Page 105 of The Rogue's Last Scandal
Her skin rippled. He was dangerous, this Kincaid. As was Lord Shaldon. As was Charley. And probably the man in the chair. Not to her, not as long as she stayed in their light. If she stepped out of it...
They heard her approach and rose, tall men all of them. The visitor turned.
Her heart all but stopped—here was another faker. “I know you,” she said.
A smile quirked his lips. “And I hope you are enjoying your fine bedchamber, miss.” He spoke with an underlay of the east side.
“Mr. Cooper.”
He shook his head. “I am sorry for my deception.”
Ah now, his speech was alltonnyMayfair.
“I am Farnsworth.”
Farnsworth? This man had organized workmen in her bedchamber at Kingsley House, hanging paper, varnishing floors, burnishing furniture, fixing windows.
He had sought her out several times, changing the plans to her liking and graciously taking her Ladyship’s threats of nonpayment at the results. He had befriended Graciela. He had talked to her.
And just as he was entertaining Lady Kingsley’s dreams of a grander redecorating of the rest of the house, he was gone. Shortly after, word came that Papa had died, and a new man had had to be contracted for draperies and paint and wall hangings.
“Farnsworth,” she said again, and disliked that her voice shook. He had kept his identity a secret. She was sure the Kingsleys had not known him. But why?
The answer crept over her. He did not trust them. He was spying on them.
Or—on her?
She wobbled and straightened herself. Charley had not stepped up to join her and she must steady her own self. “You left.”
The man called Farnsworth took her hand. “Please sit. Charles, pull that chair over.” He helped her onto the cushioned seat. “Some sherry, I think, Charles.”
Charley’s frown buoyed her. He went to do Farnsworth’s bidding, as he had done for Mrs. Windle the night Graciela had escaped.
When she looked, Lord Shaldon was back in his chair, his lips turned up ever so slightly.
Dios. She took the proffered glass and only touched it to her lips before setting it away. She would need all her wits about her even among these so-called friends.
“Word came last winter. Napoleon’s health was failing. A dreadful voyage, St. Helena is. Have you journeyed that far south, my dear?”
He was making small talk, and being most deceptive. He’d not had time to travel that far and come back. Was this how spies questioned their quarry?
She nodded. “Yes, further, actually. Not on that side of the Atlantic, though. It is a trip of several months.” They had traveled around Cape Horn to Valparaiso, and then north, and more than once. She had been but a child the first time, and the storms had been terrifying. “I have never been so cold in my life, that is, until I came here.”
“I’m sorry.” Farnsworth’s eyes were a velvety brown. He was younger than Lord Shaldon, younger even then her father, she would guess. A bit of gray showed above his ears, but the lines on his face hadn’t settled. A handsome enough man he was, with the kind of face that would mold into any disguise.
At his age, he might have offered for her himself if he were unmarried. However, Mr. Cooper’s interest had never been amorous. Now, as then, he was all kindness.
“Your father counted that family pride and generous access to your trust funds would keep you and the child safe. Nevertheless, he did not entirely trust Lord Kingsley and his lady. Her connections have always been—questionable.”
“Gregory Carvelle is her cousin.”
“Indeed. When I left, the child seemed well cared for by your servants, and you were outfitted well. I made sure that your rooms were the first stare.”
She swallowed a lump. The rooms had been a beautiful refuge, for a while. “Her ladyship never stopped complaining about the changes, but when the news came about my father, she took those rooms.”
“Good God,” Charley muttered.
Farnsworth’s mouth firmed.
