Chapter 3
Chapter Three
A certain knight’s lady should beware her husband’s dalliance with an opera singer notorious for her open hands and closed heart. Rumor has it that the thrush angles for a castle and will not mind drowning the reigning peacock in the moat to get it.
Felicity scratched out a word, then scribbled another in the margin. “I’m sorry I’m so late with it,” she threw out over her shoulder as she scanned the page for other errors. “It’s been a frenzied morning.”
A masculine voice, smooth as good French brandy, answered. “Take your time, madam. I’m enjoying the view.”
The instant the man’s insolent meaning registered, she whirled around, preparing to give this new employee of Mr. Pilkington’s the same sharp set-down she’d given Mr. Winston on his first day.
Then she froze. The man with the cool, collected gaze who stood outside the door to her study was definitely not from the Gazette.
The Viscount St. Clair. She would recognize him anywhere.
Drat, drat, and double-drat. What was he doing here? Clearly Mrs. Box had mistaken him for Mr. Pilkington’s man and sent him up. But that didn’t explain why a titled lord would call on her.
He smiled, or rather his mouth did. The rest of his expressionless face didn’t indicate why he’d come. He stepped into the room. “I take it you know who I am.”
She certainly did. Though she’d never seen him this close, she’d noticed him at countless social occasions.
Who wouldn’t notice a man like that, nearly as tall as two of the triplets laid end to end?
Besides, few men filled out their coats and breeches so well in this age.
And few men were so obviously not dandies.
His face with its sharp angles and rough lines provoked comment wherever he went, especially when coupled with the olive complexion he’d inherited from his Spanish mother.
Not to mention those eyes ... the exotic hue of India ink with pupils that seemed to spiral down into a black soul. They weren’t called “devil’s eyes” for nothing. Women either shrank from them or lost themselves in the depths ...
She shook herself. She wouldn’t be losing herself in those depths. What was wrong with her?
Yes, she knew him only too well after following him down Waltham Street last week. Could that be why he was here? Because of the mention in last week’s column?
How could that be? He couldn’t possibly know she was Lord X. Mr. Pilkington guarded her identity well. Nor had Lord St. Clair any reason to protest her article. Men of his ilk loved having their mistresses praised.
Still, it wouldn’t do for him to discover the truth. Quickly, she shoved her article under some papers behind her, then pasted a smile to her face. “Good day, Lord St. Clair. You must excuse my surprise. I didn’t think we’d ever been introduced.”
“We haven’t, madam.” Reaching behind him, he closed the door, an action that substantially increased her unease.
Then his gaze narrowed on her. “But I know who you are.” He said it as if surprised to discover it.
“I’ve seen you at some of the balls. You’re Miss Felicity Taylor.
Your father was Algernon Taylor, the architect. ”
“Quite so.” Good Lord, this was strange. He’d come to visit her, yet he’d only now realized who she was?
“I was sorry to hear of your father’s death last year.” His words were suitably sympathetic, but his expression still impossible to read. “I saw his work at Worthing Manor and Somerset House. He was quite talented.”
A lump choked her throat. “Yes, he was.” Talented and foolish.
His talent had led him into the company of men of rank; his foolishness and open temper had prevented him from recognizing the dangers of living beyond one’s means.
He’d died as he’d lived—recklessly. She had no illusions about the father she’d adored and despaired over. Or the men of rank he’d cultivated.
Her voice hardened. “Thank you for your condolences, Lord St. Clair, but if you’ll excuse me, I’m rather busy and—”
“I see he isn’t the only talented member of the family,” the viscount went on, as if she’d spoken to the wall. He gestured to her cluttered desk. “Apparently, you’re equally talented with the pen ... Lord X.”
The blood drained from her face. He knew!
Or perhaps he only thought he did. She must tread cautiously. “You mean that dreadful man who writes articles in the newspaper? Surely you don’t think I have anything to do with him.”
He advanced on her like a threatening army. “Miss Taylor, don’t assume I’m a fool merely because you think you know my secrets.”
The agitation in her chest increased. She backed up, only to be halted by the unwelcome presence of her very solid desk. “Only a fool would believe me to be Lord X. Whoever gave you your information was grossly misinformed.”
