The carriage appeared at the foot of the steps. Louisa allowed herself to be handed up inside. Anthony followed before she could change her mind.
He sat down across from her and closed the door. The dark confines of the cab enveloped them. In the intimate space he was intensely aware of Louisa’s delicate scent, a mix of some flowery cologne and woman. He was half-aroused, he realized. He had to force himself to concentrate on the business at hand.
“Now, then, Mrs. Bryce,” he said, “where were we?”
“I believe you were about to tell me something of the nature of your unusual profession.” She reached into her muff and withdrew a pencil and a notepad. “Would you mind turning up the lamps? I want to take notes.”
2
There was an acute silence.
Louisa looked up. Anthony was gazing at her, dumbfounded. She gave him what she hoped was an encouraging smile.
“Don’t worry,” she said, opening the small, leather-bound notebook that she carried everywhere. “I don’t intend to steal your trade secrets.”
“Just as well because I don’t plan to reveal them to you,” he said dryly. “Put the notebook away, Mrs. Bryce.”
A little chill feathered her nerves. It was the same shiver of alarm she had experienced when Lady Ashton had introduced him to her earlier in the week at the Hammond affair. His name had rung a very loud, clanging bell of warning, but she had assured herself that being asked to dance by the man whose fiancée was one of the two women who had drowned in the river a little over a year ago was sheer coincidence, not the Dread Hand of Fate. The social world, after all, was a relatively small realm. Nevertheless, when she saw him in the hall outside Hastings’s bedroom tonight she almost panicked. He could not know it, but the truth was, encountering him there had given her far more of a jolt than she had got from meeting up with the guard.
She was certain she could have dealt with Quinby. After all these months in Society the image she and Lady Ashton had worked so carefully to establish had been generally accepted. She was Louisa Bryce, the unimportant, unfashionable, excessively dull relative from the country whom Lady Ashton had kindly taken in as a companion. There was no reason for Quinby to be overly suspicious of her.
Anthony’s unexpected appearance in that hall, however, had shaken her nerve. This time there could be no denying that something more than coincidence was at work.
She had known intuitively from their first meeting that the air of ennui and jaded disinterest that Anthony projected was an illusion. For that reason she had been very cautious around him. Perhaps it was for that very same reason he had fascinated her from the start.
The realization that he was very likely a professional jewel thief not only reassured her, it had given her a brilliant idea. At least it had seemed brilliant at the time. She was starting to have doubts. Perhaps it was not inspiration that had struck her a few minutes ago. In hindsight, it might have been foolhardy desperation.
She realized that he was watching her with a mixture of amused irritation and relentless determination.
“If you insist,” she said, keeping her tone polite and trying not to show her disappointment. “No notes.”
Reluctantly, she returned the notebook and pencil to the small pocket inside her muff.
He had made no move to turn up the interior lamps as she had requested, so his features remained carved in shadows. But she had danced with him several times in the past week. His enigmatic eyes and the implacable planes and angles of his face had been imprinted on all of her senses. When her gloved fingertips had rested ever so lightly on his shoulder during the waltz she had been vividly aware of the strength in the sleek muscles beneath his expensively tailored coat.
Dancing with Anthony was like dancing with a particularly well-dressed, well-mannered wolf: The experience was both dangerous and exhilarating. Kissing him a few minutes ago had been a thousand times more exciting and, no doubt, a thousand times more hazardous. She would never forget that shocking, thrilling embrace in the hall outside Hastings’s bedroom, she thought.
There was an aura of cool self-mastery about Anthony, a steely edge that simultaneously attracted her and commanded her wary respect. She had heard that he had spent a great deal of time journeying to far-off lands before returning to England four years ago. She had a feeling that his experiences abroad had taught him to see beneath the surface in ways that others in Society did not.
The Stalbridge family was considered by one and all to be heavily populated by eccentrics. For the most part they ignored Society. The Stalbridges, however, had become quite wealthy in recent years, and the family’s bloodlines were impeccable. Given those crucial factors, Lady Ashton had explained, Society could not ignore the Stalbridges. Anthony and the other members of his family were routinely included on every guest list, although they rarely accepted invitations.
Any hostess who succeeded in attracting a Stalbridge to a social affair was widely considered to have achieved a great coup. The new Mrs. Hastings was no doubt very proud of having lured Anthony to the first ball she had given as a married woman.
Satisfied now that the notebook and pencil had vanished, Anthony lounged against the seat and contemplated Louisa with faintly narrowed eyes.
“What were you doing in Hastings’s bedroom?” he asked.
The conversation was not going as she had intended. She had planned to take charge right from the start, but somehow he had seized control and was interrogating her. There was nothing she could do now but brazen it out.
“I opened that door quite by accident,” she replied.
“I trust you will not be offended when I tell you that I do not believe a single word of that extremely flimsy story, and I doubt if the man who stopped us would have, either.”
“I had a perfectly sound story prepared to give that odious creature,” she shot back without stopping to consider her words. “If you had not interfered, I would have told him that I was merely looking for a room in which I could repair a tear in my gown.”
“I don’t think he would have found that story any more believable than I do.” Anthony stretched out his legs and folded his arms across his chest. “By the way, the name of that odious creature, as you call him, is Quinby. He is a hired guard. Hastings recently employed two of them. Both carry revolvers.”
She caught her breath. “Good heavens, sir. Are you telling me that Mr. Quinby was armed?”
“The gun was in the pocket of his coat. I expect he also carries a knife. In my experience, men who grow up on the streets are usually quite comfortable with them.”
“I see.” She swallowed hard, absorbing the information. “Did you acquire that experience in the course of your travels abroad?”
“You have, indeed, made some inquiries about me. I’m honored to have captured your attention to such a degree.”
She flushed. “Yes, well, as I said, your peculiar interest in me made me curious.”
“I do not consider my interest in you at all peculiar. Trust me when I tell you that you are nothing short of fascinating, Mrs. Bryce. And in answer to your question, yes, I did spend some time in places where men commonly go about armed, and I learned a great deal.” He paused for emphasis. “I know men like Quinby when I see them.”
She was not at all certain what to make of the nothing short of fascinating remark, so she decided to ignore it.
“Well, that certainly explains a few things about Mr. Quinby,” she said briskly. “I did wonder why he felt he had the right to confront us in such a rude manner. I realized he was not an ordinary servant in the household.”
“No,” Anthony agreed. “Lesson Number One, Mrs. Bryce: The next time you see a man in a coat that bulges somewhat oddly, pay attention.”