by Julia Quinn
He touched his fingers to her cheek, slowly drawing a slash of blood in a diagonal, from cheekbone to chin. “I will find you,” he said, and in that moment he almost sounded happy. “And it will be a fine day when I do.”
Chapter Seven
Daniel did not consider himself a dandy, or even a Corinthian, but it had to be said—there was nothing like a well-made pair of boots.
The afternoon post had brought a missive from Hugh:
Winstead—
As promised, I visited my father this morning. It is my opinion that he was genuinely surprised, both to see me (we do not speak), and also when he was informed of your misfortune yesterday eve. In short, I do not believe that he bears responsibility for your attack.
I concluded the interview with a reiteration of my threat. It is always good to be reminded of the consequences of one’s actions, but perhaps more pertinent was my delight at watching the blood drain from his face.
Yours and etc.,
H. Prentice (alive as long as you are)
And so, feeling as assured of his safety as he supposed he ever would, Daniel headed out to Hoby’s of St. James’s, where his foot and leg were measured with a precision that would have impressed Galileo himself.
“Do not move,” Mr. Hoby demanded.
“I’m not moving.”
“Indeed you are.”
Daniel looked down at his stockinged foot, which was not moving.
Mr. Hoby’s face pinched with disdain. “His grace the Duke of Wellington can stand for hours without moving so much as a muscle.”
“He breathes, though?” Daniel murmured.
Mr. Hoby did not bother to look up. “We are not amused.”
Daniel could not help but wonder if “we” referred to Mr. Hoby and the duke or if the famed bootmaker’s self-regard had finally expanded to the extent that he was forced to speak of himself in the plural.
“We need you to hold still,” Mr. Hoby growled.
The latter, then. An annoying habit, no matter how lofty the personage, but Daniel was inclined to put up with it, given the blissful perfection of Mr. Hoby’s boots.
“I shall endeavor to do your bidding,” Daniel said in his jolliest voice.
Mr. Hoby displayed no signs of amusement, instead barking for one of his assistants to hand him a pencil with which to trace Lord Winstead’s foot.
Daniel held himself completely still (outdoing even the Duke of Wellington, whom he was quite sure did breathe while being measured), but before Mr. Hoby could finish his tracings, the door to the shop burst open, hitting the wall behind it with enough force to rattle the glass. Daniel jumped, Mr. Hoby cursed, Mr. Hoby’s assistant cringed, and when Daniel looked down, the outline of his foot sported a baby toe that jutted forth like a reptilian claw.
Impressive.
The noise of the door slamming open would have attracted enough attention, but then it became clear that it was a woman who had come into the bootmaker’s establishment, a woman who appeared to be in distress, a woman who—
“Miss Wynter?”
It could be no one else, not with those raven locks peeking out from her bonnet, or the incredibly long sweep of eyelashes. But more than that . . . It was strange, but Daniel rather thought that he had recognized her by the way she moved.
She jumped a foot, probably more, so startled by his voice that she stumbled into the display shelves behind her, the ensuing cascade of footwear halted only by the quick thinking of Mr. Hoby’s beleaguered assistant, who leapt past her to save the day.
“Miss Wynter,” Daniel said again, striding over to her side, “come now, what is the matter? You look as if you’ve seen a ghost.”
She shook her head, but the movement was too jerky, and much too fast. “It’s nothing,” she said. “I . . . ah . . . There was . . .” She blinked and looked about, as if only just then realizing that she had run into a gentleman’s shop. “Oh,” she said, more breathing the word than anything else. “I’m so sorry. I-I appear to have come into the wrong storefront. Ehrm . . . If you’ll all excuse me, I will just . . .” She peered out the shop window before putting her hand on the doorknob. “I’ll be going now,” she finally finished.
She did turn the doorknob then, but she did not actually pull open the door. The shop went silent, and everyone seemed to be waiting for her to leave, or speak again, or do something. But she just stood there, not so much frozen as paralyzed.
Carefully, Daniel took her arm and led her away from the window. “May I be of assistance?”
She turned, and he realized it was the first time she looked directly at him since she’d come in. But the connection was fleeting; she quickly returned her attention to the shop window, even as her body seemed to instinctively cringe away from it.
“We will have to continue another time,” he called out to Mr. Hoby. “I shall be seeing Miss Wynter home in—”
“There was a rat,” she blurted out. Quite loudly.
“A rat?” One of the other customers nearly shrieked it. Daniel could not recall his name, but he was a most fastidious dresser, complete with a brocaded pink waistcoat and matching buckles on his shoes.
“Outside the shop,” Miss Wynter said, extending her arm toward the front door. Her index finger wagged and shook, as if the specter of the rodent was so grotesque that she could not bring herself to identify it directly.
Daniel found this curious, but no one else seemed to notice that her story had changed. How was it that she had gone into the wrong shop if she’d been trying to escape a rat?
“It ran over my shoe,” she added, and this was enough to make the pink-buckled man sway on his feet.
