Page 42 of Her Notorious Rake
Gemma Hayesworth
She blotted the ink dry and tiptoed to the door, opening it as quietly as she could. Outside in the hall, Rose stood, awaiting her next order or request. “Miss?”
“Rose, could you see that this is delivered posthaste.” Gemma glanced around and lowered her voice to a whisper. “To Lord Blakemore?”
“Of course, Miss.”
Rose took the note and scurried away down the hall until she was out of sight, and Gemma returned inside her room, leaning against the door heavily.
Chapter 20
Dalton would have slept in late if it weren’t for the knock on his door and Wilson entering, announcing that Uncle Ernest wished to have a private word with him in the library. Dalton groaned as he rolled over onto his stomach, pulling the blankets over his head.
“What does the old lout have to say?” he muttered into his pillow.
After ten minutes, he roused and with Wilson’s assistance, he dressed.
Someone knocked on the door and Wilson hastened to answer it. He lingered there a few moments, speaking to a footman in a low voice, before he returned to Dalton before the mirror. “A note for you, my lord,” he announced. “From a Miss Hayesworth.”
Dalton snatched it out of Wilson’s hand and unfolded it, leaving the mirror to perch on the windowsill. A smile tugged at his mouth as he read it. Her humor was unmistakable, clever. He read it several times over before tucking it into the inside of his waistcoat pocket, drawing in a shaky breath. “Fetch me my maroon waistcoat, Wilson. And the matching coat.”
“Of course, my lord,” Wilson nodded. He pulled those items from the wardrobe and laid them neatly upon the bed. Dalton began to readjust his cravat. Lately it had become tight around his neck, nearly suffocating. Especially around Gemma Hayesworth.
“Going out, my lord?” Wilson inquired as he lifted the maroon coat to Dalton’s shoulders, helping him push his arms into the sleeves.
“Yes. When we are done, have my uncle informed that Iwon’t be able to meet him this morning. I have more important matters to attend to.”
“Yes, my lord.”
Dalton examined himself in the mirror, turning this way and that. The color maroon suited his complexion, the color of his hair, and his eyes. And today of all days, he wished to appear his best.
Especially since he intended to call upon Miss Hayesworth. He had not made such a call in years.
“What do you think?” He turned to Wilson, holding out his hands.
“I think that a black silk cravat would do better.”
“I think so too,” Dalton grinned. He waited, struggling against a surge of impatience, as Wilson removed his white cravat and replaced it with the black silk neckerchief.
Once he’d drawn on his boots, polished that morning by Wilson, he grabbed his hat and cloak off the bed and hurried downstairs to the front door. There, his uncle cornered him.
“Where do you think you are going?” he seethed, grasping Dalton by the arm.
Dalton tried to pull his arm away. “Out.”
“Out where?” Uncle Ernest glared at him, mouth a flat line.
“That is hardly your concern, uncle.”
“Is it not? Your comings and goings become more frequent by the day. Is that not a reason for apprehension?”
Dalton’s lip curled with distaste. He jerked his arm again, this time succeeding in freeing it.
“Good day, uncle,” he said under his breath, before opening the door and slipping out onto the sidewalk.
A carriage awaited him on the street, and once in it, he rapped the ceiling to let the driver know to take off.
The drive to Philippa Kenway’s home did not take long, as it was in a fashionable neighborhood adjacent to the one whereBlakemore Manor was situated. He lit his pipe, taking several draws of it to calm his fluttering nerves, until at last the carriage rolled to a stop. The footman opened his door, and he stepped out, pausing on the walk to gaze up at the Kenway house.
