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“I can manage on my own, thank you.” She attempted to yank her arm free, but his grip was far too tight. Coming here alone had been a terrible idea.
“I insist,” he replied and began pulling. Just when she was preparing to scream, a blessedly familiar hand clamped on the man’s shoulder, stopping his movement.
“The lady said she could manage,” Arthur said coolly, pushing on the man’s shoulder until he released her arm.
He stumbled back, face turning hostile and then sheepish as he took in the sight of Arthur. “Oh, sorry, Clifton. Didn’t mean to stir up a fuss.”
“Go home, Lord Fleming,” Arthur replied calmly. “Harassing fellow patrons, or anyone else in my building for that matter, is against the rules.”
Lord Fleming rolled his eyes. “Don’t be like that. Me and the lady were just having a misunderstanding. I was merely escorting her to a gentleman.”
Arthur smiled. “Lucky for you, I am the gentleman she is meeting. Now run along home, before I tell your father how much of his fortune you’ve frittered away at the dice tonight.”
The lad sputtered, his splotchy face somehow growing even redder than it was, before turning on his heel and stumbling away. Francesca watched him go with satisfied relief, her gaze lingering on the front door. When she could tarry no longer, she faced Arthur once more. Despite the tense air between them, Francesca couldn’t help but admire his form. The black evening wear he wore hugged his frame to perfection, emphasizing broad shoulders and muscled thighs. And though his entire person was perfectly styled, cravat knotted to the standards of even the fussiest of dandies, Arthur Tremore could never be mistaken for one of those soft bellied fops. Those steely grey eyes alone could tear the best men to shreds.
“What are you doing here?” He pressed, anger threading through his voice.
Heart pounding, she held her ground. “Whatever do you mean, My Lord?”
“Francesca,” he hissed quietly, “Did you think I wouldn’t recognize you?”
She checked her surroundings in panic. “Keep your voice down. I don’t want to cause a stir.”
He took her arm, though the grip of his fingers was far gentler than Lord Fleming’s had been. “You should have thought of that before coming here, alone. I can only thank the Lord that you had the sense to mask yourself. Whatever were you thinking?”
Murmurs sounded around them, more than a few patrons not-so-subtly eyeing them from nearby tables. Francesca stepped closer. “I want to speak to you and have grown sick of waiting around while you purposefully avoid me.”
Arthur took in their surroundings with a mild scowl. “This is not the place. Come with me.”
Happy to be away from the scrutiny of the crowd, Francesca allowed him to guide her to edge of the floor. She kept close to his side as he stopped to whisper to one of the burly men stationed along on the wall. The guard nodded in response to whatever Arthur had said and eyed her speculatively.
“Is that clear, Raleigh?” her companion snipped with a glare. “No disturbances.”
The man grinned, seemingly not perturbed by Arthur’s glower in the slightest. “Understood, boss.”
They continued on, passing through the smoky air and boisterous chatter until stopping before a corner door. The man guarding it allowed them through with a nod and they entered a back hallway. Servants and kitchen staff bustled about, barely sparing them a glance as they diligently went about their work. “Where are we going?” she asked as they made their way to a stairwell at the end of the hall, entirely bypassing an open door to what was clearly his office.
“Upstairs.” He tapped the shoulder of a passing maid. “Please have refreshments sent to the parlor, Letty.”
“Yessir.” The young woman bobbed and hurried down the corridor.
“Upstairs?” Francesca repeated.
Arthur smiled. Slow and languid, it was the first time he’d directed the expression towards her all evening. “Yes, where I live.”
**
He should have sent her home as soon as he’d chased that shameless pup Fleming away from her skirts. The White Heather was the last place an innocent miss like Lady Francesca belonged, and she’d looked like a lost kitten standing on his floor, entirely out of place amongst the sordid revelry of the tables. Thank God she hadn’t accidentally wandered into the back rooms he rented out to some of his more randy patrons.
He should have stuffed her into his coach without preamble and yet here she was, perched demurely on his sofa and sipping tea at twelve in the morning as if she were making a bloody social call. How she had even managed to get here without anyone noticing was a mystery he was keen to solve.
“You’ve been avoiding me,” she said again, repeating the words she’d spoken to him on the floor.
Arthur leaned against a window at the other end of the room, glaring out at the darkened streets. She was absolutely correct, and he’d be dammed if she would know it. “I am a busy man, Lady Francesca.”
“Back to ‘Lady Francesca’?” Her voice was tinged with sadness,
He stubbornly kept his gaze trained outside. “Yes.”
