Her rescuer wove a cautious but steadfast path along the storefronts until they managed to squeeze around the corner onto William Street. Uncle Edward’s town house stood a few buildings away. Here, the din of the celebrations faded to a distant roar.
“Good heavens, sir, thank you. Thank you ever so much.” Only now did Laurel realize how snugly she was leaning against his back, a rippling wall of muscle and safety. With a start, she allowed a few proper inches between them.
His hair, just brushing his collar, was a rich, shadowed mahogany infused with brighter glints where the sunlight kissed it. The breeze sifted through the strands, releasing a vague hint of something masculine and mysteriously musky. The scent crawled inside her, raising an ache of awareness and a whisper of warning.
She removed her arms from around him and cleared her throat. “I dare not consider the outcome, sir, if not for your timely and most thoughtful assistance.”
A silent chuckle ran through him, communicated across the broad sweep of his back. “Quite happy to have been of service, madam. I thought it exceedingly brave of you, saving that little girl.”
“Lucy is a neighbor. Someone had to do something.”
“Still and all.” He tossed a glance back at her, revealing the strong line of his profile, and the softer curve of his generous lips. “Were you hurt?”
“I . . . no, I do not believe I am. But my sisters . . . I must find them.” She twisted around, hoping in vain for a glimpse of them.
“Is one perhaps a rather attractive redhead? She seemed frantic on your behalf but otherwise unscathed.”
“That would be Holly. Were the others with her? I have three sisters, you see.”
“Three?” Again, an amused current rippled through him. “I am afraid I saw no one else who appeared to be associated with her.”
“Oh, dear.”
“Fret not. I harbor no doubts that they are safe.”
He could not, of course, know any such thing, yet his reassurance set Laurel at ease.
He drew to the side of the street and dismounted by effortlessly tossing a leg over the horse’s gray withers. Reaching up, he spanned her waist with his hands in a manner that caused her breath to hitch. As he set her gently on the ground, she saw him—
truly
saw him—for the first time.
Her insides stirred. However rude, however giddy and girlish, she could not help gaping up at him, arrested by crisp blue eyes, full lips, and sturdy, well- hewn features that suggested both a keen intellect and a sensuality she found thoroughly disconcerting.
Then she noticed that he, too, was staring as though taken aback by her appearance. . . .
Oh.
Embarrassment rushing through her in hot torrents, she raised a hand to her hair to discover her bonnet gone, crushed no doubt beneath the tramping feet. Meanwhile her hairpins had scattered, reducing the fashionable chignon Ivy had helped her arrange that morning to a tangle around her shoulders.
His gaze lingered on her face for another moment, then dipped lower. Remembering the tearing she had heard, she glanced down at a rip between her skirt and bodice that indecently exposed her petticoat.
Her new marigold muslin, ruined. She slid a hand to cover the offending garment. Good grief,
why
could she not have met this man earlier this morning, or yesterday, or tomorrow?
“Is there anything more I may do for you, madam?” He sounded the perfect gentleman, which miraculously restored a measure of her dignity.
“Thank you, sir, but no.” The words were feeble, breathless. “I am a bit shaken, to be sure, and . . . well . . . rather disheveled, I will admit. . . .”
“If we continue on to Sloane, I should be able to flag you a hackney.”
“That will not be necessary, for you have brought me nearly home. My uncle’s town house is just there.” She pointed down the street.
At that moment trumpets blared. At the corner, visible above the heads of the onlookers, the plumed helmets of the queen’s rear guard disappeared from view as they passed beyond William Street.
Laurel’s heart sank. She had missed her friend’s glorious moment, lost the chance to toss flowers, wish the new queen Godspeed, and perhaps be rewarded with a private glance of recognition.
She and her sisters had not visited with Victoria in more than three years. At first they had traded frequent letters, but even those had grown rare as the old king’s health failed and it became apparent that Victoria would shortly assume the burdens of the Crown.
The Sutherland sisters had
so
wanted Victoria to know they still thought of her, still wished the very best for her, still loved her.
