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THE MESSENGER SHOT TO his feet the moment Pierce’s carriage turned into the drive. Brushing his uniform free of the hour’s worth of dust he’d acquired sitting on the stoop, he stood at attention, waiting for Pierce to alight.
With a puzzled frown, Pierce descended, mounting the front steps to his home.
“Mr. Thornton?” the lad inquired.
“Yes. What can I do for you?”
“I’m to give you this, sir.” Efficiently, he extended a sealed note. “And to wait,” he added.
“I see.” Pierce glanced down at the unmarked missive. Tucking it in his pocket, he extracted a key an
d opened the entranceway door. “Come in.”
The boy shifted uncomfortably, hovering in the hall as Pierce went into the sitting room to pour himself a drink. “I believe it’s a matter of some urgency, sir,” he called out at last. “At least that’s what I’ve been told.”
“Really?” Pierce emerged, sipping at his brandy. “And who told you this?”
“Mr. Hollingsby, sir. The gentleman who sent me.”
“Hollingsby?” Pierce cocked a surprised brow. George Hollingsby was a well known and prominent solicitor, who handled much of the ton’s legal dealings. Had Tragmore put him up to something?
His curiosity aroused, Pierce set his glass aside and removed the missive from his pocket. “You said that Mr. Hollingsby asked you to wait while I read this?”
“Yes, Mr. Thornton. He did.”
“Very well. You’ve piqued my interest.” Pierce tore open the sealed flap and unfolded a tersely worded message.
Mr. Thornton: it read. I earnestly request that you travel to my London office as soon as possible. I do not make this request lightly and, were it not a matter of grave urgency, I would not presume upon your time. Please advise my messenger when I can expect you. Cordially, George Hollingsby
After reading the note through twice, Pierce calmly refolded it. “How long have you been waiting for me to return home?”
“About an hour, sir.”
Nodding, Pierce extracted a one-pound note and handed it to the lad. “Thank you for your efficiency and your patience. Tell Mr. Hollingsby he can expect me first thing in the morning.”
“Oh, yes, sir.” The boy beamed. “Thank you, sir. I’ll tell him directly, sir.” Bowing profusely, he fairly flew from the house, almost as if he were afraid Pierce would come to his senses and reclaim the outrageous sum.
Chuckling, Pierce returned to the sitting room, dropping to the sofa and tucking the missive back in his pocket. The day had turned out to be anything but dull. First, his ugly meeting with Tragmore, then his remarkable moments with Daphne, and now this intriguing message from Hollingsby.
Again, Pierce wondered if Hollingsby were acting as Tragmore’s agent and if the solicitor’s urgently requested meeting had anything to do with the marquis’s threats. If Hollingsby planned to flourish a damning report of Pierce’s workhouse history, he was going to be terribly disappointed with the reaction he received. And, Pierce reflected, he himself would have made a long trip for nothing.
Tomorrow would tell.
Closing his eyes, Pierce dismissed the forthcoming inconvenience from his mind, instantly replacing it with the image of a far more appealing subject: Daphne.
A satisfied smile curved his lips as he relived their encounter in the woods. Physically, emotionally, they’d reached a new level of involvement today, both of them tacitly accepting the pull between them as a tangible force that neither denial nor escape could negate. Pierce’s instincts told him that Daphne was as unaccustomed as he to baring her heart, yet she’d opened up to him, shared thoughts, feelings, and intimacies he was certain she’d never shared with another.
And he?
He’d plunged one step deeper into a commitment he’d never conceived of making.
She felt so bloody right in his arms, so natural and responsive. Like a newly opened flower, she’d unfurled to his touch, reaching trustingly for the promise of sustenance and warmth he offered.
He’d be damned if he’d burn her.
Pierce slammed his fist into the cushion. Where was this leading? Where could it lead?
Most frightening for him, where did he want it to lead?
