One Night in London

by Caroline Linden

  He barely heard what she said. Her hair, shining as brightly as before, was arranged in loose, seductive waves that looked as though a man had been running his hands through it, and she had just caught it up in a few combs. Tendrils curled around her temples and at the nape of her neck, teasing that fine, fair skin he had remarked earlier. Her gown looked ordinary until she moved, when it swirled and caught on the curves of her hip and waist. He had thought it was some dark silk, but realized instead it was thin black net draped over a gown the color of flame that shimmered with her every movement. The image of a living flame, smoldering beneath a respectable facade, caught his imagination and fixed him in place. What else about her burned?

  She cocked her head to one side as he stood staring at her. “I hope my note wasn’t abrupt,” she said. “You said you wished to see him as soon as possible—”

  “Yes!” Edward gave himself a mental shake and bowed. “Good evening, Lady Gordon. Your note was perfectly timed, and I have no complaint.”

  Her expression eased into a smile. There was something about the way her chin dipped and the way her eyes sparkled that made it look rather coy and seductive. Or perhaps that was his imagination, which seemed to have sprouted wings and soared out of its normal range tonight. She held out one hand toward a pair of doors standing open. “Won’t you come in? We have some matters to settle first.”

  Edward followed her into the room, trying to ignore the swish of her skirt as she walked before him. It was just a business arrangement between them, he reminded himself. The way she moved—and smiled—was a distraction he would have to ignore. The housekeeper who had admitted him closed the doors of the room, and they were alone.

  “May I offer you a drink?” she asked as they sat down, she on a small settee and he on a facing chair. A tray filled with a number of crystal decanters was on the table beside her. Lady Gordon entertained gentlemen often, from the looks of things.

  Normally Edward only drank after supper, but tonight he took one more look at those loose curls trailing over her shoulders and said, “Please.”

  “Perhaps I should tell you about Mr. Sloan first.” She poured a glass of brandy and held it out to him.

  Edward took a sip and nodded. “By all means, if you think it necessary.”

  “His father was a stevedore,” she began. “He wanted more out of life, so he cast about for something profitable. Publishing the scandalous secrets of people above him—and to his mind, that includes nearly everyone—not only made him money, but brought him some status as well. He is fiercely proud of his achievement; he is rich, as he wanted to be, and he has made his money off the troubles of aristocrats and other proud people, the sort who have always looked down on him.” She hesitated a moment, rolling her lower lip between her teeth. “If you brought a suit against him, he would react very badly, even if it meant his own ruin.”

  Edward inclined his head. “I grasp your meaning.”

  A sigh of relief slipped through her lips, and she smiled. “Fortunately, I have an acquaintance with him. Not a close one, really, but cordial enough that I believe our association will sway his inclination. However, to make the most of our chance, it would be best if Mr. Sloan believes you to be a close friend of mine.”

  “Ah.” How close? whispered some devil in his mind, the devil that was still preoccupied with the lines of her collarbone. Her incendiary gown didn’t cover them at all. “How do you suggest I proceed?” he asked to drown out the insidious little voice.

  A bit of that flush he had admired earlier rose in her cheeks again, although her expression remained the same. “You might call me Francesca, instead of Lady Gordon. Permit me to call you Edward a time or two. Allow me to insinuate we have known each other for some time, and have a special affection for each other. I promise not to go so far that he will begin to print rumors of our attachment,” she rushed to add, watching him closely. “Just enough that he will view it as a favor for me as well.”

  Her name was Francesca. How unusual—but then, she had mentioned something about being Italian, even though she looked and sounded every inch an Englishwoman. “I have no objection,” he said. He probably should have one, especially since he quite liked the sound of his name in her husky voice. A business arrangement, he thought again; business only. Francesca.

  “Very well.” She wet her lips. “I should probably beg your pardon now for anything I might say. I have a lamentable tendency to get carried away in the heat of the moment, and say more than I intended. I’ve been thinking all day how to persuade Mr. Sloan to issue a retraction, but it will have to be decided by how he reacts.”

