Five
Unlike Lyman, who had plummeted to his current situation from loftier heights, the two men who rented out the other rooms above the Hirsches’ house were of modest birth, looking to climb up. They were both apprenticed to Mr. Hirsch, the solicitor who lived downstairs.
Joseph Clarkson was the son of a tradesman. Though he was a decade younger than Lyman, he had a good head on his shoulders and the two had become fast friends.
James Wood was the son of a tenant farmer, come to London to pursue a career he hoped would advance his station. He took a sour view on nearly everything about life in town and resented having to live under the same roof as two men whom he considered beneath the sort of society he aspired to, Lyman’s title notwithstanding. As he prided himself on his good manners, he never said this directly, but let it be known in a thousand veiled comments.
“I noticed one of you finished the last of the tobacco the other day,” Wood mentioned offhandedly as they sat down to the breakfast of kippers and toast Mrs. Hirsch had prepared for them. “I don’t mind, of course, but perhaps it would be a good idea if whoever keeps using it so quickly could buy the next bag.”
The person who used it up so quickly was, without any doubt, Mr. Wood himself. He could rarely be found without a lit pipe in his hand.
“I don’t smoke,” Lyman reminded him. He’d given the habit up years ago to save money.
“I took a pinch,” Clarkson admitted, “but I believe I bought it last time.”
“Did you?” Wood’s tone betrayed some doubt, though Clarkson had never given them reason to suspect him of dishonesty. “Well, if you insist it’s my turn, I suppose I’ll have to find time to get to the tobacconist today. We have that lecture on estates at the Law Society this afternoon and I can’t stand to miss it. Do you think I should run over there now, before work? It will be such a bother.” He looked at the clock, then back to Clarkson, as if expecting him to give way.
Clarkson kept his eyes pointedly on his meal. The ticking of the seconds counted off their silent battle.
Mrs. Hirsch broke the tension by bringing in tea, something she only did when in a good mood. Lyman’s rent payment yesterday had probably put him back in her good graces. She even offered him cream, which he graciously accepted.
“I almost forgot that some mail came for you, my lord. I’ll go and fetch it, shall I?”
Once she’d left on this errand, Wood folded his napkin and rose from his place, still looking pointedly at Clarkson. When the awkwardness had nearly become unbearable, he donned his hat and set out.
“He is insufferable,” Clarkson murmured the moment the door had shut on Wood’s back. “I never get more than one puff of that tobacco before he smokes the whole sack, and he knows it.”
“You could each buy your own,” Lyman suggested, “as we had to do for the stationery.”
“It’s so miserly,” Clarkson said with a sigh. “Three grown men should be able to share a few common comforts without bickering.”
“Here you are, then.” Mrs. Hirsch returned with Lyman’s mail in hand.
It was a slim, light envelope addressed not to him, but to his publisher. Their address had been crossed out, and Mrs. Hirsch’s written beside it in Armstrong’s neat hand. A note at the bottom read:
This came for you at our office.
—J.A.
Lyman flicked his gaze to the sender’s address to see who had written him, expecting some unknown reader to fill the space. Like his first letter from Miss Danby. Instead, Michael’s name hit him like a slap in the face.
He scrambled to open it with shaking hands.
Ashton,
There’s an important matter we need to discuss. Write me back to say where you can be found now. Don’t come by the house.
—Villiers
Lyman had to read it twice, as if more information would present itself upon further scrutiny. Not a word of concern from his brother-in-law after years of silence, nor even a salutation. Well, it was too much to hope that Michael’s hatred would cool with time. But what was the important matter they needed to discuss? Had something happened to Ellen?
Once their deed of separation had settled the terms of their living arrangements, she’d told him never to contact her again. He’d tried to respect her request. It seemed the only courtesy still in his power to grant. Why would her brother reach out now, when he’d had no word for so long?
“Is something the matter?” Clarkson’s smooth baritone broke the silence. “Bad news?”
“My brother-in-law wrote me.” Lyman wished it was in his power to say more than that, but he had no idea what to add. It could be anything.
“I thought you said you two weren’t on speaking terms.” Though his fellow boarders had been too polite to ask Lyman directly how he found himself in accommodations like these, he had given Clarkson a general outline of his story once they’d become friends. Wood had no doubt picked up the information from rumors.
“We aren’t,” Lyman replied. “I haven’t heard from him in years. He says there’s something important to discuss, but he doesn’t say what.”
“If it was anything terrible, he would have told you directly,” Clarkson assured him.