“Allow me to convey you home,” Daniel said, and then more loudly, since everyone was watching them anyway: “The poor lady has had a fright.” He deemed that to be explanation enough, especially when he added that she was in the employ of his aunt. He quickly donned the boots he’d come in with, then tried to lead Miss Wynter out of the shop. But her feet seemed to drag, and when they reached the door, he leaned down and said, quietly, so that no one could hear, “Is everything quite all right?”
She swallowed, her lovely face drawn and taut. “Have you a carriage?”
He nodded. “It is just down the street.”
“Is it closed?”
What an odd question. It was not raining; it was not even the least bit cloudy. “It can be.”
“Could you have it brought forth? I am not certain I can walk.”
She did still look shaky on her feet. Daniel nodded again, then sent one of Hoby’s assistants out to fetch his carriage. A few minutes later they were ensconced in his landau, the canopy pulled up tight. He gave her a few moments to compose herself, then quietly asked, “What really happened?”
She looked up, and her eyes—such a remarkably dark shade of blue—held a touch of surprise.
“That must have been quite a rat,” he murmured. “Almost the size of Australia, I should think.”
He hadn’t been trying to make her smile, but she did, anyway, the tiniest tilt of her lips. His own heart tilted, and it was difficult to understand how such a small change of expression on her part could cause such a large burst of emotion in his.
He had not liked seeing her so upset. He was only now realizing just how much.
He watched as she tried to decide what to do. She wasn’t sure whether she could trust him—he could see that much in her face. She peered out the window, but only briefly, then settled back into her seat, still facing forward. Her lips trembled, and finally, in a voice so quiet and halting it nearly broke his heart, she said, “There is someone . . . I don’t wish to see.”
Nothing more. No explanation, no elaboration, nothing but an eight-word sentence that brought forth a thousand new questions. He asked none of them, though. He would, just not yet. She wouldn’t have answered him, anyway. He was astonished that she’d said as much as she had.
“Let us leave the area, then,” he said, and she nodded
gratefully. They headed east on Piccadilly—absolutely the wrong direction, but then again, precisely what Daniel had instructed the driver. Miss Wynter needed time to compose herself before she returned to Pleinsworth House.
And he was not quite ready to relinquish her company.
Anne stared out the window as the minutes rolled by. She wasn’t sure where they were, and honestly, she didn’t really care. Lord Winstead could be taking her to Dover and she wouldn’t mind, just so long as they were far, far away from Piccadilly.
Piccadilly and the man who might have been George Chervil.
Sir George Chervil, she supposed he was now. Charlotte’s letters did not arrive with the regularity Anne craved, but they were breezy and newsy and Anne’s only link to her former life. George’s father had died the year before, Charlotte had written, and George had inherited the baronetcy. The news had made Anne’s blood run cold. She had despised the late Sir Charles, but she had also needed him. He had been the only thing keeping his son’s vengeful nature in check. With Sir Charles gone, there was no one to talk sense into him. Even Charlotte had expressed concern; apparently George had paid a call on the Shawcrosses the day after his father’s funeral. He had tried to paint it as a neighborly afternoon call, but Charlotte thought that he had asked far too many questions about Anne.
Annelise.
Sometimes she had to remind herself of the person she’d once been.
She’d known there was the possibility that George might be in London. When she’d taken the position with the Pleinsworths, it had been under the assumption that she would remain in Dorset year round. Lady Pleinsworth would take Sarah to town for the season, and the three younger girls would spend the summer in the country with their governess and nurse. And father, of course. Lord Pleinsworth never left the country. He was far more interested in his hounds than he’d ever been in people, which suited Anne just fine. If he wasn’t absent, he was distracted, and it was almost as if she were working in an all-female household.
Which was wonderful.
But then Lady Pleinsworth had decided she couldn’t do without all of her daughters, and while Lord Pleinsworth pondered his bassets and bloods, the household packed up and departed for London. Anne had spent the entire trip reassuring herself that even if George did come to town they would never cross paths. It was a big city. The largest in Europe. Maybe the world. George might have married the daughter of a viscount, but the Chervils did not move in the same lofty circles as the Pleinsworths or Smythe-Smiths. And even if they did find themselves at the same event, Anne certainly would not be in attendance. She was just the governess. The hopefully invisible governess.
Still, it was a danger. If Charlotte’s gossip was true, George received a generous allowance from his wife’s father. He had more than enough money to pay for a season in town. Maybe even enough to buy his way into a few of the top social circles.
He’d always said he liked the excitement of the city. She remembered that about him. She’d managed to forget many things, but that she remembered. That, along with a young girl’s dream of promenading in Hyde Park on her handsome husband’s arm.
She sighed, mourning the young girl but not her foolish dream. What an idiot she had been. What an abysmal judge of character.
“Is there anything I can do to make you more comfortable?” Lord Winstead asked quietly. He had not spoken for some time. She liked that about him. He was an affable man, easy in conversation, but he seemed to know when not to speak.
She shook her head, not quite looking at him. She wasn’t trying to avoid him. Well, not him specifically. She would have avoided anyone at that moment. But then he moved. It was just a small thing, really, but she felt the seat cushion adjusting beneath them, and it was enough to remind her that he had rescued her this afternoon. He had seen her distress and saved her without so much as a question until they’d reached the carriage.
