Aunt Maude dropped her lorgnette. “What? That girl— that plain little spinster with not a penny to her name or a friend in the world—turned you down? And chose life with La Beasley instead?”
Harry gritted his teeth. He wasn’t exactly flattered, either, especially not when he could see what she’d turned him down for. He recalled what she’d said about taking tea and reading aloud to a sweet old lady and tried to stifle a surge of ignoble satisfaction. How wrong she’d been. She should have chosen him.
“What did you do to her?”
Harry clamped his mouth shut. Wild horses wouldn’t drag that tale out of him, not to a living soul. He felt his face warm as he recalled the way he’d hauled an earl’s daughter into his arms and ravished her mouth till they both could barely stand.
“Nothing. I was perfectly polite,” he said stiffly. “I made her a perfectly correct offer.”
“And she turned you down.” His aunt chuckled. “I must meet this girl,” she declared. “There’s more to Lady Helen Freymore than meets the eye.”
Nell clutched the shawl to her and raced up the steep, cobbled street, ignoring the startled looks of the passers-by. The shawl wasn’t the slightest bit soiled, of course, it was just an excuse Mrs. Beasley had made to draw attention to herself, but oh, how glad Nell was of it. An escape.
She was shaking.
What was Harry Morant doing in Bath? In the Pump Room, of all places? He surely couldn’t have known she was here.
Bath had been a last-minute detour. Mrs. Beasley had been feeling run down and her physician had recommended that on her way to London she stop off at Bath and take the waters. They’d been here a week now, and this morning Mrs. Beasley had announced that on Monday they would depart for London.
Two more days.
But Harry Morant had seen her and she could tell by his face that he wasn’t going to ignore her. She’d watched him out of the corner of her eye the whole time, from the moment he’d stepped through the doorway with his aunt.
A frisson of feminine excitement had rippled through the room. Who could blame the ladies, she thought; he was such a handsome man, so tall and broad-shouldered and so . . . manly.
She could still not believe that he had offered for her.
She’d almost been tempted—what woman wouldn’t be? But it was just for a moment; there was really no choice. She had to find Torie.
And finding Torie would remove whatever slender chance of marriage Nell had.
No gentleman would take on a wife with an illegitimate daughter, especially if that wife had neither fortune nor looks.
Harry Morant was ambitious, a man who was determined to move up in the world. More important, he was a man trying to put his own irregular birth behind him.
So she wasn’t—she couldn’t be—interested.
She was certain Torie was somewhere in London. Papa had died the day after he’d stolen her baby away, and he’d died on the London road, so he must have been coming back from there.
She’d buried him in the village where he’d died. She’d sold his horse to pay for the funeral; she didn’t have the money to pay for him to be taken home. She tried to learn as much as she could about the circumstances of his death, and where he had been before, but nobody could tell her anything.
She then traveled as far as she could toward London, questioning everyone she encountered on the way. Several people had seen him coming back from London. Not one of them had seen him with a baby in a basket lined with white satin.
She’d searched and questioned people all along the London road until her money ran out and she’d sold her own horse. She kept going, certain that news of her daughter would be at the next house, or the next. Finally, destitute and reeling with hunger and cold, she realized if she was not careful, she could die in a ditch, or at a crossroads, like Papa.
And then what would become of Torie?
So, refusing to despair, she’d turned around and dragged herself home, back to Firmin Court. She had to get home and prepare herself properly for this search.
So her baby must be in London—somewhere. Nell was determined. No stone would remain unturned. She would search till she dropped.
She reached Mrs. Beasley’s lodgings and hurried upstairs to fetch another shawl. She would have to go back inside the pump room, face those smoking gray eyes.
She hoped he would stay away, but she didn’t feel very optimistic. He was going to cause trouble, she knew it in her bones. She’d seen the way he’d stiffened in outrage at the way Mrs. Beasley had scolded Nell about the shawl. He was going to get all gallant on her.
And if he did, there would be hell to pay.
Mrs. Beasley liked to be the center of attention. She’d lived her life until now as a virtuous wife: now she was ready to become a dashing widow. Her nastiness didn’t bother Nell in the least. There were compensations. She kept Nell at her beck and call every waking moment, but since the woman never rose before midday, Nell’s mornings were totally free.