He halted within inches of her, much too close for propriety, and she cast him an outraged glance.
She wished she could put him in his place and wipe that smug smile from his insolent mouth, but the top of her head barely cleared his chin, which made it impossible to look down her nose at him without seeming like a complete ninny.
“No one gave me any information,” he said.
“I did my own research. I unearthed Pilkington’s minion, Winston.
Then I followed him here, dispatched him elsewhere, and took his place.
” Angling his large frame around her small one, he rummaged among the papers on her desk.
Bay rum spiked his heat with scent. “Your housekeeper was gracious enough to send me up to fetch your article.” He suddenly stopped rummaging, a wicked smile touching his lips.
Holding a sheet of foolscap up, he said, “This one.”
No point in dissembling any longer, was there? She tilted her head up—way up—to stare at him. “Very well. You’ve discovered my secret.”
“Yes, I have.”
His eyes met hers, even more unreadable at close range. They were as mysterious as midnight ... and just as seductive.
Jerking her gaze away, she fixed her eyes on a point somewhere beyond his broad left shoulder. “I can’t imagine why you’ve gone to all this trouble to find me.”
He tossed the paper onto the desk, but didn’t move away. “Because you wrote lies about me in your column last week, and I dislike being the subject of false speculation.”
Her gaze shot back to his. Had she written something other than those comments about his mistress? “Those are harsh words indeed, Lord St. Clair. I’ll have to call you out for impugning my honor.”
One jet-black eyebrow arched upward. “I warn you, Miss Taylor—you would lose any duel with me.” His gaze drifted down her nose and cheeks to fasten on her mouth. “Although it would make for interesting sport until you did.”
The devil. He was as much a philanderer as she’d suspected. Now she understood why some women found him fascinating. And why her timid friend, Katherine Hastings, found him terrifying.
“You said you came here to discuss my column,” she remarked, annoyed by the rapid thudding of her heart. “I confess to being confused about which one offended you.”
“Don’t play games with me—you know which one I mean. The one about my supposed mistress on Waltham Street.”
“That is the source of your objection? Please humor my stupidity a bit longer—precisely what in my comments gave you offense?”
“The fact that they are untrue,” he said, enunciating every word with growing impatience, as if speaking to a child. “I already explained that.”
He hovered so near she could see each neatly cropped strand of his hair, glossy as fine velvet. His close proximity, coupled with an annoying glint of determination in his eyes, began to worry her. In times like these she would give a fortune to be taller. And possessed of a gift for fisticuffs.
Something about the man disturbed her ... a dark purpose beneath the civilized appearance, like a falcon’s hooded head. She suddenly had a profound desire to be near an exit before the hood came off and the bird of prey struck. Easing from between him and the desk, she edged toward the door.
“Don’t even think of leaving before we’re finished,” he commanded in a steely voice, turning to follow her movements.
She halted in her tracks. “I-I wasn’t.”
Though she wanted to. She had dealt with stupid men.
She had even handled furious men, who were merely larger versions of her petulant brothers.
But this man, with his intelligence and eerie calm, was outside the realm of her experience.
This man compelled obedience by his very manner.
She didn’t want to discover what would happen if obedience wasn’t immediately forthcoming.
“What I wrote about you was true.” She attempted to match his calm. “It was a speculation, one I based on several facts.”
“Such as?” Keeping his gaze fixed on her, he rested his hip on the desk.
When he crossed his arms—his muscled arms—over his chest, a shiver rippled over her skin.
She truly had never expected to be alone with him.
It gave her an entirely new perspective on the man.
When she’d seen him in public, surrounded by his peers, it had been easy to dismiss the air of danger he wore like cologne.
But now that he stalked her in Papa’s old study, it was anything but easy.
“Well, Miss Taylor?” he asked, jerking her back to the business at hand. “What are these facts?”
“Ah, yes.” She ticked them off on her fingers. “The house in Waltham Street was taken by you over a year ago for the woman who resides there. She’s beautiful, relatively young, and obviously enamored of you. And her name is Miss Greenaway.”
Her one other point she kept in abeyance. She might need it later, if matters grew complicated. No need to provoke this fearsome viscount any more than necessary.