  “If you can persuade him to retract, publicly and prominently, you may say almost anything you like,” Edward said dryly. “I shan’t be offended by what is, for all purposes, a performance.”

  Her eyebrows went up slightly in surprise. “Quite right!” A pleased smile spread over her face. “How fortunate we see it the same way.”

  He smiled faintly. “If we did not, I wouldn’t here, would I?”

  Her lips twitched but she didn’t look away. “I really am very sorry for haranguing you yesterday.”

  “There is no need for regret.” He paused, then decided there was no reason to stop himself. They were on a more intimate footing tonight already. “I gathered you were under some strong emotional influence.”

  Her lips parted, and she took a deep breath before answering. “Yes. But I ought not to have succumbed to it.”

  Edward dismissed it with a wave of one hand. “No, no. When one’s family is endangered, there is no stricture that cannot be broken. In your place I would have done the same.”

  “I very much doubt it,” she exclaimed, and then looked as though she wanted to snatch the words back.

  He cleared his throat. “Yes, well. Perhaps not exactly the same . . .”

  She gave him a look, her eyebrows raised and her lips slowly curling. It was an intimate smile, one lovers might share over a private joke. Edward resisted the urge to shift in his chair, and instead took another sip of his brandy.

  “All right, I might have done something utterly different,” he conceded. “But only in deed, not in spirit.” He paused, watching her expressive face glow with subtle amusement. “I truly am very sorry for your difficulties over your niece. I hope the girl is not in any danger.”

  She blinked several times, very quickly, then straightened her shoulders. “Thank you,” she said. “I hope not, too.”

  Now that he was staring at her, he seemed unable to stop. His eyes roamed over her face, beautifully flushed, and her gleaming hair, so glorious against her skin. The other day, when she railed at him for stealing her solicitor, she’d been magnificent, in the manner of an avenging Fury. Francesca Gordon in a passion was quite a sight. The little devil that had invaded his mind tonight couldn’t stop comparing her to Louisa, who went pale and silent in emotional upset. Francesca—he really mustn’t become accustomed to thinking of her as such—reacted with anger and action. She stormed his house, the home of a total stranger, and upbraided him for inadvertently ruining her hopes. She said she would never forgive him, and smiled wickedly when he called her a managing female. By God, one could have a rousing good row with a woman like this, and then . . .

  Edward closed his eyes and inhaled to quell the images springing to his mind in vivid, sinful detail of how they could get over an argument. He didn’t want to have an argument with any woman, no matter how sweet the reconciliation. He admired women like Louisa, who knew when to hold her tongue and be tactful and agreeable. It kept life orderly and predictable.

  Unfortunately, tonight would likely be none of those things. And Louisa, who was so perfectly suited to him and claimed to love him, had broken their engagement in the most public, humiliating way possible.

  He looked at his hostess. She was a handsome woman, with spirit and courage. If she could achieve what she promised tonight, he would be happy to line up every last solicitor in London for her inspecti
on. Then he would bid her farewell, and that would be the end of their association.

  Francesca . . .

  With one twist of his wrist he drained the last of his brandy.

  “May I pour you some more?” she asked. Flame silk flickered at him as she leaned toward the tray with the decanter. The firelight shone on her hair as if it were a mirror. Edward felt as dry as tinder.

  “Absolutely.”

  Chapter 7

  Francesca was quickly discovering that she wasn’t quite as prepared for this evening as she had thought.

  She wasn’t worried about Sloan. He had replied to her note with a great deal of warmth and alacrity. He might not be anticipating the same evening she was, but he would be here, and she refused to consider the chance that she might fail to persuade him. If nothing else, Sloan appreciated the value of having people in his debt, and this would put her—and Lord Edward—very much in his debt.

