Page 118 of The Viscount's Seduction
“No,” Bakeley said. The man was ape drunk.
“My son is right. Get something to eat. You don’t need to live like this. Come see me when you’re ready to work.”
At the door, Fox’s voice stopped them. “My Lord,” he said, and Bakeley caught the hard note.
Shaldon only waited.
“I...became acquainted with Hollister, you know, some time back. Not terribly useful, but I ran into him recently and he invited me for a drink. While I was with him, your man visited his quarters. I had the floor drawing with me.”
“Thank you, Fox.”
“I shall send over a watercolor in repayment.”
Shaldon nodded, his face a shade grayer as he exited.
“That money will be a down payment on a portrait of his lordship,” Bakeley said. “And you and I will talk more about the bespectacled girl in your picture.”
The coach ride seemed interminable, with Bakeley’s nerves stretched so tight they might burst from his skin. At this fashionable hour, when they hit Mayfair, traffic slowed. It was less than a mile to their townhouse, but a creeping mile it would be.
Anxiety gnawed at him. Perhaps the floor artist was Donegal, and perhaps he was not. How much could they trust Fox?
And, he reminded himself, they had a houseful of able servants to protect the women there.
“So, you employed a colonial spy to paint your family,” Bakeley said.
Shaldon’s hand tightened around his cane. “He would say he’s never been a colonial. He was born after that war ended.”
Father had dodged his question, but of course, the answer was an obvious one.
“Did he originally spy for the Americans?”
“He stopped here on his way to Paris to study art. And yes, to spy for the Americans. But he was not enthralled with the French version ofliberté, nor with Napoleon.”
“Yet he went back.”
“It was necessary.”
“Do you trust him?”
“He did me a good turn.”
The coach shuddered to yet another stop, and Bakeley reached for the door latch. “I’ll go the rest of the way on foot.”
Shaldon called out to one of the grooms, and the man peeled off the back of the coach. Bakeley heard the pounding steps behind him as he raced down the nearest mews.
He must get to her before Father’s web entangled her any further.
Sirena’s skinrippled as fingers trailed along her neck. A quiver went down her spine and through her legs all the way to her trembling toes.
Help would be along soon. She must play this out. She must stall this man, whoever he was.
She squeezed her eyes shut, dredged up some courage, crafted a hurried plan. The man was looking for information on Jamie, Shaldon had said.
Feather-brained, she would be. A muffle-headed blonde lassie.
She squeaked and jumped up, scooting away from him. “Goodness. Goodness, you startled me.” She pressed a hand to her chest. “Well, and why not use the door?” She batted her eyes and dredged up some tears that were all too real. “But, oh, never mind. Oh dear. There’s a fine brandy on the sideboard there. I shall just pour us a dram...Jamie.”
A big hand clamped on her shoulder. The same hand that had been raising her gooseflesh.
