Emilia realized in horror he was about to reject her proposal once and for all. “Think about it!” She pulled a note from her reticule and held it out to him, then dropped it on his desk when he refused to take it. “Think before you throw away something so rare and valuable. And after you’ve thought about it”—when you’ve come to your senses, stupid man—“contact me there.” Without waiting for his reply, she turned and ran.
Nicholas Dashwood watched her go. Simply dressed, her dark hair in a demure knot and her pelisse primly buttoned, but an attractive woman nonetheless. Her skirt swished very appealingly around her hips as she hurried out the door. If she’d walked past him on the street, his gaze would have followed her—as it did now.
She’d expected him to fall at her feet in gratitude. He’d shocked her, and then deliberately offended her, but she hadn’t flinched. She’d argued with him and called him a fool. That one wasn’t afraid of anything, he thought, and she was clever, even though she’d clearly been taken off guard by his attitude. She hadn’t let it rattle her, but had quickly rallied a stream of logical arguments, and then stormed out before he could turn her down again. Miss Emilia Greene had brass.
He admired that in a woman: intelligence and passion, determination and beauty. He had a noted weakness for that type, in fact, and it had set him horribly off-balance. If she hadn’t asked something so outrageous, so mad, he might have been charmed enough to give in. When she tilted her head to the side and smiled in that tempting way that brought out a hint of dimple in her cheek, and looked at him as if they were about to become partners in some exhilarating adventure, he’d felt a thrill of true anticipation—which was always dangerous, with a woman.
“Her Mighty Highness is gone.” His club manager, Tom Forbes, stood in the doorway again. “Was she trouble?”
Nick’s fingers closed around the letter she’d left; he’d unconsciously picked it up. It released a whiff of her scent, and he inhaled before he could stop himself. Something soft and fresh, like spring. “Aren’t they all?”
Forbes grunted. “Aye. I’ll not allow her in again.”
Nick tossed the crumpled paper onto his desk. “No,” he said slowly. “That’s not necessary. In fact . . .” He hesitated, flattening her note open with one hand. The only thing written in it was Charles Street, No. 18.
As the owner of a gaming hell, where large sums of money and property could change hands on the turn of a card, Nick felt it prudent to know his patrons. In a cabinet behind his desk, he kept a file on every member, filled with details of their social positions and fortunes and idiosyncrasies. He paid a small network of servants, merchants, and even a few members of society for the information, and kept it up to date. The more a member wagered, the more attention Nick paid him.
Emilia Greene had just asked him to wager everything he owned—everything he was. And he knew nothing about her.
“Make a file on Emilia Greene,” he told Forbes. “She’s a friend of Lord Oliver McCorquodale. Start there.”
Forbes looked doubtful. “She’s applied for membership?”
Nick smiled slightly. Forbes knew he never admitted unmarried women. “No. Do it anyway.”
Forbes nodded. “Aye.” He closed the door behind him.
Miss Greene presented a conundrum. She offered him—him—a viscounty, and claimed she wanted only gratitude in exchange. Nick didn’t believe for a moment that she came solely on behalf of a child. She—a governess!—had somehow discovered his father. Old Sam had been a rogue who alienated his own family, but this governess knew three of his aliases. What else had she found out?
Nick hadn’t got where he was without learning to sense a trap. There was more to this “business proposal” than she was telling him. Miss Greene might be the bait, luring him in, or she might be trying to spring the trap herself. Either way, he wasn’t inclined to fall for it, no matter how fetching or intriguing she was. He ought to have shown her the door—and forcibly bundled her out it—as soon as she said his father’s name.
Nick dropped her note into a drawer. In a few days he would know much more about her, and why she was so very keen for him to claim a title. But in the meantime . . .
He wished Emilia Greene to the devil.
CHAPTER THREE
The sky was glowing pale gold when Emilia reached Charles Street. The house was still and quiet, but it had been that way since they came here. Emilia took out her latchkey and let herself in.
“Did you see him?” The eager whisper, so loud in the tomb-like silence, made her jump.
Despite the hour, Lucy sat on the stairs, wearing her dressing gown and slippers. Sir Chester, the large yellow cat, lay beside her, tail flicking lazily. If there had been a full staff, someone would have scolded her and sent her back to bed, but since it was just Emilia, Henry, and Mrs. Watson, here sat Lucy, wriggling with excitement and anticipation.
Emilia mustered a smile. “Lucinda Sidney! Why are you up so early? You’ll be falling asleep before dinner.”
Lucy grinned. She’d recently lost a front tooth and the gap in her smile made Emilia’s heart swell. “I heard you leave. It was still dark out! But then I couldn’t go back to sleep. I had to know if you saw him—my cousin.”
Emilia’s smile faded. She climbed the stairs halfway and sat down next to her charge. “I did.”
Lucy’s thin face brightened. “You did it! You talked your way into the club and saw him! Oh, Millie, I knew you would do it.”
“It wasn’t quite like sneaking into Carleton House to see the Prince Regent, you know,” she said lightly. “I opened the door and strolled right in. The guards armed with pikestaffs and halberds must have been given the day free.”
Lucy giggled. “Will he come to see us? Mr. Dashwood?”
Emilia hesitated, unwilling to disappoint the girl yet. “I don’t know, dear. He didn’t say.”
“I want to be sure to be very clean and neat when he comes,” Lucy went on, as if she hadn’t spoken. “Papa always said I was grubby, so I shan’t take any chances with Mr. Dashwood. Will you help me wash my hair?”
“Of course.” Emilia had long since used up her supply of anger and hatred for the late Lord Sydenham. He was dead, and it couldn’t happen to a more deserving man.
“And we must ask Mrs. Watson to make cakes again.” Lucy’s brow furrowed. “May she, Millie? This once, for his visit? I won’t eat more than one.”
They hadn’t had sugar in a fortnight, but Emilia nodded. “The lavender honey cakes, I think.”
Those were Lucy’s favorite. A dreamy smile settled on her face. “I can’t wait to meet him.”
“We must be patient,” she told the girl, wishing she could be more encouraging. It was her own fault Lucy had pinned all her hopes on Nicholas Dashwood. She ought not to have said anything about him. But the poor child had been so fearful, so anxious about their future, it had been hard not to tell her something. Without staff to distract her, she’d clung to Emilia’s side until finally Emilia gave in and told the girl what she was doing, searching through all the musty books in her father’s study. Now they were joint conspirators in the search for a Sydenham heir. “He’s a busy man.”