Page 26 of Burning Secrets of a Lady's Pen
“I’m sure,” she said, despite the fact that she was very much not. “The hotel will have a carriage I can hire if I need it.” It was a reputable hotel, at least, if somewhat out of the way of theton’spreferences. But that was all the better for the business that was to be conducted inside of it.
“I’ll be at Barney’s,” Spencer reminded her after a long pause.
“And?” Imelda pressed, twitching her dress into shape as she got ready to get out of the gig.
Spencer grimaced. “And if anyone asks, I dropped you off down the street for a spot of light shopping.” The rehearsed words were bitter just from how he said them.
Imelda smiled, though, reaching across the short distance to squeeze his hand gratefully before she got down out of the gig and took a deep breath. She needed to hurry. She knew if she lingered there by the entrance that Spencer might find another question for her or, worse, she might lose her nerve.
It was with her head held high that she entered the hotel, hoping that the wig she’d chosen and the way that she’d done her makeup had really made her as unrecognizable as the mirror had made it seem. She still looked enough like herself, she thought, if one were to stare hard enough. But the dark auburn of the wig and how high it was piled on top of her head in conjunction with all of the rouge and face paint that she had so carefully applied were deterrent enough for any that didn’t know her well enough.
She hoped.
“Excuse me,” Imelda said, putting a faint French accent on her words before she could even consider the need of it. “I’m looking for the Baron of Salthouse,” she told the concierge. “Would you happen to know where I might find him?”
The concierge was a pinched-looking man, his beady eyes darting over Imelda quickly before one eyebrow rose. “May I inquire as towhois looking for him?”he asked pointedly.
Imelda felt the skin underneath all that rouge heat. “Lady Guinevere Boucher,” she answered quickly, her ‘French’ accent picking up slightly over the way she rolled her words.
“Lady—”
“Lady Guinevere!” A familiar voice cut the concierge off before he could repeat her words. “How lovely to see you. Forgive me, I didn’t see you come in.”
Corin appeared out of nowhere, placing himself between Imelda and the concierge and putting her hand on his arm before Imelda could even get a good look at him. He smiled charmingly at the man in front of them, his nose wrinkled slightly.
“This is the guest I was waiting on,” Corin explained off-handedly. “If you wouldn’t mind, I’m just going to lead her over to the table I reserved in the tearoom.”
“Of course, my lord,” the concierge agreed quickly, all but bowing as he gestured them forward. “I’ll send staff to you shortly.”
Imelda could barely process the difference in tone between how he had been addressed and herself. Corin whisked her off without so much as another word, leading her from the entryway through an archway some distance off as he shook with silent laughter.
Imelda knew it was at her expense.
“I don’t know what you expected,” she muttered peevishly. “I could hardly be seen alone with you out and about! And I couldn’t think of a more French name on the spot.” She hadn’t even thought of what she might introduce herself as right up until the moment that she had needed to do so.
Corin exhaled roughly, stopping at a corner table and pulling a seat out for her as he grinned over at her. “And it had to be French?” he asked silkily, ignoring the way she glared at him as she took her seat and, pushing her into place, still silently laughing. “Because of how dark this wig you’re wearing is or on account of how dark the color on your cheeks?”
Imelda could have sworn he had almost tweaked said wig before he walked around the table to sit down herself.
Heaven help her, but just being near to him made her feel like her skin was on fire.
She sniffed, shrugging one shoulder with as much nonchalance as she could manage. “You don’t have too terribly long to suffer being seen with me in this getup,” she responded as if his words hadn’t cut her.
Corin sobered immediately, something passing within his dark eyes as he leaned forward. “My apologies, I didn’t mean to imply…You still look lovely.” He paused there, his voice catching slightly, and Imelda could almost convince herself that he meant it.
“We are hardly risking this to discuss my looks one way or another.” And damn him for making her even think about that. Her cheeks heated slightly as a staff member came to the edge of the table, a kettle and a spread of fruits and crackers put between them before they hurried off once more.
She just hoped that they hadn’t heard what she had been saying. For how public of a meeting place that Corin had chosen he had managed to get them far enough away to still manage a greater degree of privacy than she had originally imagined.
“You are right, of course.” Corin was all business once more, like his teasing had never even happened.
Which should have made Imelda happy…so why didn’t it?
“This new story you were talking about, the gothic novel set in the moors of Scotland…You brought samples with you, of course? Tell me more about it.”
Imelda was already handing over the sheaf of papers that she had brought with her as he spoke.
“It’s a gothic romance, as I’m sure you’ve already surmised.” She spoke quickly as he leafed through the papers, his brows drawn. “Lady Evelina inherited land in Scotland, the home of her former lover…and well, the rest…” Imelda shrugged.