In the wake of the procession, police whistles sounded and a commotion broke out at the corner of Knightsbridge and William streets. Several high blue hats bobbed above the crowd.
“The police appear to be fighting their way through,” Laurel observed.
“Ah, yes. Odds are they’re coming for me.” The man before her grinned, a gesture she found utterly devastating in its capacity to trip the beat of her pulse. “They seemed rather disgruntled when I rode my horse onto the sidewalk.”
“But you only did so to rescue me.”
“Indeed, and well worth my pains. However, from their point of view I no doubt appeared a drunken lout attempting to plow my horse through the hapless crowd. I hope you understand that I have little desire to spend the next several hours down at the Chelsea Station clarifying who I am and why I acted as I did.”
“Oh, I can fully appreciate your disinclination to do that, sir.”
“Then if you will be so good as to excuse me.” He raised her hand to his lips, imparting a tingling sensation that began at her fingertips and swept like wildfire all through her.
“Aidan? By God, that you, old b-boy?”
Laurel’s rescuer—Aidan?—straightened and turned in the direction of the hail. His dark eyebrows converged.
Mounted on a sleek chestnut, a man of sallow complexion and thinning russet hair approached from the quieter south end of William Street. Despite the expensive cut of his riding attire, his uneven slouch, slack mouth, and slightly unfocused gaze lent him a slovenly aspect.
“I s-say,” the rider slurred, confirming Laurel’s suspicions that, despite the earliness of the hour, he was fairly into his cups, “what d-damned devilry are you up to now? Might have known you’d p-pluck yourself a tasty little treat from the crush.”
Laurel gasped, once more steeped in shame over the state of her appearance. Beside her, Aidan’s skin darkened, but before he replied, a shout from the opposite corner heralded the approach of two constables.
“You there!”
“Time for me to take my leave.”
Laurel was surprised to realize that her hand still rested in his. He broke into a grin that filled her with delight. “By God, what you did for that little girl took courage.”
Before she knew what he was about, he tipped her chin and brought his mouth down to hers for a fleeting yet thorough kiss. Her pulse rocketed like a celebration day firework.
Then, with no particular effort that Laurel could perceive, he was atop his horse and making rapid progress down the street. His friend fell in beside him and the two sped away at a canter. With no choice but to abandon their pursuit, the shouting constables came to frustrated halts. They glanced at Laurel, dismissed her with disparaging shrugs, and about-faced.
The crowd up at the corner dispersed, and Holly’s worried face appeared. As the girl hurried closer, Laurel pressed her fingertips to her quivering lips and tried to master her breathing. Her shocked sensibilities were another matter. If the impulsive kiss had revealed her rescuer as rather less than chivalrous, neither could she quite claim being a lady.
Because the truth was, as improper and insulting as that kiss had been—or
should
have been—she had wholeheartedly, unreservedly, and in defiance of everything she had been raised to believe, enjoyed it.
Chapter 2
London, March 1838
A
idan’s first hint that his pleasant night had reached its inevitable conclusion came with an irritating burst of brightness against his eyelids. The second was the slap of his own dress shirt against his face. Though he had not yet opened his eyes, he immediately recognized the garment as his own by the scent of his companion’s flowery perfume clinging to the linen.
Miss Delilah, the lovely creature whose acquaintance he’d had the pleasure of making after winning several hundred at hazard last night, and who had done him the honor not only of joining him for a late supper but also of serving up a rousing bit of dessert afterward in this very room, deposited a kiss on his brow and disentangled herself from the sheets.
The satin coverlet slithered from the bed as she drew it around her splendidly supple body. An image crept into his mind of the contortionlike poses the young lady had achieved with her long arms and shapely legs. A professional, she had made the distasteful task of sullying his own reputation rather more palatable, and he would be sure to leave her an ample reward.
While he couldn’t claim to detest his occasional visits to London’s finer brothels, the pleasure he took in such episodes typically proved fleeting. Like gambling and drinking, whoring had become part of the persona he showed the world.