He was probably right. If Ellen was ill or dying, Michael could have said so in a letter rather than calling for a personal meeting. And if he was hiding something serious, any of their mutual acquaintances would have let him know. A number of them had cut ties with Lyman after the disastrous breakdown of his marriage, but he still had a few friends who would get word back to him if anything drastic happened.
Michael probably just wanted more money.
Lyman was worrying over nothing; at least, nothing he had the power to change.
“I suppose so.”
“I should head downstairs soon.” A trace of regret pinched Clarkson’s brow. “Are you all right?”
“Of course, of course. Don’t let me stop you.” Lyman stood, though his plate was still half-full. He hated to waste good food, but his appetite was ruined. “I have somewhere to be soon, anyway.” It was somehow Tuesday again, and he was due at the Danby residence in an hour. His misgivings about their meetings only seemed to have made the week go by that much faster.
“I’ll see you this evening then. Take care.” Clarkson fetched his hat from the stand near the door and gave a final nod before he set out for his day, leaving Lyman alone with his troubles.
***
The truth is, dear reader, there are many things men hide from us do not share with us, should the subject be deemed unsuitable for the gentler sex. We ladies must often rely on one another for guidance knowledge. I hope, then, that this humble volume shall be a friend to you, telling you imparting the secrets—
“How is your book coming?”
Della looked up from her notes to find her sister standing in the doorway, craning her skinny neck as if to spy the pages from there.
“It was going perfectly well, until you interrupted me midsentence. I thought I asked you to leave me alone for the next hour.”
“I have left you alone for an hour.” Annabelle looked as though she’d eaten a lemon, so unpleasant was this order. “Lord Ashton should be here any minute. Aren’t you going to fix your hair before he arrives? You can hardly convince him to commit bigamy with you if you look shabby.”
“Will you please stop teasing me?” Della glanced up at the clock. “And it’s been nowhere near an hour. It’s only half eleven. I still have plenty of time.”
She intended to finish a proper opening chapter today to show Lord Ashton when he arrived, and she still had heaps to do before she reached her goal. She’d meant to start writing first thing after breakfast, but then she’d noticed how messy her desk was and judged it best to organize her papers first. She’d been halfway through that task when the butler had announced Miss Chatterjee had come to call on her, and she couldn’t very well turn her out after she’d just promised her friend a proper visit. As it happened, Reva had plenty of suggestions as to which shops Della should include in her book, so it practically counted as working.
After that , Annabelle had insisted on playing her new accordion at the loudest possible volume until Della had chased her out of doors and exacted a promise not to return for an hour upon pain of dismemberment. She’d finally sat down to concentrate, and for a few blissful minutes the words had been pouring onto the page as fast as her hand could write them until her sister came right back in to bother her, little demon that she was.
“It’s not half eleven.” Annabelle walked over to the clock that stood on Della’s mantel and picked it up to inspect it. “The clock in the hall reads past noon. When was the last time you wound this up?”
“You’re joking!” Della tore the clock from Annabelle’s grasp and held it to her ear. Sure enough, there was nary a tick to be heard. She’d forgotten to wind it before bed last night. “I haven’t finished anything I intended, and Lord Ashton will be here any second!”
“That’s what I’ve been telling you. You’re welcome, by the way.”
“Out! Out! I have to change. Could you fetch Fanny for me? Quickly, if you please.”
But before anyone could send for Della’s maid, they heard a knock from downstairs and the heavy tread of their butler moving to answer it.
“Too late.” Annabelle didn’t even try to look sympathetic. “I suppose if Lord Ashton’s heart is pure, he’ll love you no matter what you look like. Unless he’s comparing you to his ladies of pleasure. They must always be done up well.”
“Enough!” Della snatched a crumpled page from her desk (there were quite a lot of them to spare, the casualties of her changeable ideas), and hurled it at her sister. Annabelle batted it away easily, laughing.
There was no time for this. Lord Ashton was already downstairs, and she still had ink-stained fingers. Della hurried to the basin to wash her hands and assess her appearance in the mirror. Her hair had been freshly arranged before her morning call, but she’d been winding one curl around her finger as she worked (a horrid habit) and it now hung looser than all the others. Would he think her shabby? No, it would be worse if she kept him waiting to try to fix it. He was here for her book, not to admire her hair. She shouldn’t even care about such things.
Della came back to the desk, stuffed the pages she wanted under one arm and grabbed her sister with the other. “Come down and greet our guest, won’t you? Unless you’d rather leave us some privacy, for once.”
