“Indeed.”
Marguerite stared out the window as they rounded a corner and a familiar row of terraced townhouses appeared. She began to gather her things and retied the ribbons of her bonnet.
“Thank you for bringing me home, Lord Minshom.”
He smiled as the carriage drew to a halt. “It was my pleasure.” He shifted along the seat toward the door his coachman was already opening. “As I said, I’ve always looked forward to meeting you.”
Marguerite ducked her head to exit the carriage and stilled as Lord Minshom’s hard fingers closed around her upper arm.
“At least allow me to escort you to your door.”
She sighed as he exited the carriage ahead of her and waited until he helped her down. The rain had almost stopped, although black clouds continued to boil and churn overhead. Lord Minshom kissed her gloved hand, his expression once more impossible to read.
“Good-bye, Lady Justin. I hope we’ll meet again soon.”
I hope we don’t. Marguerite bobbed a curtsey and managed to smile back before hurrying to her door. Lord Minshom had unsettled her; his intimate knowledge of both the Lockwood family and her deceased husband made her nervous. Exactly how close a friend had he been to Justin?
Even worse, if he was a patron of the pleasure house, he might know exactly where Justin’s sexual tastes lay and how he’d chosen to enjoy them. He might even know her mother. Behind that bland smile, did Lord Minshom harbor a grudge against the woman who had caused Justin’s death, and if so, what did he intend to do about it?
10
“Anthony, are you still here? I was about to lock up.”
Anthony looked up from the document he was squinting at. His office was so dark he could barely see Peter’s silhouette in the doorway. With a groan, he dropped his quill pen and flexed his fingers.
“I didn’t realize it was so late.”
Peter leaned against the door jamb and crossed his arms. “I know Val and I asked you to work harder, but we don’t expect you to kill yourself.”
“I won’t. I just wanted to finish this.”
“And have you finished?”
Anthony sighed. “I suppose it will have to do.” He glanced at the clock and shot to his feet. “Damnation! I was invited for dinner at eight.”
Peter’s quiet chuckle filled the room. “You’d better hurry, then. Ladies don’t like it when you are late.”
Anthony stopped buttoning his coat. “How did you know it was a lady who’d asked me to dinner, and is that really true?”
Peter grinned. “I’ve never seen you move that quickly before, so I assumed you weren’t going home. And, in truth, all the ladies I’ve known haven’t taken to being ignored well.”
Anthony grabbed his hat and gloves and hesitated by the door. “Do you think a man should always tell a lady the truth about himself?”
“About why he’s late for dinner, or are you speaking in more general terms?”
“More generally.”
Peter considered him. “I think it depends on the type of relationship you have. For example, Abigail knows everything about me and my less-than-perfect past, yet she still loves me.” His slight smile died. “Unfortunately, not all women are so accepting.”
Anthony fiddled with his hat. “I don’t know how much I should reveal about my sexual tastes.”
“Do you trust her?”
Anthony thought about that, pictured Marguerite’s blue eyes and serious face. “Yes.”
“Then tell her.”
“And if she turns away from me in disgust?”
“Then she wasn’t the right woman for you, was she?”
Anthony sighed and walked toward the main office, which for once was quiet and deserted. “You’re not being much help.”
“I know.” Peter clapped Anthony on the back. “Tell her some of it, then, but for God’s sake, don’t lie.”
Anthony bade him good night, took a cautious look around the desolate, grimy streets and decided to walk back to the main thoroughfare to find a hackney cab. Despite attending to his work, he’d spent most of the day wondering what he should tell Marguerite and how she would react.
One thing was clear. He couldn’t allow her to see him as a perfect gentleman; he wasn’t comfortable with that pretense at all. He genuinely liked her and wanted her respect. But what could he say that wouldn’t shock her?
Nothing.
His whole life was a series of humiliations. Why the devil would she ever want to be associated with him anyway? On that glum note, he hailed a cab and headed for Marguerite’s house on Maddox Street.
Marguerite stuck her spoon in the bowl of gooseberry fool in front of her and slowly sucked the tart fruit from the silverware. Perhaps she was indeed a fool. Mrs. Jones had gone to bed, leaving Marguerite still waiting at the dining table for dear, dear Anthony to appear. In anticipation of his visit, she’d put on her favorite gown, allowed her maid to curl her hair into a cascade of ringlets and left off all but one of her petticoats.
And he hadn’t arrived. Marguerite took another swig of her red wine and savored the acidic taste. She wanted to squirm in her seat, to pace the room, to do something to get rid of the frustrated desire that lurked under her skin. She felt like the female cat in the convent kitchen that yowled and scratched to be let out whenever the males gathered to serenade her in the gardens.
So much for being ready to take a chance on another man . . . Marguerite’s fingers curled around the glass bowl. If Anthony appeared at this moment, he might find himself covered in green goopy pudding.
There was a knock on the door and her butler appeared. “My lady, there is a gentleman here to see you. It is rather late. Do you want me to turn him away?”
Her butler’s offended expression said that she should do just that, but Marguerite realized she wanted to see Anthony far too much to care about propriety.
“It’s all right, Jarvis. Ask him in and then you can retire.”
“Of course, my lady.”
Marguerite sat back in her chair as Anthony strode into the room. His dark hair was disordered, his cheeks flushed as if he had been running. She pointed at the clock on the mantelpiece.
“You are late.”
He bowed low. “I know. Will you accept my profound apologies?”
“It depends on what you have been doing instead of honoring your obligation to me.”
His smile was wary. “I was at work and I forgot the time.”
“Your work was more important than me?”
He sighed and sat on the delicate gilt chair next to hers. “Of course not. It’s just that with my job in jeopardy, I sometimes try too hard to prove my worthiness.”
“Why is your job at risk?”
He shrugged. “Because it was only supposed to be temporary, and now my father and Val want me to give it up and live like a true gentleman.”
“They want you to be idle?”
“Apparently so.”
“That is ridiculous.”
He glanced up at her then, his vivid blue eyes full of laughter, and took her hands. “I can’t help but agree with you.”
She snatched her hands away, not quite ready to forgive him yet, her courage bolstered by the two glasses of red wine she’d already drunk. “Have you eaten?”
He surveyed the array of dishes on the table and swallowed hard. “Unfortunately not.”
She waved a hand at him. “Then help yourself.”
She waited as he gathered himself a large plate of cold food, poured him a glass of the rich red wine and then sat back to finish her dessert.
“May I say you look beautiful tonight?”
Marguerite frowned down at her favorite blue gown and then at him. “Didn’t we agree that you wouldn’t use that word?”
“Why does it offend you so much?”
Marguerite shrugged. “My mother is beautiful.”
“She is, but does that mean you can’t be beautiful as well? Do you think she would resent it?”
“No, of course not. It’s just that I hate to be judged on my appearance.”