  But inviting Lord Edward to her house, and seeing him there, was more jarring than expected. From the moment he first stepped into the house, darkly somber in his evening clothes, he seemed to take in everything in a glance before fastening his attention on her, and now he sat and watched her over his brandy glass with those inscrutable gray eyes. Francesca felt on edge. He looked taller here in her bright, cozy parlor than in the chilly blue salon in Berkeley Square, where the high ceiling dwarfed them both. She had dressed very carefully for tonight, in one of her favorite gowns that made her feel strong and beautiful. Female beauty was a form of power, and tonight she needed every advantage she could find. It was meant much more to beguile Gregory Sloan than Edward de Lacey, but the longer she sat under Lord Edward’s regard, the more aware she felt of every whisper of the silk against her body. She could almost tell when he was looking at her; her skin seemed to tingle. There was nothing offensive or importunate in his gaze. He just watched her with a directness she wasn’t used to, as if she were of immense interest to him. Not even Alconbury fixed his attention on her so completely.

  And strangely, she didn’t find it bothersome, just unsettling. As if someone who should have taken no notice of her had suddenly become deeply interested. She didn’t know how to respond to his interest. Of course, he was interested in what she could do for him, and perhaps in what he would be required to do for her. She was a little surprised when he asked about Georgina, but she could hear the sincerity in his voice when he spoke of family. Of course, his family had been threatened as well, so perhaps he understood, in a way, how she felt and why she acted as she had.

  She was glad when he accepted more brandy. It gave her something to do, and at the same time another excuse to look at him. Even as he was, at ease with a brandy in hand, he looked controlled and reserved. She hoped he would remain so, at least as long as it took her to convince Gregory Sloan to print a retraction. If he were to lash out at Gregory and begin an argument, her whole plan could end in disaster.

  Fortunately, the guest of honor arrived then, a good quarter hour before she had specified. Francesca rose to her feet at the sound of the door knocker, smoothing her hands over her skirt and composing herself for the following performance, as Lord Edward had called it. He rose as well. Without a word he moved to the fireplace and leaned one elbow against the mantel, as if he were a welcome and frequent guest in her home. She gave him a nod of approval, then turned as Mrs. Hotchkiss opened the door for Sloan.

  He strode in with a look of victory about him, but stopped abruptly as he saw Lord Edward. Francesca went toward him, hands outstretched. “Mr. Sloan,” she said warmly, “how lovely of you to come by.”

  He raised her hand to his lips. “As if I would refuse any invitation from you.”

  She laughed lightly, ignoring his implied meaning. “A lady must never presume these things. But here—there is someone I particularly wish you to meet. May I introduce you to my friend?” At his curt nod, she turned to the other man. “Edward, this is Mr. Gregory Sloan. Gregory, may I present Lord Edward de Lacey?”

  His expression stiffened at the name, but Sloan bowed every bit as politely as Lord Edward did.

  “May I pour you a drink?” Francesca asked her new guest.

  Sloan said nothing for a moment, his eyes on Lord Edward. “My dear Francesca—” he began softly.

  “Oh, yes, you know I had an ulterior motive in inviting you tonight.” She poured a generous brandy and pressed the glass into his hand before seating herself. “But really, Gregory, how could you print such things and not expect to stir up a tempest?”

  His eyes darkened, just a little, but Francesca saw it. A mask slid over his features, almost as an actor slipping into a part. Sloan lifted one shoulder as he took the chair opposite her, where Lord Edward had been sitting a few moments ago. “It was business, my dear. Nothing but business.”

  “As if that excuses everything,” she murmured.

  “In my world it does,” he replied, and took a large swallow of his drink.

  “Would you print such things about me?” she asked in reproach. He just looked at her. “Because it was every bit as distressing to me as it was to Edward.”

  “I told you not to pay it any mind, my dear,” said Lord Edward, to her surprise. He left his post by the fireplace and came to sit beside her on the settee. It wasn’t a large piece of furniture, and he made no effort to keep his distance. Francesca’s pulse jumped as their shoulders bumped, and she had to stop herself from inching away.

  Sloan looked between the two of them. “I’d no idea you were even acquainted with his lordship,” he said stiffly. “Even so, I cannot withhold every bit of news just because it affects you or any other friend of mine. I’d have nothing to print.”

