Page 27 of When the Rogue Returns
“She’s not here today, I’m afraid.”
Victor’s blood began to pound in his ears. Surely she hadn’t fled, damn her.
“I’m her partner, Angus Gordon,” the old man went on. “Perhaps there is somethingIcould help you with?”
“It’s a personal matter, actually,” Victor snapped. “Where is she?”
“She’ll be back tomorrow,” Gordon said blandly. “Perhaps you should return then.”
“Back?” She reallyhadfled. “Did she leave town?” he demanded, throwing caution to the winds. “Where did she go? Why?”
Gordon’s eyes narrowed. “And who might you be?”
Victor forced himself to calm down. He would get nowhere by antagonizing the man. Time to change tacks, and soothe Gordon’s suspicions.
Somehow he managed a smile. “I’m Victor Cale, cousin to the Baron Lochlaw.” Lochlaw was a popular figure around here. “Since Mrs. Franke isn’t here to answer my questions, perhaps I could speak with you about her?”
“Ah, yes. The Lochlaws’ cousin. I’ve been hearing about you.” Gordon looked him up and down, dissecting him with a thoroughness generally reserved for dead frogs. “You roused quite a flurry of gossip with all your questioning of the shopkeepers on Saturday.”
“I’m merely concerned about his lordship’s future. I want to know what sort of woman he has taken up with.”
“And of course your interest is purely selfless, borne of naught but your concern for the baron,” Gordon said with a faint Scottish brogue.
Victor ignored the dollop of acid in it. “Exactly.”
Gordon stared hard at him. Then he shouted, “Mary Grace!” and a slender young woman hurried into the shop through the door in the back. “Could you watch the front for a while, lassie? I’ve business to conduct with this gentleman.”
“Certainly, Uncle,” she mumbled into her chest, which wasn’t hard to do, since she stood hunched over as if afraid someone might see her freckled face. She was also doing her best to hide her flaming red hair, for it was scraped up beneath a mobcap, with only a few curls peeking out to betray its color.
As Gordon led Victor into the back, which did indeed prove to be a sort of workshop, he murmured, “Mary Grace is my brother’s granddaughter. She comes to the shop to get away from her plague of a mother, who’s always going on about her making a splash in good society.”
They passed through a labyrinth of locked cabinets and worktables, skirted a large furnace, and finally entered a cozy little room containing a leather-topped mahogany partner’s desk with brass fittings, two Windsor chairs on either side of the desk, a large cabinet, and a small fireplace.
Gordon closed the door, then gestured to one of the chairs. As Victor took a seat, the man went to stoke up the fire. From behind, Gordon resembled a priest with a tonsure, his gray curls surrounding a circlet of shiny bald pate.
“So,” the old fellow said, “you want to know about Mrs. Franke.”
“I understand that she and the baron have a... more than friendly relationship.”
“Humph.” Gordon sat in the chair opposite the desk from Victor. “You’ve been talking to his lordship’s mother.”
“What makes you think that?” As Tristan was fond of saying,Answer a question with a question if you don’t want to answer with the truth.
“Her ladyship is obsessed with getting the poor man out of Mrs. Franke’s so-called clutches. Don’t know why. Mrs. Franke is a fine lass. The young baron would be lucky to have her.”
“But would she be lucky to havehim?” Victor countered, before he caught himself.
“Why should you care?”
Victor suppressed a curse, aware of the old man’s gaze on him.Steady now, you dolt. Stop letting your emotions rule your head.“I don’t. But I confess I was wondering what she could possibly see in the man. Aside from the obvious.”
“The obvious?” Gordon asked.
“His title. His fortune. His connections.”
“Ah.” Gordon’s gaze chilled, though when he spoke again, his tone was mild. “How well do you know Mrs. Franke?”
“I just met her yesterday.” That was certainly true. “Mrs. Franke” hadn’t existed for him until then.
