One Night in London

by Caroline Linden

  “I’m not digging, Francesca dear,” said Sloan, still watching the other man with a calculating expression. “Just verifying what I was told by someone who assured me it was sound and true in every way.”

  “I’ve no wish to call anyone a liar publicly. Lady Louisa was very upset yesterday,” said Lord Edward in his cool, crisp voice. “I am sure some strong emotions sprang out of our conversation, and that is perfectly understandable. But I really cannot allow this . . . slur on my family to stand unchallenged. My brother has taken to his bed because of a broken leg. I hired a solicitor to see to some of my late father’s rather complicated and extensive affairs. There is nothing exceptional about either event, and to knit these matters into a full-flown scandal is really beyond the pale.”

  Sloan’s eyes narrowed. “What do you suggest?”

  “Nothing,” replied Lord Edward, “except that the story you were told may have been amplified to increase its value.”

  “Hmph.” Sloan shot a dark glance at Francesca, as if blaming her for the undermining of a scandal that might have provided a legion of profitable stories. She returned his look with one of sympathetic disappointment, as if he only had himself to blame. Which he did, mostly, although apparently with some help from a vindictive woman. Why had Lady Louisa Halston jilted Lord Edward? Or had he dropped her?

  Lord Edward leaned back, looking at ease. “I presume Lord Halston was compensated for his story. He’s been in financial difficulties for some time, and no doubt this additional distress overset his mind. But in essence, he sold you a bill of goods.” He paused. “If I were to make good your loss . . .”

  Sloan was silent for a moment, calculation visible in his eyes. “Two hundred pounds,” he said at last. Francesca gasped, and he cut a harsh scowl at her. “I suppose it’s right fair of you to make compensation, as you say, for any loss I may have suffered.”

  Edward raised one eyebrow. “And for my loss?”

  “I’ll print a nice retraction on the front page tomorrow morning, of all those rumors about your father’s secret marriage.” Sloan’s eyes glittered. His accent had degraded rapidly, and now he sounded almost like the dockworker he had once been. “Will it please you, Franny m’dear?”

  Mouth still open from the whopping sum Sloan had demanded for his retraction, Francesca scrambled for a reply. Lord Edward said nothing, so she stammered, “Y-Yes, I— That sounds eminently fair to me. See, Edward,” she added, recovering to turn to her other guest. “Didn’t I say Gregory was a reasonable man?”

  “And very right you were, my dear,” he replied with a smile. He laid one hand on hers and pressed lightly. Francesca wasn’t sure if it was in thanks or in warning, but she felt it to the tips of her toes. “I would be lost without you.”

  Sloan’s mouth turned down at the corners. He lurched to his feet. “When will I have the money?”

  Lord Edward didn’t move from his seat. “Shall we say, first thing tomorrow morning?”

  “Aye, after you get your morning papers.” Sloan snorted. “Understood.”

  Francesca jumped up. “Oh, there,” she said with a smile. “A pleasing resolution! I knew we could find one. Thank you so much for coming, Gregory; it was such a pleasure to see you again.”

  He gave her a look. “I’ll just bet it was,” he said under his breath. “Perhaps our next visit will be less about business.”

  She gave a low laugh. “Of course! You can’t imagine I enjoy talking about business.” She walked him into the hall and bade him farewell, smiling brightly until Mrs. Hotchkiss had shown him out and closed the door. Then she placed one hand against the wall for a moment as her knees went weak. She could hardly believe that had worked, even if not the way she’d anticipated. Two hundred pounds! Edward hadn’t batted an eye at the figure, but it was a large amount of money. She hoped he wasn’t put out by that bit of extortion. Had Gregory really paid so much? Francesca considered the magnitude of the scandal suggested, and thought he might well have paid close to that amount. If true, and if the news could be doled out one drop at a time, enlarged upon and embroidered from time to time, he could publish it every day for months.

  But now that danger was averted—from Gregory Sloan’s newspaper, at any rate. She had made no promises regarding any other gossip rags, and Edward hadn’t mentioned them, either. And as soon as Gregory Sloan printed his retraction, Edward would help her find a fierce and able solicitor so she could rescue Georgina.

