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"No."
"Of course you will. Three days of deep-pocketed noblemen, half of whom wouldn't know a good hand if it introduced itself. I do believe I'll accept Moulter's invitation."
Her mouth had lost its will to smirk at him. Her lips pressed tight together. "I will not be your lover."
"Mm."
"Do what you wish. It will be in vain."
"I appreciate the warning, Lady Denmore."
She crossed her arms and fumed, pleasing Somerhart to no end. The woman was tempted, very tempted, and with very little help from Hart. He'd been rude and presumptuous, not the least bit seductive, and she was tempted. The last vestiges of Hart's perpetual boredom floated away like smoke.
When the carriage tilted around a corner, Hart put his hand to the seat and spread his fingers wide, thinking of Lady Denmore's thighs again. A dark shadow tore him from his pleasant thoughts, and Hart leaned closer to the glass to scowl at the distraction. A man stood on the corner, bundled against the cold. Only his eyes were visible above a thick, gray wrap, but those eyes watched closely as the lights of the carriage passed.
Thief, Hart thought, without much alarm. Both his driver and footman were well-armed against the city's dark-minded inhabitants. But alarm reared its ugly head when the coach pulled to a stop just a dozen yards from the corner.
"Thank you, I suppose," Lady Denmore murmured, confirming that they'd arrived at her home. The latch clicked open and the footman swung open the door. Hart didn't bother waiting for the step. He jumped from the carriage, surprising his servant and no doubt pleasing Lady Denmore with his rudeness. But he was rewarded with a brief glimpse of the man on the corner, who was quickly backing away into the shadows. Hart stared after him, wanting to give chase and knowing he must not.
"Whatever are you doing?" her voice purred from his side.
"A thief. He was right on your corner."
"How do you know it was a thief? Likely it was our local boot black. He lurks about at all hours."
"Is he six feet tall?"
"Oh. Still—"
"He was standing right here, not a dozen yards from your home. You must take care. He likely already noted that you travel alone."
"Yes, I . . ." She glanced around, eyes darting from shadow to shadow. Hart felt a sudden anger. She should not be living here like this, in an unfamiliar city in a neighborhood only pretending at gentility. She should be traveling with a groom, at least, and not returning to her home at all hours of the night.
"You—" He started, but she spun on her heel and hurried toward a narrow set of steps.
"Don't bother, Your Grace. I can hear the censure in that one word. I am not wealthy and I am not married, so whatever you are about to say is meaningless. This is the neighborhood I can afford, the life I can afford. Good evening."
She fished a key from her skirts as she mounted the stairs, and actually unlocked the door herself, not a servant in sight. Hart watched, stunned, as the simple gray door closed with a solid thump. And Lady Denmore was gone.
Hart wasn't sure how long he stood there, frowning, but his driver felt compelled to clear his throat.
"Right," Hart muttered, and made himself step toward the open carriage door. "Drive around the block a few times, Lark. And keep a sharp eye out. I want to be sure we've chased that ruffian away."
And he and Lady Denmore would speak at length about her situation when they met at Moulter's estate. After he'd charmed her drawers off.
Chapter 4
The note glowed against the dark, polished wood of the sitting room table. Emma did not know what to think of it, but she was grateful for the distraction. A ride around the park with the handsome Viscount Lancaster would ease her worries for a few moments. If she were lucky, it might even annoy Somerhart.
"If that Stimp comes around," Emma called, "please bid him return. I need to speak with him."
Bess grumbled a sound of assent from the hall, and Emma turned her attention back to the cloak she was mending. The cheap fur edging around the hood had begun to free itself in clumps and tufts, but Bess had found a finer strip of fur at a market stall. The stitching required not the least bit of finesse, so the task was perfect for Emma. But the work needed little thought even with her lack of experience, and her mind turned immediately back to the man lurking on the corner the other night and the danger he presented.
Stimp had claimed that her spy was an older man, and not a gentleman at all, but he'd also assured her that he'd convinced the man to leave.
But if the spy truly was older. . . Matthew was smart, his father was a magistrate, and he could as easily pay some ruffian to look for her as come himself. She thought of Matthew's delicate good looks, his slim, elegant body . . . No, he would not hang about a London street corner, risking life and limb to ferret her out, not if a man could be hired.
A hired man could be fooled or chased off, though this one seemed determined to stay. Or maybe it was just as Somerhart had said. A simple thief.