There was no need for a chaperone, really. She was six-and-twenty, not sixteen. And no one would know that Annabelle had left them alone unless she told.
But her sister adopted a solemn tone as she replied, “And risk a scandal? You know how seriously I take propriety.”
“You seem to take my propriety far more seriously than your own,” Della muttered, recollecting a half dozen of Annabelle’s misadventures. “Never mind, let’s just go.”
She could already hear their butler’s footfalls on the stairs, coming to announce Lord Ashton’s arrival.
They found the viscount waiting in the drawing room, in the same chair he’d occupied last week. He rose to greet the ladies when they entered, but came straight to business the moment they were seated again.
“How is the book coming along?”
“I’m off to a good start.”
Lord Ashton was as crisp and put-together as always—not a hair out of place—though Della recognized his toffee-colored morning coat as the same one he’d be wearing that first day she’d met him in the café on Regent Street. And she thought the cuff links might be the same too. A family crest in plain gold. As he reached for the tea the maid brought in, she could barely make out the stag.
Odd . Most of the wealthy men she knew didn’t repeat their wardrobe between calls. But then, perhaps he didn’t rate their meetings highly enough to keep track of such things. Or perhaps when one was a viscount, one was permitted such eccentricities as standing by an old favorite.
“Do you have an outline for us to go over today?”
Oh dear. She’d had the outline ready last week, but half her papers were out of order from her race downstairs and she had no idea where it had got to.
“I do, if you’ll just give me a moment…”
Beside her, Anabelle radiated smugness. The grandfather clock chose that moment to chime the half hour. No one had forgotten to wind this one, it seemed.
Why, oh why, hadn’t any of the maids seen to the one in her room and saved her from this upset? Oh, that’s right. She’d asked them not to tidy her things because she could never find her papers afterward. Maybe she should amend her instructions to include an exception for clocks.
“Aha!” Della held up the page triumphantly. Although it looked less impressive in the light of day than it had when she’d written it at two in the morning in a fit of inspiration. The margins were smudged where she’d scribbled too quickly, and she’d already changed her mind about half of it.
Nevertheless, it was all she had to show for her work thus far, and she would turn it over to Lord Ashton with her head held high.
He adjusted his spectacles as he read and Della was seized by the wish that her penmanship were a bit neater. She’d never managed to produce the round, bubbly script most ladies seemed to turn out effortlessly. Her old governess once said her writing looked more like a boy’s—careless and rushed.
She studied Lord Ashton as the silence stretched on. He truly was handsome, in an understated way. He had a strong, square jaw and high cheekbones. His nose was unremarkable, neither too small nor too large, and the same could be said of his mouth. There was nothing flashy about his looks, but the final effect was one of quiet elegance. It had as much to do with the way he carried himself as anything else.
Why isn’t he saying anything?
Della cleared her throat. “I know it says the opening chapters should be about shops, but since then I’ve decided it should have an introduction first to explain my intentions.”
He finally looked up, giving Della a better view of his eyes.
Green. Not the true green of new grass or an emerald. Nothing poetic. It was the muddy green of moss on an ancient tree; mottled into brown and easily overlooked. It suited his personality.
“I thought I might write the introduction. To link the two volumes together.”
That might have been intended as a kindness or an imposition—Della couldn’t tell. She wasn’t entirely sure she wanted to hand any more control over to the viscount, particularly after what Annabelle had shown her after their last meeting. How could she trust the judgment of a hypocrite?
“I’ve already started working on it,” she said.
This didn’t seem to deter him. “I can include anything you’d like. What did you have in mind?”
How was she supposed to expose her ideas, tender as fresh shoots, when Lord Ashton might trample them underfoot? But he was waiting, so she had to say something. “I thought it would be nice to invite the reader in.” No, that sounded silly; why had she worded it that way? “I wanted to adopt a confidential tone,” she amended, “to make it feel like you’re getting advice from a trusted friend when you consult it.”
“I’m sure I could sound perfectly friendly.” Lord Ashton hadn’t understood her meaning, it was plain.
“I’m afraid it wouldn’t be the same. A lady doesn’t let her guard down around a gentleman the way she would around another lady.”
“Quite true,” her sister chimed in.
“Thank you, Annabelle.” Turning back to their guest, Della continued, “Maybe we could write two introductions.” That was the solution! Then they could both have everything they wanted.