  Francesca took a deep, fortifying breath, trying to forget how he sat so close to her and looked at her so familiarly. Out of the blue she wondered if he had taken it very much to heart that his fiancée had thrown him over. The girl must be soft in the head. Edward de Lacey was shockingly attractive when he smiled, as rich as the very devil, and she was sure she’d never met a more proper gentleman . . . Not that it was any of her business why his fiancée had sold gossip about his family to a scandal sheet—even for two hundred pounds—or why the girl had cried off at all, let alone without having the courtesy to tell him in person. Francesca told herself it would be only decent to allow him to nurse his heartbreak in quiet dignity.

  Then she almost laughed at herself, spinning a sad story out of nothing. For all she knew, it had been an arranged marriage without a speck of affection, and he was only angry that it had gotten in the papers. His personal affairs and motives weren’t her concern, and it was mildly embarrassing that she had to keep reminding herself of that. And they still had business together, this time hers. She turned and went back into the parlor.

  Chapter 8

  Edward poured himself another glass of brandy the instant the door closed behind Sloan and Francesca, then swallowed half of it in one gulp. For two hundred pounds, Lord Halston, who would have been his father-in-law, had sold his private embarrassment to the meanest gossip rag in London. Thank God Gerard had told him about the earl’s difficulties this morning, or else he never would have believed the man could have done such a thing. Of course he had known Halston wasn’t nearly as wealthy as Durham; nobody was. Of course Louisa’s marriage into the Durham family would have bolstered her family’s fortunes a great deal; that was no secret, either. He knew all that, and yet still, like a damned fool, had given Louisa his heart, his respect, and his confidence, thinking he had hers as well.

  In return she told her father what she had promised to keep secret, and one of them decided it wasn’t even worth waiting to see if this potential scandal led to ruin or just a large legal bill for Edward. He had thought her so much better than that. He had thought she genuinely cared for him. He tossed back the rest of his brandy and eyed the decanter, itching for another drink even though he could feel the heat of the liquor in his blood already. Perhaps they ought to put Charlie in charge after all, for it seemed he wasn’t half as perceptive as everyone—including himself—thought.

  His hostess came back into the room, almost radiant in triumph. “That went rather well, I think,” she said, going to the table and pouring herself a small glass of sherry. “We shall see in the morning, of course, but I trust everything was to your satisfaction?”

  “Yes.” He forced himself to shake off his simmering anger at Halston and focus on Francesca Gordon. It was less difficult than it should have been. As much as Edward tried to deny it, she was fascinating, both in appearance and manner. She was nothing like Louisa, who had been his idealized model of womanhood for years now, and yet there was something about her that pulled at him. Perhaps it was the fact that she offered to help ameliorate his scandal, where Louisa had helped cause it. Or perhaps it was something else. He didn’t want to think about it too much.

  She smiled and raised her glass in salute to him. “To a successful partnership, my lord.” The loose cluster of curls at her crown trembled as she tipped back her head to drink. The skin at her neck was smooth, and looked as velvety soft as a fresh peach. Garnet earrings winked at her ears. And when she smiled at him again, her upper lip glistened with wine. He could almost taste it on h
is tongue . . . and he couldn’t help thinking that he was no longer an engaged man.

  When she looked at him inquiringly, he held out his glass without hesitation. Somehow prudence and moderation seemed vastly overrated and unrewarding tonight. He watched the light play over her face as she poured more brandy into his glass. No, “handsome” wasn’t quite the right word for her. Neither was “beautiful,” really, but she certainly wasn’t plain. Her nose was a little too prominent. Her mouth was wide and full. Her eyes, when she glanced up at him, were the color of good brandy and bright with delight. And her hair, in the candlelight, was most definitely some shade of light coppery brown that appeared to have a glow all its own.

  “Yes,” he said, forcing his thoughts back into safer paths. “Very successful, indeed. Sloan was as susceptible to your persuasion as you promised, and I am in your debt. Tell me how you wish to proceed in finding a solicitor, and I shall make the arrangements at once. I don’t allow my debts to languish.” The sooner he satisfied his obligation to her, the sooner he would be free of the need to see her, which would in turn dissipate the urge to touch her.