He deserved her thanks. It did not matter if her hands were still trembling or her mind was still racing with every dreadful possibility. Lord Winstead would never know just how much he had helped her, or even how much she appreciated it, but she could, at least, say thank you.
But when she turned to look at him, something else entirely popped out of her mouth. She’d meant to say, Thank you. But instead—
“Is that a new bruise?”
It was. She was sure of it. Right there on his cheek. A bit pinkish, not nearly as dark as the ones near his eye.
“You hurt yourself,” she said. “What happened?”
He blinked, looking rather confused, and one of his hands came up to touch his face.
“The other side,” she said, and even though she knew it was terribly risqué, she reached out with her fingers and gently touched his cheekbone. “It was not there yesterday.”
“You noticed,” he murmured, giving her a practiced smile.
“It’s not a compliment,” she told him, trying not to think about what it might mean that his face had become so familiar to her that she noticed a new splotch amidst the aftermath of his fight with Lord Chatteris. It was ridiculous, really. He looked ridiculous.
“Nonetheless, I can’t help but be flattered that you noticed the latest addition to my collection,” he said.
She rolled her eyes. “Because personal injuries are such a dignified thing to collect.”
“Are all governesses so sarcastic?”
From anyone else she would have taken it as a setdown, a reminder to remember her place. But that wasn’t what he was about. And he was smiling as he said it.
She gave him a pointed look. “You’re avoiding the question.”
She thought he might have looked a little embarrassed. It was difficult to say; any blush that might have touched his cheeks was obscured by the current topic of conversation, namely, the bruises.
He shrugged. “Two ruffians attempted to make off with my purse last night.”
“Oh, no!” she cried, completely surprising herself with the strength of her reaction. “What happened? Are you all right?”
“It was not as bad as it could have been,” he demurred. “Marcus did more damage the night of the musicale.”
“But common criminals! You could have been killed.”
He leaned toward her. Just a little. “Would you have missed me?”
She felt her cheeks grow warm, and it took her a few moments to muster an appropriately stern expression. “You would have been missed by many people,” she said firmly.
Including her.
“Where were you walking?” she asked. Details, she reminded herself. Details were important. Details were crisp and dry and had nothing to do with emotions or missing anyone or worrying or caring or any sort of –ing except knowing the facts. “Was it in Mayfair? I would not have thought it so dangerous.”
“It was not Mayfair,” he told her. “But not far from it. I was walking home from Chatteris House. It was late. I was not paying attention.”
Anne did not know where the Earl of Chatteris lived, but it could not have been too far from Winstead House. All of the noble families lived in relative proximity to one another. And even if Lord Chatteris lived on the edge of the fashionable areas, Lord Winstead would hardly have needed to walk through slums to get home.
“I did not realize the city had grown so dangerous,” she said. She swallowed, wondering if the attack upon Lord Winstead could have had anything to do with her spying George Chervil on Piccadilly. No, how could it? She and Lord Winstead had been seen in public together only once—the previous day at Hyde Park—and it would have been clear to any onlooker that she’d been there as governess to his young cousins.
“I suppose I should thank you for insisting upon seeing me home the other night,” she said.
He turned, and the intensity in his eyes took her breath away. “I would not allow you to walk two steps alone at night, much less a half mile.”
Her lips parted, and she thought that she must have meant to speak, but all she could do
was stare. Her eyes locked onto his, and it was remarkable, because she didn’t notice the color of them, that amazingly bright light blue. She saw beyond that, to the depths of . . . something. Or maybe it wasn’t that at all. Maybe it was she who had been exposed. Maybe he saw all of her secrets, her fears.
Her desires.
She breathed then—finally—and yanked her gaze away from his. What was that? Or more to the point, who was she? Because she did not know the woman who had stared at him as if gazing into her own future. She was not fanciful. She did not believe in fate. And she had never believed that eyes were the windows to the soul. Not after the way George Chervil had once looked at her.
She swallowed, taking a moment to regain her equilibrium. “You say that as if the sentiment is particular to me,” she said, pleased with the relative normalcy of her voice, “but I know that you would insist upon doing the same for any lady.”
He gave her a smile so flirtatious she had to wonder if she had imagined the intensity in his eyes just a few moments before. “Most ladies would pretend to be flattered.”
“I think this is where I am meant to say that I am not most ladies,” she said dryly.
“It certainly would flow well, were we on the stage.”
“I shall have to inform Harriet,” Anne said with a laugh. “She fancies herself a playwright.”
“Does she now?”
Anne nodded. “I believe she has begun a new opus. It sounds terribly depressing. Something about Henry VIII.”
He winced. “That is grim.”
“She is trying to convince me to take the role of Anne Boleyn.”
He smothered a laugh. “There is no way my aunt is paying you enough.”
Anne declined to comment on that, instead saying, “I do thank you for your concern the other night. But as for being flattered, I am far more impressed by a gentleman who values the safety and security of all women.”