Page 5 of My Deceitful Duchess
“I have people.” At her blank stare, he continued. “I have people whom I pay to keep me informed of events which might be of interest to me. One of those people informed me of the fire as it broke out, and I came round to have a look. The fire burned too hot and too quickly not to have been helped along with some manner of accelerant. Given the fact that I discovered an oil of some sort had been poured along the outside of the building, arson seemed the most reasonable conclusion.”
Jenny could only blink, nonplussed. “And is arson of interest to you, Mr.…?”
“Knight. Sebastian Knight.” And then, as it seemed to occur to him that perhaps she might be harboring some suspicions of him, he added, “My interest is purely academic. I did not set fire to your shop. Though Ididadvise the authorities that it had not been an accident. They did not seem particularly interested in pursuing justice on your behalf, however.”
That was hardly surprising; they rarely were. Arson was a difficult crime to prove. “The person responsible was, in fact, apprehended—though for a different sort of crime. I’ve landed on my feet, so I consider that unfortunate chapter of my life closed entirely.” The street was not, precisely,crowding, but it was still a bit livelier than she would have liked for the purposes of this conversation. Still, Mr. Knight fell into step beside her once again as she continued walking, as if he had nothing better to do with his time than to accompany her.
“I beg your pardon,” he said. “Have I offended?”
“No,” she said, and it came out trailing an incredulous laugh. “Despite yourself, no. You are a very strange man, Mr. Knight.”
His eyes narrowed, and she suspected he was assessing her, scrutinizing her. “In what way?”
“Nearly all of them, I expect.” She laughed again at the disgruntled expression that chased across his face. “Is there some reason you have approached me, Mr. Knight?”
“Yes, of course. I’m not in the habit of approaching anyone without a clear goal in mind.” That keen, dark gaze swept over her face with a resolute gravity. “I wished to inquire whether you might be interested in an affair.”
Chapter Two
“What?”
Sebastian winced.Nowhe had offended. She had stopped again, frozen on the pavement as if her feet had grown roots. “I beg your pardon,” he said. “I thought it best to be honest regarding my intentions. I can see now that I may have miscalculated.”
“But in themiddle of the street?” Her voice was not quite a shriek, but it was still a trifle louder than it ought to have been. He, at least, had made an effort to modulate his voice, and to wait until there was no one nearby to have heard his proposition.
“Where else might I have asked? I’ve rarely seen you go anywhere but to the bakery and back, and time was growing short. I had but five minutes, by my estimation, in which to make my case—and regrettably some of that time was unnecessarily lost to introductions.”
“Unnecessarilylost?”
“Utter waste of time, introductions. People’s names are the least interesting things about them.” He supposed he was meant to apologize again, or something of that nature.
“Whose name was I meant to call out in the throes of passion, then? ‘Oh,nameless stranger whom I met upon the street’lacks a certain something, I feel.” She hadn’t stormed off—or slapped him—and he supposed that might be construed as somewhat encouraging. But there was a notable bite to her words, a tartness that evenhecould hardly fail to notice. Affront, he thought, with perhaps a touch of awe that he had so dared.
“I’m certain I hadn’t given it that much thought, though if the talk that floats around gentlemen’s clubs is to be believed, you might simply invoke whichever deity suits you,” he said.
An odd, strangled snort of a laugh eked out of her throat. “Do Iseemlike the sort of woman who would be interested in an affair?”
He canted his head to one side and considered the question, attempting to gauge its authenticity. Some people had the maddening habit of asking rhetorical questions which they did not expect to be answered, and then taking offense when he answered anyway. “Would you prefer for me to be polite or to be honest?”
“Oh, by all means, be honest.”
Well, she could hardly be angry with him when she had granted permission. “You go bymadame, notmademoiselle, which implies that you were, at one point, married. A widow, then.”
Her eyes—that lovely crisp blue, which would make her the envy of many a lady—narrowed ever so slightly. “Why must I be a widow?”
“You wear no ring, and haven’t for some time. I’d guess at least a year, likely more.” At her baffled expression, he continued, “Rings tend to leave a band about the finger when removed, due to the decreased exposure to the sun. It’s a common occurrence for widows to continue to wear their wedding band for some time even after their husband’s death, or to move it to the opposite hand. Out of sentimentality, I think. But you do neither at present—which would suggest that either you’re not particularly aggrieved by your husband’s death, or he has been gone long enough that whatever sentimentality that you might have held has faded enough that you do not feel an obligation to wear your ring any longer.” Or gloves, for that matter. The absence of a ring—and the telling mark left by one—would have been much more difficult to discern had she the habit of wearing gloves, which would have shielded the mark left by a ring, had she had one.
Her lashes flickered and she stood silently. He was not particularly adept at reading expressions, but he had studied her a good long while now, and he thought that this particular expression was meant to convey some sort of perplexity, or perhaps shock. “I was married,” she admitted at last. “And I am a widow. What makes you assume I would be amenable to an affair?”
“You watch the couples,” he said. “Just two days ago, there was a couple in the bakery at the same time as you, and you stared at them—far longer than anything or anyone else.” With that same expression she used when she gazed at the pastries stacked behind the counter—hunger, he supposed. It had taken him more than a moment to deduce the nature of it, to determine what had so fascinated her. “Perhaps you don’t miss your husband any longer, but you certainly miss at least some aspects of marriage.”
Her head tilted, a faint line etched between her brows. “You have been watching me for some time, then. Why?”
“Because you are interesting. Not English, though you pretend to be.” Her brows rose at this, adding a dramatic lift to the fine gold arches, her eyes widening along with them. “You pretend a terrible French accent on occasion—it’s a common enough occurrence, since those dress shops owned by Frenchwomen tend to command higher prices, even if the proprietress isn’ttrulyFrench. But you—I think youareFrench, though your English is faultless.”
“I’m not certain what it is I’m meant to say to that accusation,” she said, and he watched her swallow. A long, tense, awkward movement—one of the myriad he’d catalogued as expressions of guilt. “Even if IwereFrench—which I am not—Napoleon is still fresh in the memories of every Englishman. I imagine there’s a fair few that would pretend their heritage away, if they had the ability to do so.”
“Butyoudid,” he said. “I’m quite curious as to how. I’ve never met someone who has managed to erase an accent quite so thoroughly.”
