Page 7 of Deceiving an Earl
She shrugged and looked around. Her eyes were a dark brown, her hair a blond that was almost the same color as her gown. “Often enough. I come with my father.”
Ah. So Bertrand was her father.
“Your father?” He raised a brow in inquiry. What a perfect opportunity that had just dropped into his lap.
“Armbruster. How did you enjoy the poetry?” Ellen swept up next to him and took his arm. For the first time he wished her away, even as his body responded to her touch. Seventeen years he’d gone without her touch. There had been a time when he’d thought he’d die without it. He’d been wrong. He’d lived.
“It was entertaining.”
She grinned. “Liar,” she whispered. “You despised it.”
“Poetry is not my favorite. I will admit that.”
Amelie wandered away, and Oliver cursed the missed opportunity to talk to her.
“A little young for you, don’t you think?”
He shrugged, wondering if Ellen was jealous of Amelie like he was jealous of the man Ellen had sat next to during the poetry reading. How absurd to be jealous after all this time. She’d made it clear that she hadn’t wanted him.
“We were discussing the poetry,” he said.
She arched her brows in doubt. “So now that you have a taste of these salons, what do you think? Will you return?”
Was that hope in her voice? Was he projecting his own feelings of hope onto her?
He needed to leave. He should never have come in the first place. He’d been foolish to agree to this preposterous proposal by O’Leary.
The gentleman who had been sitting next to Ellen approached and put a proprietary hand on her elbow.
She pulled her gaze from Oliver and smiled up at the man. Oliver felt a twinge in his chest region and forced himself not to rub it. Must have been something he’d eaten that wasn’t sitting well. Or the flat wine.
“My lord, I would like you to meet Sir William Needham. William, this is…an old friend. Lord Armbruster.”
…
“What do you know of a William Needham?” Oliver asked Detective O’Leary the next night.
They were sitting in the detective’s office, enjoying an ale. Oliver had come to appreciate his weekly meetings with O’Leary and much to his surprise, he enjoyed the ale just as much. Normally he was a wine or port drinker.
O’Leary was sprawled in his chair, the front legs tilted back, his heavy booted feet resting on the top of his desk. From Oliver’s vantage point he could see that the soles of O’Leary’s shoes were nearly worn through.
He was a big man, O’Leary, a ginger, with freckles over his face and forearms. Oliver could easily see O’Leary as a street thug or working a farm. That they were friends was as much a surprise to O’Leary as it had been to Oliver. They were of a different class, would never have met under any other circumstances—they’d met through their mutual friend, Ashland.
Ashland was normally at these informal, ale-drinking get-togethers, but Ashland was spending time with his wife.
“Needham,” O’Leary said after taking a swig of ale and wiping his lips with the back of his hand. He tapped his chair arm with a thick, callused finger.
“Sir William Needham, the surgeon?”
Oliver raised a brow. “Surgeon?”
After Ellen had introduced the two men she’d been called away, and Needham had followed her. Much like a puppy, Oliver had thought. Again he’d felt that twinge in his chest that he now knew hadn’t been caused by food or drink.
“Serjeant Surgeon to the royal family,” O’Leary said. “If it’s the same man you’re speaking of. Can’t be two Sir William Needhams. I’m surprised you haven’t heard of him.”
“Never until last night,” Oliver said, feigning disinterest, when in reality he was very interested indeed.
Surgeon to the royal family?
