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“I don’t feel interrogated. And I suspect there are
many more equally colorful traits you neglected to enumerate. In fact, I’m willing to bet there is very little about you that’s blasé, Lady Noelle Bromleigh.”
“You’d definitely win that bet.”
“I generally do.”
That spawned an idea; an exciting way to pass the duration of the trip. “Are you a gambling man, my lord?” Noelle inquired.
“That depends upon the gamble, the stakes, and the winnings,” he returned, flashing her another of those heart-stopping smiles.
“Piquet. No risk. And a delicious late-morning refreshment.”
The earl’s brows rose fractionally. “You’ve lost me.”
Leaning down, Noelle indicated the basket that was nestled on the floor beneath Grace’s seat. “I assume you’re hungry,” she suggested, straightening. “Further, I see you brought with you nothing but a newspaper. Whereas Grace packed enough bread and cheese to feed an army.”
“That sounds enticing.”
“Good.” Noelle extracted her cards from the pocket of her mantle. “I brought these with me in the hopes that Grace and I could play. Unfortunately, …” A quick sideways glance at the deeply slumbering maid, who obliged Noelle by shifting in her seat, muttering something unintelligible and resuming her snores.
Noelle rolled her eyes, and the earl laughed aloud. “Unfortunately, your maid had her own ideas about how she wanted to pass these hours on the railroad,” he supplied.
“Exactly. She’s been asleep since we left Poole Station. Which made the first part of this trip dreadfully boring. Even the scenery lost its appeal after a time: I much prefer conversation to quiet.”
“Then I’m glad I happened along.”
“So am I. And I’d be delighted if you’d join me in a game of piquet. The stakes are nil and the rewards are plenty: all the food you can eat and a wealth of pleasant conversation.”
“That sounds like an ideal wager—for me. What about for you?”
Noelle inclined her head. “For me?”
A nod. “I never wager unfairly. Neither of us is risking anything, but only I stand to gain if I win. You, too, must have an incentive.”
“But there’s nothing I need.”
Tremlett rubbed a hand over his jaw, considering the situation. “What’s your destination once we reach London?”
Noelle hesitated for the barest instant. Then she chided herself. After all, what difference did it make if she told the earl where she was going? “I have two stops to make; one on Regent Street, one just beyond.”
“And then? Will you be staying at your parents’ Town house?”
“No.” Noelle cleared her throat. “I’ll be returning to Poole this evening.”
“I see.” Those penetrating eyes delved inside her. “Then your time in London is short. You won’t want to waste a moment of it.” He waited only until she’d nodded. Then he asked, “How do you intend to get from the station to Regent Street?”
“A hansom, I suppose. I really hadn’t pondered—”
“I’ll take you.”
“Pardon me?”
A corner of his mouth lifted. “If I lose, that is. My carriage will be awaiting me at Waterloo Station. I’ll be riding directly to Regent Street myself; actually, a block and a half beyond. I have several afternoon appointments, beginning with the Franco Art Gallery.”
Noelle’s eyes grew wide as saucers. “Did you say the Franco Art Gallery?”
“Why, yes.” Tremlett looked puzzled. “Is that so odd?”