“Two introductions?” Lord Ashton removed his spectacles and pinched the bridge of his nose, his expression one of utter fatigue. He seemed more careworn than usual today. Unsettled. Was something else troubling him, or was he simply tiring of her already? “Surely one would be sufficient. I’ve never seen a book with two in my life. If you want this project to be a success, you must learn to work with others.”
There was that chiding tone again. It made Della want to push back, but she also had to admit that there was something oddly attractive about it. She liked a man who took charge, even if she wasn’t willing to give way. And his eyes seemed to linger on her a bit longer than was strictly necessary. As if he couldn’t bring himself to look away, despite his skepticism.
“I work with others every day,” Della retorted. She had her share of flaws, but that wasn’t one of them. “The problem is that I don’t know you well enough to trust you yet.”
“We don’t need to be friends. This is a business arrangement.”
“But I like to know my business partners too.” In fact, all her business partners were her friends, though she sensed that Lord Ashton wouldn’t approve if she tried to explain this. But wasn’t friendship a natural consequence of spending any length of time with another person, unless one was ill-tempered?
That was probably Lord Ashton’s problem.
Indeed, he was shaking his head right now, his disapproval plain. It made her want to ruffle his hair and loosen his cravat. Why couldn’t they be friends? He was so staid, and yet he must have a more adventurous side, else he would never have been able to visit half the establishments in his book. What could make him put aside his reserve and open up to her?
“How old are you?” she asked. She should have thought to look in Debrett’s when Annabelle had it out last week, but she hadn’t, and she didn’t much feel like waiting until he was gone to check again now.
“Is this relevant to your book, somehow?”
“I have my book quite under control, and I’m not asking you to stay beyond our agreed-upon thirty minutes,” Della assured him, “so it shouldn’t matter to you what we talk about at our meetings.”
There were probably only ten minutes left at this point, but as long as the clock hadn’t sounded, she wouldn’t let that stop her.
“It matters to me whether we ever finish this project.” He put the spectacles back on, and she was struck once again by how endearing they were.
She shouldn’t be fantasizing about him like this. It was probably hopeless, and entirely inappropriate. This conclusion did nothing to rein in her mind, which had always tended to rebel against constraint. The more impossible something seemed, the more she found her thoughts fixed upon it.
Lord Ashton was no exception.
“I’ve already made a good start on the section on shops, which will be the longest,” Della informed him. “I’ll do my best to finish my draft in two months, as we agreed.”
“Seven weeks, now.”
“Yes, yes.” Della waved this away. Seven weeks was still heaps of time. “But as to how much say you should have in the final text, that depends on whether you can reassure me.”
“Reassure you of what?” Lord Ashton still sounded tired. She wished she knew how to resolve this debate in a manner that would please both of them.
“That your advice will be useful to me. That your intention to help is sincere.” Thus far, he’d opposed her far more than he’d encouraged her. Not the best beginning for their imminent friendship. “That you can be trusted.”
If Ashton had seemed preoccupied at the outset of this conversation, something about that last part caught his attention. He looked up at her sharply, his indifference vanished.
“Unfortunately, I can’t be.”
His expression was so intense that she suffered a frisson . He wasn’t joking, unless it was his odd, grim humor again. There was something in his manner that reminded her of what he’d said about his wife. Like then, Della wasn’t sure how to interpret it.
After a beat, he continued in a more measured tone, “You said so yourself. You don’t know anything about me.”
“But that’s exactly why we should take some time to become acquainted,” she protested. “I’m not comfortable letting a stranger have any say over something I’ll be working so hard on, particularly when you only warmed to the idea after you bargained your way into a share of my money. It’s not enough to know that you’ve written a successful book. I want to know your character before I share any control over my work.”
“Thirty-five,” he answered with the grim tone of one getting an unpleasant task over with. It took Della a few seconds to remember her earlier question. “And I haven’t written one successful book; I’ve written three. There are also guides to Brighton and Dublin, and I’m working on Bath next.”
Only nine years between them then. She would have guessed he was older. But perhaps it was the gray in his hair that aged him.
“What else do you want to know?”
“About your wife…”
His face hardened immediately. “There are limits to my willingness to indulge you, Miss Danby.”
“I have no wish to pry into the details of your private life,” Della began (a blatant lie), “but you are the one who brought it up at our first meeting and seemed to imply you’ve been living separately for years. May I ask whether you’ve both concluded that reconciliation is out of the question?”
“Why should this be of any interest to you?”
“I suppose I’m trying to judge whether I’m risking my reputation by meeting with you. I’m an unmarried woman, after all, and you are…a married man who doesn’t seem to be bound to his wife any longer. It might make a difference in how things appear to others.”