In London, Nell would be able to use those precious morning hours to search for Torie. Few positions would allow her that much freedom. She needed—quite desperately—to keep this job, and not have it threatened by a well-meaning man who had no idea of how things really stood.
Every one of Harry’s senses sharpened the moment Nell slipped quietly back into the Pump Room. She was a little flushed and her chest rose and fell rapidly; she’d been running. He frowned at her chest. She’d seemed quite flat in that region before. How had he missed those delicious curves?
He felt his body stirring and hastily forced it to behave. He was in the Pump Room, for heaven’s sake, with his aunt beside him.
“Here, dear boy, drink some water.” A glass was pressed into his hand and without thinking, he lifted it to his lips and drank deeply. “Faugh!” He just managed not to spit out the foul-tasting spa water. “That’s disgusting.”
With a smug smile Aunt Maude removed the glass from his hand. “Yes, I know, and you deserved every last drop, dear boy, for putting me through all those dreary cits. I am inclined to forgive you, though—”
“Oh, are you indeed?”
“Yes, for this promises to be extremely entertaining, whatever the outcome. Do you know she hasn’t glanced even once in this direction? It’s most unnatural. Do you think she’s making a point?” She smiled at Harry guilelessly.
He glowered back, a bitter taste in his mouth. “It won’t do her any good. I have every intention of speaking to her.”
“And I suppose you think you’ll just walk over and start talking to her. As if that harpy isn’t going to interfere?”
He gave her a cool look. “Naturally I have a plan.”
“Have you indeed?”
“Yes, it’s a simple matter of strategy. You and your friend Lady Lattimer will engage the enemy in conversation.”
“Will we? How delightful. And what shall we talk about?”
“I don’t know. Some sort of private feminine matter.”
“What would you know about private feminine matters?”
“Very little, thank God, but it will give you an excuse for banishing Nell—”
“Nell?”
“Lady Helen.” He tried to ignore the smile playing about his aunt’s lips. She was enjoying this, damn her. “The point is, you must make it clear to the woman that you wish for private conversation with her and only her, and to that end you will send Lady Helen and myself to another part of the room. Leave the rest to me.”
She patted him on the cheek a second time. “Excellent, dear boy. I can see why you made such an excellent soldier. Just one thing.”
“Yes?” he said, impatient to get started.
“Be careful. La Beasley has a fancy for you; she has been watching you like a cat watching a mouse hole for the last fifteen minutes. If she sees your interest in Lady Helen, she will turn on the poor girl like a snake. So be discreet, my boy.”
“I am always discreet,” Harry informed her coldly.
Harry’s aunt rose and shook her friend awake. “Come along, Lizzie, we’re going to talk to La Beastley.”
Lady Lattimer spluttered to consciousness. “What? But I don’t want to speak to—”
“Nonsense. It will be an adventure,” declared her friend. “We are going to rescue Lady Helen from the gorgon’s clutches.”
“Oh, in that case . . .” Lady Lattimer rose and straightened her lace cap. The two ladies swept across the room toward Mrs. Beasley much like two ships of the Spanish Armada bearing down on a small fishing boat. Heads in the pump room swiveled. Conversation buzzed, then died to an avid silence.
Mrs. Beasley watched their approach with frozen fascination as it dawned on her that two titled ladies had finally noticed her. She rose from her seat, smiling.
“Mrs. Um . . . ?” Lady Gosforth inquired, as if she did not know very well who the woman was. She did not even look at Nell.
The woman curtsied. “I am Mrs. Beasley, ma’am, and you are Lady Gosforth.”
“I know,” said Lady Gosforth, inclining her head graciously.
Mrs. Beasley tittered. “And of course, I’ve seen Lady Lattimer here before. A real regular, she is.”
Lady Lattimer raised one aristocratic eyebrow at such a person’s presumption in daring to notice her regularity or otherwise. “Indeed,” she said in a quelling voice.
Nell stood quietly to one side. Mrs. Beasley made no attempt to introduce her. She glanced past the two ladies, to where Harry stood a short distance away, examining a print on the wall.
