their company, even sometimes a little thrill of desire. But gentlemen weren’t interested in marrying her. They wanted her, but as a mistress, not as a wife. And she was determined not to follow the path her mother had taken.

But while she was not interested in a husband, she was interested in Tom Quick. She might hide that fact from her brother, but she wasn’t going to hide it from herself. It was useless, of course, given Tom’s opinion of her, but she couldn’t keep from thinking about him. If they hadn’t been at the opposite ends of this matter, could there have been something between them? Had he desired her, as he had seemed to, before he realized who she was? Would they have followed that path that opened to them that night at the club, moving into passion, maybe even into love? It was a heady thought, a beckoning question—and one that she would never know the answer to.

Somewhat more prosaically, she wondered whether Quick would adhere to his promise and include her in his investigation. She was well aware that he might well not venture near her again. It was a disheartening thought, but one she had to consider. What would she do if he ignored her? Would she actually go to the Morelands and tell them her story? She had never been one to let fear stop her, but she wasn’t sure even she had the nerve to face some icy-eyed aristocrat and tell them she was the bastard child of one of them.

Such thoughts continued to occupy her mind the rest of the day. Her play at the club was not up to her usual standards. Desiree kept watching the door, wondering if Tom would show up. When he did not, she wasn’t sure whether to be relieved or disappointed. She didn’t want him hounding her, of course; she would rather not start another argument, especially here. But she realized that she had foolishly harbored some hope that he was interested in her, as Brock had said, that he would be intrigued enough that he would be drawn to the club. Nor could she help but wish that he could see her again in her element, glamorous and in control, sought after by other men.

As a result of her inattention, she barely broke even, and she left the Farrington earlier than usual, somewhat dispirited. Desiree could not hold back the gloomy intuition that Tom had no intention of letting her be a part of his investigation. He would doubtless ignore her, making her confront him time and again. Thinking such thoughts, her resentment grew until by the time the carriage reached her house, she was quite annoyed with Mr. Quick.

Desiree stepped down from the carriage in front of her home and waved a goodbye to the driver. As she turned toward the house, a little frisson of alarm ran through her chest. Something was wrong. She whirled around and scanned the street. Two houses down, on the opposite side of the street, sat a dark carriage, almost hidden in the shadows. But this was more than just the normal darkness of night or shadows. This was the kind of black void she sensed when something was wrong—dangerous or deceptive. Was Tom spying on her again? The brief moment of alarm was replaced by anger. What did he think she was going to do—sneak out and plant some evidence that would prove she was a Moreland?

Turning abruptly, she started across the street, angling toward the vehicle. Her pace increased at the same rate as the burgeoning indignation inside her until she was almost running. Before she reached the carriage, the driver snapped the reins over the team’s backs, and the vehicle started forward. Desiree ran toward it, cursing her encumbering evening attire of corset and full skirts. “Stop!”

The carriage sped up, swerving out into the middle of the street, passing so close to her that Desiree had to jump aside. She stumbled and went down on her backside. Furious, she sprang back up, grabbing one of her slippers that had fallen off and hurling it after the departing carriage.

The shoe fell far short, of course, but the action relieved a bit of her frustration. How dare he? Of all the suspicious, sanctimonious, infuriating...prigs! Accusing her of being sneaking and untrustworthy when Tom was the one lurking about spying on her.

She stalked over to retrieve her shoe and stepped on a pebble, exacerbating her ill temper. Shoving her foot back into the slipper, she limped into the house, making a list of all the things she was going to say to Tom Quick the next morning.

THERE WAS A spring to Tom’s steps as he walked up to the door of the Malone house the next morning. He chose to believe it was excitement over the possibility of moving the case forward that prompted his eagerness, rather than the possibility of seeing Desiree Malone again.

He had spoken to Alex yesterday afternoon, and though the man had given him an odd look, he had refrained from asking questions, just as Con had the other day. Tom suspected that before long their inveterate curiosity would get the better of the pair and the Greats would want to know what Tom was up to.

Fortunately, Tom’s question about the location of the house from Brock’s memory was exactly the sort of thing Alex enjoyed untangling, and this morning he had handed Tom a list of areas he thought might be possibilities.

Tom caught a hackney to the Malone house immediately. He hoped Desiree was awake and ready to get started; her late nights probably made her a late riser, but he was too eager to wait. If she wanted to join him on the search, she was going to have to put up with some inconvenience. But the butler who opened the door to Tom’s knock led him immediately down a corridor to a small dining area.

Desiree was at the table, already dressed, though her hair was down, a silken waterfall that was decidedly distracting. A man stood nearby, dressed casually in only trousers and shirt, the sleeves rolled up and the collar unbuttoned.

Was this her twin brother? His coloring certainly suggested that. He was slender, with golden-brown hair, blue eyes and the sort of face women swooned over. He watched Tom walk into the room, his expression one of haughty indolence that Tom had seen on many a gentleman’s face. It immediately raised Tom’s hackles.

“Mr. Quick, Miss Malone,” the butler intoned.

Desiree, whose back was to Tom, whipped around in her chair and glared at Tom with such ferocity that it took him aback. “You!”

The greeting Tom had been about to give her died in his mouth. The other man said lazily, “So this is your Mr. Quick, Dez.” He ran a gaze down Tom that managed to be assessing, dismissive and vaguely amused.

“How dare you spy on me!” Desiree ignored the man’s comment, advancing on Tom with a furious light in her eyes.

“What?” Tom looked at her blankly. “Spy? I haven’t been sp—”

“Oh? You mean it was someone else who was sitting outside our house last night when I came home? Someone else who almost ran me down?”

“Ran you down!” Tom gaped. “What are you talking about?”

The other man set down his cup with a rattle, turning to Desiree with a sharp focus that was at odds with his earlier stance. “You didn’t tell me someone tried to hit you!”

“For goodness’ sake, Wells, you just came downstairs. I haven’t exactly had time,” Desiree said to him before she swung back to Tom. “What I’m talking about is you sitting in a carriage across the street, watching this house.”

“I wasn’t!” Tom protested.

“When I went over to confront you, you took off and drove right at me, and I had to jump back to keep from being run over. I got mud on the back of my dress and broke a heel off one of my slippers,” she added indignantly.

“Blast your slippers,” Wells said with a grimace. “Are you all right?”

“Of course I am. I don’t even have a bruise.” She scowled at Tom. “No thanks to you.”

“It wasn’t me!” Tom insisted. “Desiree, I swear to you.” He moved toward her. “I was not here last night. I wasn’t spying on you. And I most certainly did not try to run you down.”