Annabelle cleared her throat.
Oh, be quiet, Annabelle. It took all Della’s self-control not to kick her sister in the shins.
“Reconciliation is out of the question, and it’s safe to assume that you’re risking your reputation, yes.” Ashton delivered these facts much as the ladies at Bishop’s laid winning cards on the table. The emotion fell somewhere between triumph and fatalism. “But I would think that ship sailed long ago.”
Was he referring to her club, to the way she’d shown up at Verey’s café to meet him without a chaperone, or to her behavior at this meeting? Regardless, his words had the appearance of an insult, and they loosened her tongue accordingly. (Something she hardly needed help with today.)
“Did you and your wife part ways because you frequent houses of ill-repute?”
Lord Ashton choked on his tea. By the time he was done coughing and could finally speak, his voice was reduced to a thin rasp. “What?”
“I read the portion of your book on dancing halls.”
“I don’t that’s not—” He paused to compose himself, mopping his cravat furiously with a handkerchief. “Just because I made mention of a well-known location doesn’t mean that I engaged the services there.”
Annabelle put her book away, all pretense abandoned.
Della continued on, following her thoughts down whatever path they took, as she usually did. “Is there an equivalent for ladies?”
“I’m not sure I understand you.”
“I’d never really thought about it before now, but surely if bordellos exist for men, they could exist for ladies too. I’m asking you for research purposes, by the way, so you can count this as working on my book again.”
“Perhaps this could be your next business venture,” Lord Ashton suggested, sarcasm lending an edge to his tone. “Not everything has to exist for both sexes, you know.”
“They must,” Della concluded, growing more sure of herself. The more she thought about it, the more sense it made. “All it would take are a few adventurous ladies or lonely widows who are willing to engage such a service. If there’s money to be made at something, somebody will prove willing to offer it. I feel very silly for having never thought of this before.”
“I can’t believe we’re talking about this in front of your sister.” He turned to Annabelle, who had been glued to the exchange. “How old are you?”
“Nineteen.”
“I’m sorry to have been a participant in your corruption, Miss Annabelle, even if an unwilling one.”
“Oh, it’s nothing I’m not used to,” Annabelle said.
“I’m beginning to see that.”
“Please don’t behave as though I’m a bad influence.” Della drew herself up, offended. They had no business ganging up on her this way! “I assure you, Lord Ashton, if you knew my sister better, you would realize the key difference between us lies not in any moral superiority, but in a greater inclination to act the innocent.”
“I have no idea what you mean.” Annabelle sat primly in her chair, her voice clear and childlike.
“There, you see those doe eyes? A performance worthy of Drury Lane.”
Annabelle’s expression soured.
“Go back to your reading, please,” Della instructed. “It will save you from hearing anything scandalous and allow us to return to business.”
“I question your use of the word ‘return,’” said Ashton dryly.
“All of this is business,” Della insisted. “I’m trying to decide whether I should have a section on brothels in my book too.”
“Please don’t.”
“ You did.”
“It’s different for men.”
Did he think that would hold water with her?
“My lord, if you please. I know we’re nearly strangers, but even a short acquaintance should have taught you that I refuse to accept that excuse. If ladies want my guidebook to tell them about things they couldn’t ask anyone else, we must meet their demand.”
The clock chimed the hour, but Lord Ashton seemed not to hear it. Della flushed with pleasure at the realization that she’d finally captured his full attention.
And they were discussing a matter of real importance: namely, what subjects her book should include. Lord Ashton might have something valuable to contribute if he would only set aside his misgivings for a moment and have a discussion that wasn’t clouded by scorn. It was such a narrow-minded, pointless emotion.
“How can you have so little concern for decorum?”
“It’s to be published anonymously,” she reminded him. “So my only concern should be what readers will pay for. And I assure you that when no one is watching, ladies enjoy a little titillation as much as anyone, particularly from the safety of a book.”
Ashton opened his mouth, then closed it again, at a loss.
“Do you suppose I must visit a bordello myself before I have the authority to write of it?” Della continued. “I wouldn’t need to actually engage the services there, but I should at least take a look around and make some inquiries as to its quality, or I would have nothing to write about. Could you help me find one?”
He studied her a long moment before he finally replied. “Come now, admit it. You’ve been joking with me this whole time. You wanted to see if you could shock me, and you’ve succeeded.”
His theory brought him such evident comfort that Della was almost reluctant to break the spell. But while she hesitated, Annabelle stepped in. “You really don’t know her, if you think that.”