“And will your gentleman friend be joining us?” Mrs. Beasley asked.
“No,” Lady Gosforth declared. “We wish to have private conversation with you—of a feminine nature. A gentleman would not wish to be present.”
“I see.” Mrs. Beasley looked vaguely alarmed.
There were four ladies present, counting Nell, and only two seats. Lady Gosforth gestured for Mrs. Beasley and Lady Lattimer to sit down, turned to her nephew and said, “Harry, a chair, if you please.”
Harry brought a chair for her, and seeing Nell was still standing awkwardly by, was about to fetch her one when his aunt said, “No, we wish to have private conversation with this lady—please find another seat for her companion, Miss Er . . .”
“Lady Helen—” began Mrs. Beasley.
Lady Gosforth cut across her. “Find Miss Er a seat over there somewhere, Harry, and then take yourself off, there’s a good boy.” She waved him away and turned back to Mrs. Beasley, saying sweetly. “My nephew, you know, and therefore too young to be of any interest to ladies of our age.”
Since Mrs. Beasley was a well-preserved forty and the two aristocratic ladies well into their sixties, Mrs. Beasley tried not to look affronted by this suggestion. She managed a strangled smile and watched, frustrated, as one of the most magnificent men she’d ever seen offered his arm to her drab little companion and escorted her to a distant corner.
“My dear friend Lady Lattimer has been admiring your jewelry,” announced Lady Gosforth, kicking her dear friend on the ankle.
“Ow—er, yes, your jewelry,” Lady Lattimer said with an indignant look at her dear friend. She pulled out a quizzing glass and peered at the vulgar array of jewels displayed on various parts of Mrs. Beasley’s person. “There’s quite a lot of it, isn’t there?” she mumbled. “And it’s very, er, sparkly.”
Feeble as the attempt was, Mrs. Beasley responded with a smug preen. “Yes, Mr. Beasley, my late husband, delighted in purchasing trinkets for me.” She fingered a large ruby brooch, surrounded by diamonds, that rested in the vee of her cleavage. “Mr. Beasley used to say jewels only enhanced my beauty.”
“Fascinating. Tell us the history of each piece,” Lady Gosforth instructed her.
“Go away,” Nell whispered to Harry as they crossed the room. She was very aware of the eyes observing their progress. “Leave now and do not talk to me.”
Harry tucked her hand under his arm. “I thought you were going to London.”
“I was; I still am. We leave in two days,” she hissed. “Please, just go away. If she sees us talking—”
“Yes, she, your employer—the very picture of a delightful little old lady . . . of the vulture clan.”
“She doesn’t bother me.”
“She annoys the hell out of me,” Harry said. “How the devil do you stand the way she talks to you?”
Nell attempted to withdrew her hand from his grip, failed, and said pointedly, “At least she doesn’t swear at me.”
“No, she talks to you like a dog—worse than a dog. You miss Freckles, I suppose.”
The abrupt change of subject caught her unawares. “You’ve seen Freckles?”
He nodded. “She comes over to the house almost every day, from the vicarage, looking for you. She misses you.”
She bit her lip. “I miss her, too. I’m sorry she’s a problem.”
“She’s no problem. Aggie uses her as an excuse to pop over every now and then, just to keep an eye on us. In any case, my partner, Ethan, is happy to take the dog home. Personally I wouldn’t mind if Freckles moved in permanently.”
She gave him a warm smile. “She is a lovely dog, isn’t she?”
His grip on her hand tightened. He stopped dead and stared down at her for a long moment.
She gave him an uneasy look and glanced around. His behavior was drawing unwanted attention to them.
He seemed to realize it, for he moved on as if nothing had happened, saying, “If I’d known I was going to see you here, I could have brought her to Bath for a visit.”
She shook her head. “No, she’ll soon settle down and stop missing m—where are you taking me?” A young boy in an apron held open a brown baize-covered door leading from the main area of the Pump Room.
Without a word of explanation, Harry steered her through it. He pressed a coin into the waiting palm of the boy, saying, “Make sure we’re not disturbed.”
Nell found herself in what seemed like a small storage room. “What do you mean, not disturbed? I’m not staying in here with you!” She tried to push against him.