Page 89 of From Rakes to Riches

“My time is my own.”

“Of course, it is,” she said with undisguised disdain. She reached up and pulled the pins from her hair, the lengths tumbling down past her ribcage. “I just assumed you’d rather spend it somewhere else.”

He didn’t answer at first, his attention divided by her actions. A strong pulse of lust worked through him, settling in his groin. He rubbed his fingers together restlessly. He’d gone too long without a woman. That could only be the cause. Although no lady of the ton would ever converse without a chaperone, expose her skin in such tempting fashion, or openly contradict him. Lola’s tart words and sweet lips made for a bewitching combination.

“Nothing is more important than finding out what happened to Fremont,” he said at last.

“Fremont?”

“My friend,” he added, exhaling deeply and leaning his shoulder against one of the wooden poles supporting the tightrope platform. “A man who shouldn’t have been killed.”

“I understand. Unjust things happen to good people. The world we live in is rarely fair.”

The depth of emotion in her words told him she truly did understand, and more. That she’d lived through some kind of tragedy, some undeserved loss. As before he suddenly wished toconsole or protect her, even though she’d likely reject the kind words he’d offer. She was complicated, this beautiful, talented, interesting woman before him. And more than a little dangerous because of it.

“What will Bow Street do?” She asked, breaking through his thoughts. “About finding the man responsible?”

“Ask questions. Inquire with their usual informants,” he said, moving from where he’d leaned on the pole and indicating they should follow the path out of the grandstand area. “I suppose come next week the information will be published in The Quarterly Pursuit.”

He didn’t hold much hope the newspaper would assist in finding the killer. While it provided details of crimes and informed the public of recent incidents, the facts surrounding the viscount’s murder were vague and insufficient.

“I wish I could tell you more about last evening,” she said as she moved beside him.

Now there was a cryptic statement. Maybe she knew something. Maybe he was grasping at straws.

“But as I told the Runners, it seemed like every other Friday night here,” she continued. “You’ve troubled yourself coming out and waiting for my performance to end. Perhaps you should speak to Dante. He works in the picture house.”

“Dante?” Finally, someone who might have useful information. No one had mentioned the man before.

“Yes, he’s an illusionist, and it’s said he can communicate with those who have crossed over.”

Theodore wasn’t sure if her words were sincere or sarcastic, but she didn’t give him time to decide.

“Now I’ll need to change my clothes before I walk home. If you’ll excuse me, my lord.”

“I’ll escort you home, Lola.”

“That isn’t necessary.”

“Isn’t it though? A murder occurred here last night and for all my lofty education,” he said this with a note of humor, “I can’t imagine a single circumstance where it would be wise for a beautiful woman to be walking alone at night no matter the neighborhood.”

He had no idea how the wordbeautifulhad worked its way into his comment, but it wasn’t a lie.

Her eyes examined him for a long moment, a flicker of some unknown emotion evident there while she debated her decision.

“I will only be a few minutes,” she said finally before she turned and went inside the pavilion.

Lola madequick work of changing into a simple gown before she slipped back outside, successfully eluding Sofia and her brothers. She felt badly about leaving them waiting and would have approached to explain, but then Marco had appeared and joined their conversation. She didn’t want him to accompany her home or offer him a reason to believe she was his responsibility. Their relationship had ended amicably, though at times she wished it hadn’t. Perhaps if they’d argued and remained on poor terms, he wouldn’t disguise his protective gestures as friendship.

Shaking away these thoughts, she strode toward the earl, a strange fluttery feeling alive in her stomach. He shouldn’t make her nervous. She’d spent ample time around noblemen in the past. Beneath his arrogance, wealth and perfectly tied cravat, was a man, skin and bones, like every other. In his case, well-formed skin and bones.

Instead of reassuring her, the realization made the fluttery feeling intensify. He was handsome. She wouldn’t deny it. But it mattered little at the moment.

“It’s this way.” She motioned toward Collyhurst Road since they’d come to the end of the oyster shell path. Another step andthey would go beyond Vauxhall grounds. Somehow taking their association into the London streets made it all the more real, all the more complicated.

“Do you walk home alone every evening?” He asked.

“Not always.” She avoided a puddle of questionable liquid near the curb. “Sometimes I go home with friends. A few of us live in the same building.”

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