Page 102 of Sloth: The Fallen Earl
Cressida inclined her chin. “We shall agree to disagree then, my lord.”
He lingered. Once a gentleman, always a gentleman. It was as much a fabric of the fiber of his layers that made him as Cressida’s jaded, pessimistic outlook on life was hers.
He bowed and took a step to go, then his gaze landed on the copy ofThe Timesthat stared damningly up at them. He skimmed the front of the page at the very center that contained mention of his name. Benedict appeared as though he wished to say more, but then he dropped another bow and left without another word.
Chapter 26
The minute Wakefield walked into his office and found Lord Markham seated at his desk, he knew he’d arrived with answers.
Lord Markham stood as a courtesy, for he was brutally direct and as cold as he could be.
“Markham,” he greeted, shutting the door behind them.
The investigator looked him up and down and made no attempt to hide his disdain.
“I’m sorry to have dragged you away from whatever fun you were up to.” He knew the look the other man was giving him. He recognized his derisive tones.
Wakefield knew because he’d often looked in the very exact way at Viscount Waters.
“Yes. Well. I had a late night at my sister’s and Lord Stanhope’s ball,” he said evenly.
“Yes. Returned home what an hour and a half ago.” Unnerved that the other man had been keeping such close tabs on his activities and whereabouts even as he understood the reason for it.
Wakefield had hired Markham to find him in an instant and report back on what it was he’d learned about Cressida.
“Cressida” With a calm he didn’t feel, Wakefield gestured for Markum to reclaim his seat and join him on the other side of his desk.
“I trust the reason you’re here is because you’ve in fact discovered something about Miss Smith.”
“Miss Smith, whose name is in fact not Smith.”
“Yes.” Wakefield curled his fingers into the mahogany arms of his chair, leaving crescent marks upon the previously immaculate wood.
At last, he’d have his answers as satisfied as that should leave him. An emotion that felt deeply like regret and something else he couldn’t name churned in his chest.
He had wanted—no, expected—that truth to come from Cressida’s lips, not delivered cold and clinical from the mouth of a man he’d paid to uncover it. But why should he have expected anything else? Why, when he had known her scarcely more than a handful of days? And yet the sting was there all the same. Hurt. That’s what it was, though he scarcely wished to name it.
She had been deliberately vague, artfully elusive, revealing nothing of herself—not one blasted thing. And yes, perhaps he hadn’t offered her the whole of himself either. But he had not cloaked his purpose. He had told her, plainly enough, what had drawn him to The Devil’s Den that night. She had told him nothing in return. Not then. Not now.
Markam spoke, breaking him from his musings.
“Her name is Miss Cressida Alby.”
Something in knowing she’d been honest and forthright in her given name. Knowing that every time they’d spoken, and he’d addressed her, had been real. It brought some relief as he searched his mind for even though he was now in possession of her actual name, it still didn’t ring clear.
“I don’t know any Albys.”
“No, you wouldn’t. They’re not good stock.”
Wakefield frowned and he had to restrain himself from biting off the other man’s head over that insult until he recalled that had been his like response when he discovered the lady was in fact a virgin.
Smarting at his own arrogance and condescension, he fought to keep from squirming.
Markham looped his right ankle over his left knee.
“They derived from Somerset. There’s a brother and sister. The father died some years back, a country squire. They lived amodest existence until a distant relative turned up his heels and left Stanley Alby a baron. The two of them came to London and lived above their means. He threw the lady a grand Season.”
Wakefield realized at some point he’d leaned forward, hanging on the man’s every word. He made himself sit back, even as his pulse raced.
