Page 33 of The Duke
His cheek pouched over the candy somewhat ruined his crooked smile, but it was endearing all the same. “Sorry to inconvenience your ladyship, I didn’t know you were having a toff to-do tonight. It’s just that, there’s something I think you should know.”
Bracing herself, Imogen reached for the high back of the chair, gripping it until her entire hand went white. “Go on,” she encouraged.
“That lofty duke, the one what lost his hand, he came round asking after you again yesterday.” Jeremy took advantage of her astonishment to finish chewing his Turkish delight, and she watched the obtrusion of his Adam’s apple dip as he swallowed the entire thing.
“After me?” she finally gasped.
“Well, after Ginny, but yeah.” Jeremy removed his cap and held it in both hands, worrying at the rim. His hair, the color and consistency of oat straw, stuck out in wild tufts, though he’d obviously tried to tame it with pomade. “But I says to him, I says, ‘Oi, I don’t care what kind of title you throw around, I ain’t telling you a thing.’”
“You said that to him?”
“Well, not in those precise words.” He threw her a sheepish grin, revealing one gold tooth that was somehow utterly charming beneath his freckles. “But I told him that I didn’t remember nothing, I hadn’t seen you round, and it didn’t matter how many times he came asking, my memory’s not like to improve with time.”
“Bless you, Jeremy.” Imogen stepped around the chair and sank into it, letting the fine velvet envelop her in comfort and warmth.
“Ain’t nothing, Your Ladyship.” Jeremy gave her an endearing wink before placing his hat back on his head. “Though what that old cripple wants with you is a bleeding mystery, if you’ll pardon my saying so.”
“You don’t have to call me Your Ladyship,” Imogen reminded gently. “You were a friend before…” It wasn’t that she didn’t want to answer Jeremy’s not-so-subtle question, it was only that she didn’t want to ponder the reasons why Trenwyth would be looking for Ginny after all these years.
“I haven’t heard a word from Devina, Heather, or any of the others,” he said encouragingly. “They shouldn’t be a danger to you.” The women that had worked the Bare Kitten with her had been offered an entire year’s salary to relocate, no questions asked, and they’d all taken it gladly.
“There’s only… Barton,” Jeremy reminded her soberly. “And no one’s seen him since that night. No one, that is, but Flora.”
Imogen had never forgiven herself for what became of Flora Latimer.
Apparently the night Imogen fought off Barton, Jeremy had chased after her until he’d lost her in the mist some blocks away from St. James’s Street. Upon his return, he’d found Mr. Barton had vanished. In Imogen’s frenzy, it seemed that she’d not injured him as gravely as she’d initially thought. Poor Flora Latimer, the sweet blond harlot, had had her throat slit in the cursed alley. She’d been discovered bound, sodomized, and facedown in a pool of her own blood.
Imogen wished she’d have killed Barton after all, and then he’d not have taken his rage at her out on poor Flora. He’d disappeared, of course, but he was always there, a pinprick of worry in the canvas of Imogen’s new life, threatening to reappear at any moment from the shadows to ruin the entire tableau.
“Your Ladyship?”
Imogen blinked at him, startled for a moment that he still sat watching her with a particular alertness. “I’m sorry, Jeremy, what were you saying?”
“I know it’s not my business, and if you don’t mind my asking, but why is it you’re so afraid of this Trenwyth? Is he threatening you? Is there something I can do? Because you say the word and we’ll—”
“No,”she answered more quickly than she’d meant to. “No. It’s simply that when I married the earl and became a countess, it became imperative that I leave that part of my life in the past.” She tried to keep her answer as diplomatic as possible, so as not to offend him.
“I can understand that, my lady. You know whattheysay, these toffs are more hypocritical and pitiless than a whorehouse full of vicars on a Saturday night.”
“Just so.” Imogen laughed, in spite of herself. She’d never heard anyone say such a thing, and she hadn’t any idea who thesetheywere that Jeremy always quoted. But she often found herself in agreement with them.
“But not you, though.” His soft brown eyes reminded her of some guileless woodland creature, and for a moment, her heart melted and everything ceased to be so perilous.
“You’re utterly kind to say so, Jeremy.” She stood and went to him, planting a chaste kiss on his cheek that left a fierce blush in its wake. “Through everything, you’ve been such a true friend.”
“And always will be, Ginny.” He forgot himself, seeming unable to peel his gaze from the floor.
“Call me Imogen,” she offered. “It’s my real name.”
He looked at her as though she’d handed him a costly gift, and he had nothing to give her in return.
Embarrassed and flattered by his youthful veneration, she turned away and put some appropriate space between them. “Is there aught else I can do for you? Things at the establishment are going well?” She didn’t want to offend him by offering him money, but wanted to give him the opportunity to ask should he be in need.
He seemed to want to say something, to linger, but then changed his mind. “Naw, I’ve interrupted a right proper to-do, din’nt I? I should let you get back to your guests.”
“Well…” She was terrible at this part. Never knowing just what to say, how to leave things with an old acquaintance she never chanced to meet anymore. “You can’t know how much I appreciate your coming here. I’m going to have Cheever give you a box of the Turkish delight to take with you. Please do call again.”
“Maybe will do.” He flashed her that gold-flecked smile, and sauntered toward the door. “Maybe will do.”