  She crossed the room to the fireplace and took a paper out of a carved box on the mantel, then came to sit beside him. He had unconsciously chosen the settee again, and when she sat with a swirl of silk, her skirts billowed over his feet. He could feel the sweep of the flame-colored flounce brushing his ankle.

  “I have made a list,” she was saying. “I inquired with most of these gentlemen already, but made little headway. It is my hope that one of them will reconsider.”

  Edward tried to ignore that little rustle of silk against his ankle. He could feel it even through the fabric of his trousers. He could smell her perfume as well, some fresh, rich scent that made him think of dark gardens in the moonlight. The brandy seemed to have heightened his awareness of every sensation, unfortunately.

  He swallowed the last of his drink, and reluctantly put the empty glass on the table. He needed to marshal his thoughts into order and stop thinking about the texture of her skin and the taste of her lips, neither of which he would ever have cause to learn in truth. He took the list of names and studied it. A couple of the same solicitors had been suggested to him as well, although none with as high a recommendation as Wittiers. “Very well. I’ll arrange it.”

  She blinked. “What? You—You’ll just arrange it, like that?”

  “I’ll send a note to these two”—he indicated the names he recognized—“and have them call. They were also recommended to me, so I presume they are sufficiently qualified.”

  “Oh,” she said in a surprised tone. “I presumed as much . . .”

  “Never presume competence.” He folded the list. “May I keep this?”

  “Of course.”

  He made the mistake of looking at her. Perched on the edge of the settee, hands clasped on her knee and lips parted, she was staring at him as if he were both alarming and wonderful, as if she might throw her arms about him in gratitude. Edward cleared his throat. “Have you any objection?”

  “No,” she murmured. “None at all.” Her expression didn’t change.

  He found himself unable to turn away from her when she looked at him like this. “Any suggestion to add?”

  “No, not yet.” She seemed about to say more, then stopped herself.

  He leaned forward. “Oh? You look . . . puzzled.”

  She wet her lips. “I’m very sorry,” she said in a hushed, rapid voice. “About your fiancée. I didn’t realize . . . when I first read the piece . . . I didn’t attach as much significance to that as I did to the rest.”

  Her face was so expressive. He could see no shade of calculation in her clear gaze, no artful manipulation. She looked genuinely sympathetic, her eyes soft and sorry. There was something very appealing about her frankness. It formed a seductive, and dangerous, combination with her other attractions. It was bad enough that he should be fascinated by her hair and her bosom and the way her skirts brushed so intimately against his leg; to find her even more attractive would be madness. “Neither did I,” he said at last, when he could speak with his normal detachment. “And you really must stop apologizing, particularly for things you bear no responsibility for.”

  “Not personally responsible, no,” she agreed. “But I wouldn’t want you to think I rushed to confront you with that evidence; my attention was wholly caught by the other charges . . .”

  “The ‘Durham Dilemma,’ as Sloan put it?” Edward sighed. He knew that damned phrase would be on everyone’s lips whether Sloan printed his retraction or not. “I would rather that phrase sink into oblivion. A broken betrothal is a minor furor compared to the thrill of a potential scandal like that.”

  “Yes,” she murmured, “but it can still wound.”

  It had. Not that he would allow himself to give in to the sting of it. He said nothing, as his thoughts weren’t very suitable for a lady’s ears.

  Of course, Lady Gordon was like no other lady he had ever met. And that was also not worthy of comment, Edward told himself.

  She cleared her throat at his prolonged silence. “You will notify me when the solicitors respond? I really am anxious to begin. Heaven only knows where Ellen’s taken Georgina by now.”

  Edward jerked out of his thoughts. He had business with her, he reminded himself yet again. He was a bloody fool to sit here brooding on Louisa’s betrayal and his hostess’s charms when he owed Francesca Gordon a great deal, and had no business with her except finding a suitable attorney. “Of course. I shall send to them tomorrow, and notify you.”