“Hush,” she said firmly.
“Good Lord.” Ashton buried his face in his hands. “I did not agree to find you a ladies’ bordello to put in your ladies’ guide that was supposed to be a way to promote your ladies’ chocolate house. This book is barely started, and it’s already become a parody of itself.”
“What about a show, then?” She wouldn’t abandon the bordello idea, if further information presented itself, but there was no point in terrorizing her straitlaced viscount any further. She’d been too long without the sort of diversion a well-built gentleman could provide, but she wasn’t yet at the point of needing to pay for it. Not when there was another source of amusement right before her. “You wrote about the entertainments at Laurent’s Casino. I might like to see them for myself.”
“The shows aren’t for ladies.” His patience seemed to have worn down to its last thread, pulled taut and about to snap. “And before you ask: no , I don’t know of an equivalent for you.”
“I wasn’t going to ask.” Though she had been thinking about the possibility of putting on a show at Bishop’s, if Jane could be persuaded. Nothing too scandalous, of course. But what if they had an attractive musician sing in a sultry baritone every Friday? Maybe with his collar unbuttoned and his sleeves rolled up. That might be enough of a draw without crossing the line into indecency.
A little research might inspire her.
“Whether they are for me or not, I should like to see a show. Do you think they would refuse me admission if I presented myself? Is there no mixed company at all?”
“The company is always mixed,” Ashton replied easily. “But the women who attend are not of your class, and they come in hopes of finding a wealthy gentleman willing to part with his coin to join them after the show, without exception.”
“I see.” On the bright side, this meant she could attend without any danger of being seen by her friends. Oh, but if a gentleman she knew should spot her there, what then? “I could disguise myself,” she thought aloud.
“This isn’t a masked ball. Will you entrust your reputation to the concealment of a gaudy wig?”
“What if I borrowed one of my father’s suits and attended as a gentleman? With a hat on top, in a darkened room, no one will look closely enough to tell.”
“You.” He raked her up and down with his eyes, with an intensity that was not unpleasant. “Dressed as a man. You wouldn’t fool anyone for a second.”
Admittedly, her figure had a few too many curves to be transformed into rigid lines from shoulder to hip, but she wasn’t ready to give up yet.
“You shouldn’t dismiss the effort before you’ve even seen it.”
“I have absolutely no desire to see it.”
“Have you no sense of adventure?” There was something about the stern set of his chin that pushed Della to capture his attention. To break through his strict control. “That’s a shame. I’m going to be attending with or without you, but I’d feel much safer with company.”
“Have you ever considered that you might get some sort of thrill from taking these risks, much like an opium eater, and that it’s entirely unhealthy?”
There was a thought. She didn’t care for it much.
“I prefer the view that society is unfairly constraining and that I’m doing my part to thumb my nose at it.”
A long silence followed, in which Della and Lord Ashton locked eyes. He had such a commanding expression; it made her feel like a misbehaving child. She shivered at the energy in his gaze, but she wouldn’t be the first to back down.
It was Annabelle who spoke and broke the moment. “If you’re going, I suppose I have no choice but to go with you, to make sure you come through it safely.”
Though her voice was meant to convey great reluctance, Della wasn’t fooled.
“Ha! You see, my lord? She’s every bit as bad as me.” Turning to Annabelle, she added, “I’m sorry, but you’re too young to attend. You’re staying home.”
“What if something happens to you?”
Never mind. She should use this to her advantage.
“Lord Ashton, won’t you put my sister’s mind at ease and tell her you’ll accompany me? I hardly see how it could be a hardship for you. You can even cancel next week’s meeting to make up for your lost time. Surely you’d rather spend an evening looking at beautiful women than a morning sniping at me over my book?”
He was silent for so long that Della’s heart began to hammer in her ears. Goodness, she was actually nervous.
When he finally spoke, those mossy eyes of his bored into her without mercy. “If your disguise is shoddy, I’m canceling the whole thing without any further discussion.”
He drew to his feet immediately, placing his hat back atop his head.
“It’s a deal.” She hopped to her feet as well, before he could escape. “It will have to be on Monday, when my club is closed. Every other night I’m there. Let’s shake on it.”
He blinked at her outstretched hand, then clasped it and shook, as he might have with a gentleman. But his warm, firm grip didn’t make her think of a professional agreement. She was shamelessly imagining what else he might do with his hands.
Well, she would do her utmost to find out, or humiliate herself trying.