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“Miss O’Connell? Is that you?”
As if conjured by Aidan’s earlier heart-stopping, horrible question, the past rose up to smack Cat right between the eyes. William Danvers shook the rain from his greatcoat. Peeled off his gloves. Ran hands through hair damp from the day’s drizzly rain before sauntering toward her table, his curious gaze searching her for any sign of recognition.
Normally, veiling her features took no more effort than breathing. But right now, inhaling and exhaling seemed like monumental tasks. She hid behind her cup of chocolate, scalding her mouth on an ill-thought swallow while she steadied her shaking limbs. Concentrated on the visage forming in her mind—lighter hair, rounder face, weaker chin, paler eyes, a body just a touch on the plump side—felt the minute changes as pins and needles tightening her skin, and knew she’d succeeded when his assurance turned to uncertainty.
“I’m sorry. I thought—”
She offered him a confused smile and a shrug of her shoulders. A quick shake of her head. “Sono spiacente, signore. Non capisco l’inglese.”
Prayed Danvers didn’t know Italian.
His immediate dismayed tug at his cravat told her she’d chosen well.
He began again. “You look very much like someone I knew once.” Shouted as if volume might overcome the language barrier. Drew inquiring looks from the few ill-kempt patrons sharing the taproom.
“Can I assist you?”
Cat and Danvers both turned at the smooth inquiring tone, but Cat heard the thread of cautious edginess behind the upper-class condescension.
Aidan’s gaze held every drop of the world-weary nobleman, his demeanor as crisp and correct as if the three of them met at the Castle for a ball. He studied her distorted features with a flicker of confusion before turning to Danvers, whose eyes widened with recognition then pleasure.
She sent up a silent prayer. Please, Aidan. Don’t give her up. Not to the biggest busybody in Dublin.
Danvers cleared his throat before sketching a bow. “Your servant, my lord. My horse threw a shoe, and I’ve had to kick my heels here while the smithy fits a new one.” He paused, apparently expecting Aidan to explain his own surprising presence at such a
seedy and out-of-the-way establishment.
But Aidan remained completely in character. The aloof and achingly proper peer of the realm.
Danvers plowed on, unfazed by the silent set down. “I was speaking with Miss—”
“Have we met?” Aidan interrupted while continuing his smoldering staredown. Cat had felt the force of that gaze. Knew it for the quelling confidence squash it was.
“Oh yes, Lord Kilronan.” Danvers graced Aidan with an oily smile. “Once or twice at Daly’s in the company of your cousin. And I believe we both attended a dinner party at the Barnwalls’ last fall.” He darted another searching glance at Cat, who was trying to be invisible behind her chocolate. “I approached when I recognized the young lady.” He frowned. “Or thought I had.”
Cat bit her lip as she ran a finger around the rim of her cup. “Pensa che parli soltanto italiano. Gioco avanti. Per favore.”
Aidan answered with a very bewildered shake of his head. “Are you speaking Italian, C—”
Aidan leapt, but too late. “Damn it! Are you mad?” Chocolate dripped hot and sticky across his coat.
Cat jumped up, apologizing in babbling Italian while mopping at Aidan with her napkin.
He grabbed her elbow. “May I speak with you for a moment?” he chewed through clenched teeth. Guided her away from the table without sparing Danvers a single backward glance.
In the stairwell, he rounded on her. “What was that?”
“He recognized me. I had to do something.”
“You know that man?”
She twisted the soggy napkin between her hands. Hated the panicky sense of her life unraveling. “Yes. A long time ago.”
Aidan cocked a curious brow, a gleam she didn’t trust sparking his dark eyes. “And so you hid.”
She grabbed his sleeve. “Please, Aidan. Let it go. Go back and tell him I’m some long lost Italian cousin of yours. Tell him I’m your crazy Aunt Mary just released from the asylum. Tell him I’m your latest mistress trained in foreign erotic arts. I don’t care.”
Aidan acted as if he hadn’t heard her. “Someone who knew Miss O’Connell from her days prior to a Saint Patrick’s deanery tenement,” he mused to himself. “Who knows why she hides. Why she runs.” He met her frightened gaze with his own impenetrable stare. “What she dreams.”