Last night he had also needed an alibi. No one who knew him would ever suspect that before retiring to seek his pleasure here, at Mrs. Wellington’s Gentlemen’s Sanctum, he had sent his carriage—with Delilah inside it—circling the London Docks while he had picked a lock and stolen inside a certain warehouse, seeking evidence against a certain notable solicitor.
Delilah herself had asked no questions. But then, she had known that he would pay as dearly for her silence as for her other professional services.
Her padding footsteps faded from the room, followed by a pronounced throat clearing. “Wake up, Barensforth. We’ve business to discuss.”
With a groan, Aidan buried his face into the pillow. His head ached like the dickens, and he feared opening his eyes would send the room spinning. “Later.”
“Now.” The mattress jerked beneath the force of what could only have been the bottom of the intruder’s boot. A second article of clothing that felt suspiciously like his waistcoat landed on his shoulder. “We have a situation.”
He gingerly opened an eye to a partial view of the stocking-draped washstand on the opposite wall. “I say, Wescott, will you kindly cease bombarding me with my own wardrobe? That’s no way to treat a peer of the realm, not to mention the man who single- handedly saved your financially inept arse and restored your family’s security and your damned bloody dignity.”
“Yes, well.” Lewis Wescott released a long-suffering sigh. “You, of course, have my undying gratitude, my dear Lord Barensforth. Be that as it may, it has taken me two full days to track you down. Has it never occurred to you to check in before vanishing on one of your binges?”
“A binge? Is that what you’d call it?”
Wescott huffed. “What
have
you been up to?”
Aidan peered up at the man and curled his lips into a satisfied smile. “The
Anne Dorian
, which supposedly sank in the Atlantic last month, taking down with it a fortune in cotton, sugar, and the life savings of several prominent Londoners, didn’t.”
“Didn’t
what
?”
“Sink. I’ve spent the past fortnight poring over recent commodities figures, staring at ship manifests until my eyes crossed, and questioning every drunken sailor I could find who had lately been to the Americas. There was no storm. From what I’ve been able to piece together, the
Anne Dorian
was refitted before leaving the West Indies and returned home as the
Wild Rose
, falsely registered as a Jamaican vessel. She has unfortunately sailed away again, but you’ll find her illicit cargo tucked away in a warehouse on the West India Quay. Ah, and here’s the best part. I’ve uncovered a silent partner who stood to profit enormously from the scheme. One Oscar Littleton.”
Wescott started as if poked from behind. “The foreign secretary’s private solicitor?”
“The very same.”
“Well-done, Barensforth! Well-done, indeed.”
“Yes, yes.” Aidan cut the man short with a wave, hauled himself semiupright against the pillows, and scrubbed the bleariness from his eyes. “As long as I’m awake, why don’t you tell me what has you as flushed as a maiden on her wedding night?”
Aidan’s barrel-chested, paunch-bellied contact from the Home Office plunged into a rapid elucidation of the latest matter threatening the financial well-being of the kingdom.
“There hasn’t been much in the way of new building in Bath in more than a decade, and now suddenly the quality is flocking there to invest in something called the Summit Pavilion,” Wescott explained. “Some kind of spa. We might not have noticed except that there have been multiple delays in breaking ground. . . .”
As Wescott continued spouting the details, Aidan sighed. The
Anne Dorian
affair had taken a good deal of energy on his part, not to mention the risk to life and limb, and here Wescott expected him to jump on command—again.
There were moments when he regretted having ever made Lewis Wescott’s acquaintance.
Five years ago a lucrative investment opportunity had swept through London’s aristocratic and upper-middle-class drawing rooms. Scores of men, including Lewis Wescott, had scampered to stake their claim in a West African diamond mine whose yield promised to make them overnight millionaires.
Not long prior, Aidan had discovered he had a proficiency at the gaming tables that allowed him to rebuild the fortune his father had lost before his death. Aidan’s talent with numbers extended to financial speculation as well, and the idea of wealth gleaned from glittering pebbles had appealed to him.