  Francesca felt the tension spring up in Lord Edward’s arm, so close to hers. “I do understand, Gregory,” she said quickly. “You know I read your naughty paper every day—such a bad influence you are.” She pursed her lips in a teasing imitation of a grimace, and Sloan smiled a little. “But in this case I had to speak to you. You must admit it was rather shocking and exceptional, what you wrote, and bound to cause quite an uproar. And Edward and I have known each other for some time,” she added. She tilted back her head to flash a brilliant smile of warning at the man in question. “He’s simply not in town much.”

  Lord Edward smiled back at her. “To my regret. The moment I saw your face yesterday, I couldn’t remember why I stayed away so long.” To Francesca’s shock, he was looking at her as if they were much more than friends, with that dangerously attractive smile she had noted before—and warned herself to be wary of. Flustered, she yanked her attention back to Sloan, who was watching with a mixture of skepticism and interest.

  “I won’t deny your scandal sheets are very amusing,” she said to Sloan, “but this time you’ve gone too far. Where on earth did you hear such lies?” She wagged a finger at him in mild admonition. “Someone will bring a suit against you one of these days.”

  His eyes turned on Lord Edward, amused and a little mocking. He leaned back in his chair, almost gloating. “Not this time they won’t. My source was sound.”

  Francesca burst out laughing. “Oh, don’t be silly! Of course Edward wouldn’t dream of doing such a thing—my friendship runs both ways, you know, Gregory darling.” She gave him a meaningful smile. “But one day you’ll cross a hothead who won’t have my good counsel to restrain his foolish impulses.”

  A dull flush rose in his cheeks. “Then I don’t know what you wanted to discuss.”

  She had thought about this, and realized she would have to toss Sloan some sop. If she tried to get him to retract every word, he’d dig in his heels like a mule. She knew she should have broached this earlier with Lord Edward, but it was too late now and she would have to take a chance. “Well, of course, I’m sure your source had his sources,” she began, choosing each word with deliberate care. “Not everything was a complete fabrication, you understand—but on the key point, your source has sadly misled you. I think you should retract the parts t
hat could come back to haunt you. After all, people buy your papers because they believe them to be true. If it should appear that you print anything, even that which is demonstrably false . . .” She made a helpless gesture with one hand, letting her words trail away.

  “Oh?” Sloan sat forward, expression sharpening. It made him look a bit like a rat, sharp-nosed with quivering cheeks. Francesca didn’t even want to think what he would have looked like had she accepted his proposition, but she had a bad feeling it would have been very much like this. “Which parts are false?”

  “I understand your position, sir,” said Edward unexpectedly. Francesca glanced at him from the corner of her eye without altering her expression, even as her mind raced. Oh dear, what was he about to say? He had agreed she would handle this . . . But Lord Edward moved to the edge of the settee and set his empty glass down on the tray. “Your source is obviously a member of the Halston household.” Sloan sat back warily and jerked his head in a single nod. Lord Edward sighed. “I had hoped to keep it out of the papers,” he said to Francesca with some regret. “I only spoke to her yesterday.”

  “Of course,” she said, playing along, trying to think what the Halstons had to do with this.

  Sloan stared at him, stone-faced. “Then you’re not engaged to Lady Louisa Halston.”

  “Not any longer.”

  “She broke it off?”

  Lord Edward flicked one hand. “A gentleman cannot possibly answer that question.”

  “Oh, Gregory, must you dig for more information?” cried Francesca. “I won’t have my drawing room made into a gossip mill for your paper.” Good Lord—she had hardly paid attention to the bit about a broken engagement, but she now had a terrible suspicion Lord Edward had discovered it was over when she showed him the gossip sheet. She couldn’t tell a thing from his expression, but surely no man would appreciate being jilted, let alone in the gossip papers. She remembered how he had stood so stiff and still at the window that morning, his shoulders tensed up, and her heart softened a little. What a dreadful way to learn such a thing.