Page 25 of My Deceitful Duchess
Chapter Eleven
“I’m struggling,” Sebastian admitted as he tore into a pastry, his manners somewhat less elegant than might ordinarily be expected from a man of his class. “I don’tlikestruggling.” He had shoved his free hand into his pocket—a motion that she was beginning to realize conveyed uncertainty, anxiety—and shook his head in consternation, his disheveled blond hair feathering down over his eyes.
“I don’t imagine anyone does,” Jenny said. It was a light response, and it did nothing whatsoever to mitigate the tension that curled between them, like a thread pulling taut. Somehow, her feet wanted to move her closer to his side as if something invisible and irresistible pulled her there, even though she knew she ought to keep a proper distance between them.
It was bad enough that he’d grabbed her wrist yesterday, in full view of anyone who might have been passing by. A gentleman did not touch a lady in such a fashion, and certainly not publicly.
“For the first time, I’m at a loss,” he said, and it was very nearly a snarl. “Had Icaredto move about those circles, perhaps I would be more qualified to make certain observations.”
“Observations?”
Sebastian made a rough sound in his throat. “I’ve a list of those who attended Lady Pendleton’s party,” he said. “I’ve been poring over it, but—I’ve never made a habitual practice of attendingTonevents, or ingratiating myself with certain people. I knowofsome of them, but I do notknowthem. Nor have I historically had any interest in their finances.” The last of his profiterole disappeared behind the clench of his even, white teeth. She wondered if he had even tasted it. “I am looking for someone who is living above their means. Someone who would be moved to thievery, if the opportunity struck. Someone who might also be moved to murder, if necessary.” His gaze bounced off of her, as if he were embarrassed to be confessing to such a deficiency. “I’ve had neither the inclination to nor the interest in paying attention to such things before.”
“You…you need to know which of those who attended Lady Pendleton’s party are in need of funds?” Jenny asked, a queer little tingle sliding up her spine. “There’s more than a handful of peers with pockets to let.”
“Yes,” he said. “But once I have narrowed down the list sufficiently, I can cross-reference it with those known to the previous victims of the thief, and pare it down further still.” A little scowl tugged at the edges of his lips. “A peer can run on credit for months—years, on occasion. I couldn’t possibly begin to make such an assessment.”
“I could.” She didn’t know why it popped out so easily, but ithad, and she couldn’t take it back now. An incredulous expression flickered across his face, and she was moved to add, defensively, “Well, wedooffer gaming tables to our ladies.”
“Of course,” he said slowly. “Of course. You would need to know whether or not they can afford to play.”
“It’s only responsible. We couldn’t allow a lady to beggar herself, nor to play with funds that she does not have. So—Icouldmake an assessment. Perhaps not for all, but for some. Whichever ladies, at least, have been recommended as subscribers to the club through the years. We’ve looked into all of them.” And it had been alotof years—and a lot of ladies.
“You are, in fact,” he said softly, with keen interest, “uniquely positioned to aid in my investigation.”
Discomfited, Jenny turned her attention back to her breakfast. “I would have to ask Lottie and Harriet,” she said. “It’s not onlymyinformation I would be sharing.”
“But they won’t refuse,” he said cannily. “Lady Pendleton is one of their own.”
“No,” she said. “No, they won’t refuse.”
“Good.” It was a decisive sound. “Good. Ask them. And then—tomorrow morning, you shall come to my home.”
Her head screeched a warning. “Are youmad? I can’t come to your home!”
“You must.” Had she imagined that his voice carried a smooth, satisfied tone? “This is information of a sensitive nature, and I certainly cannot come to yours. So you will have to come to mine.”
She hadn’t imagined it at all. It burned like a good whisky, and hummed with gratification. And she couldn’t even blame him for it. He had woven no web, devised no trap to spring up around her. She had orchestrated this snareherself, and stumbled into it.
Like a rabbit that had caught, cleaned, and cooked itself for dinner. He was only the wolf who had arrived in time to enjoy it.
“Don’t worry,” he said, and there was a gleam of sharp white fangs in that slow smile. “I’ll bring you your profiteroles.”
∞∞∞
Of course Lottie and Harriet had consented. Jenny had known they would. It still hadn’t stopped her from fretting. From pacing Ambrosia’s halls anxiously. From slipping up to her room on the rare occasions that her attention was not needed elsewhere to peer out into the night, across the mews, to where the light glowed in his window.
Where he sat, in that chair he’d positioned near it,reading. The new book she’d brought him, without a doubt. He hadn’t sat there last evening. He’d had other things to do—he’d returned the first one she’d lent to him already, and she’d not provided another until this morning. But tonight…tonight he was stretched out in that chair, casually flipping through the pages, lingering over passages.
She could not see his face, since he had angled himself away from the window. But she knewheknew she was watching. She had impressed him with her deduction of it, and now—now he put on a show. A slice of his private life on display only for her, because no one else would know to look. No one else was positioned so perfectlytolook.
Perhaps he had somehow divined which window was hers, and knew it would afford her an optimal view. Perhaps he knew that she was somehow drawn to him, just as he was to her. That she could not resist the temptation to look when it was presented to her.
His hand—the one that did not hold the book—lifted, stretched behind him, and scratched at the back of his neck, as if he could feel her gaze upon him. She watched the muscles of his arm bunch with the motion, not with the heavy bulk to which some gentlemen aspired, but lean and sinewy. There was a strength there, but it wasn’t comprised of excess mass. She suspected there was not an ounce of him that wasn’t purposeful, tailored exactly to suit his needs.
The lamplight glowed golden over his skin. He wore no shirt, no dressing gown—she could see his bare feet stretched out; his pose comfortable, indolent. Perhaps he wore no trousers, even. The thought sent a flood of heat coursing through her veins. He wouldn’t be so bold as to—as to sit before his window entirely unclothed.
She wasn’t certain how long she had stood there, mesmerized, holding the ledger which contained Ambrosia’s subscription roster, which she had retrieved from the office, in her hands. But the spell continued unbroken, since no one had come to fetch her, and she stared—and stared, her mouth dry, her breath coming in short pants.