  She walked him to the door and bade him good-night. The evening seemed colder once he left the house, and Edward buttoned his coat as he walked down the steps to his carriage. He caught one last glimpse of her, still standing in the bright rectangle of her doorway, her hand lifted in farewell as his driver started the horses. He raised his own hand before realizing what he did, and then spent the entire ride home trying not to think that it would only be a few hours before he saw Lady Gordon again.

  Chapter 9

  The first thing Francesca did when she woke was rush downstairs to read Gregory Sloan’s paper. To her relief, he had kept his word and printed a retraction. It was quite a humble one for Sloan, and she hoped Lord Edward was satisfied. He had appeared to be, last evening. He’d thanked her and been far more gracious than she had expected from their first meeting. In fact, he’d been a great deal warmer, even when Mr. Sloan had gone and it was just the two of them on her settee.

  She was still at the breakfast table when the knocker sounded. For an instant a wild thought flashed through her mind that it would be Lord Edward, and she leaped to her feet in alarm at being still in her morning gown with her hair loose. She should have told Mrs. Hotchkiss to delay, so she could run upstairs and dress more appropriately, or at least put up her hair. But a moment later Henry Alconbury came through the door, beaming brightly. Her shoulders relaxed in relief and she smiled back at him.

  “Good morning,” he said, coming to give her a kiss on the cheek. “I see you’re rising early now.”

  She laughed and resumed her seat. “Were you trying to catch me unprepared? I retired early last night, if you must know.”

  He stepped back and inspected her face. “This is at least two nights in a row you’ve kept early hours. It’s quite unlike you, my dear. I hope you’re not making yourself unwell.” He had come by the other night when she was sunk in despair over losing both Georgina and James Wittiers’s services, and he had worried over her then, too.

  “No,” she assured him. “After last night, I am much better.” She reached for the teapot. “Would you like some tea?”

  He made a face but nodded. Mrs. Hotchkiss had followed him silently into the room, and rushed to set out another cup and saucer, and Francesca poured him a cup. “One of these days I shall corrupt you into drinking coffee,” he said, dumping sugar into his tea.

  “Never,” she scoffed. “Coffee is a vile drink.”
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  Alconbury rolled his eyes. “Mrs. Hotchkiss, you must conspire with me,” he said to the housekeeper, who was still straightening dishes in the sideboard. “I shall not be satisfied until I am served coffee in this house.”

  Mrs. Hotchkiss shook her finger at him. Francesca knew Mrs. Hotchkiss thought Alconbury could do no wrong, so she ignored it. “Now, sir, you’ll not be costing me my position. Lady Gordon wants only tea, and tea I shall serve.”

  “Traitor,” he said mildly. “I shall bribe you later.”

  Mrs. Hotchkiss sniffed. “There’s only one way you’ll be telling me what to serve in this house, my lord, and that’s not it.” Alconbury gave her a beatific smile. Mrs. Hotchkiss put up her chin and marched to the door, where she turned around and sent Francesca a meaningful look over his head. She might as well have cried out, Marry him, madam! Francesca said nothing and waved one hand in dismissal.

  “What has improved your situation?” Alconbury asked as the door closed behind the housekeeper. He sipped his tea with an air of long-suffering. “Has Ellen written and agreed to let you see Georgina again?”

  Francesca sighed. “No. But I have great hopes of securing a solicitor very soon, and then I intend to hire the best investigator in London to find them.”

  “Oh?” Surprise lit Alconbury’s face. “That’s quite a turnabout. Not two days ago you were sunk in gloom over solicitors, and now you’ve got one?”

  She hesitated. “Not quite. But I expect to, in a day or so.”

  “How did you manage that?” He reached for the sugar, despite her severe look, and added more to his tea.

  “I found a gentleman in need of my assistance, and offered to help him if he would help me in turn. We struck a bargain.”

  For a moment Alconbury’s face froze. His startled blue gaze flew to meet hers. Francesca just raised her eyebrows; he was not her husband or her father, to criticize her actions—and she had done nothing shocking or improper anyway. Not that she was about to confess to him, at any rate. Alconbury picked up his teacup and took a long drink. “Who would that be, my dear?” he asked, his voice carefully light. “I thought I was your gentleman in need.”