Page 69 of Her Impeccable Scoundrel
He set his forehead against hers and sighed.
“Blythe. You must know, from the first day I met you?—”
“Shhh.” She set a finger to his lips. It had been just enough of a distraction to bring her to her senses. “I think that you are a good man, Graeme, the sort of man who should christen the earl’s new bed with your countess, not Archie’s, when you choose one.” She untangled herself from his embrace. “You must go, and I must go.”
“What if the countess I choose was once Archie’s countess?”
Marriage? Marriage to a good man where there was respect and tenderness and friendship… She shook her head. The risk was too great. “I’m too old. Too much has happened. You would come to regret it.”
“What I regret happened fifteen years ago. I’m not that callous, judgmental boy anymore, and I know what I want.”
“No, Graeme. It was my fault, my vanity, my indiscretion. We’ve already discussed this.” She turned to leave.
“I want you, Blythe.” His voice stopped her in the doorway, tempting her to turn back to him. “I’ll return home as soon as this meeting is completed and we’ll have Morley and Jarrow join us. Your brother as well. Will you promise not to go back there? Will you wait for me?”
He knew her well enough to know she was thinking of gathering up Will as soon as he awakened and returning to Soho.
She nodded. “I’ll wait for you.”
For a while, anyway.
The address in Mayfair proved to be a private club. A very private one, inasmuch as he’d never heard of it, frequented by the upper echelon of men in trade, as well as titled and untitled gentlemen, most of whom were religious dissenters.
The porter escorted him to a private meeting room where attendees had already assembled.
Jarrow was not at some physician’s office, he was here. As was Morley. They stood, heads bent together, talking to a gentleman of middling years, while a younger man hovered nearby—Emory, the Chilcombe solicitor’s clerk.
Could the other gentleman be the Chilcombe solicitor, Mr. Fleming?
Graeme had had many surprises in his years of attending gatherings of diplomats and aiding his majesty’s representatives on the British side of negotiating tables. Those experiences helped him to hide his shock when a hawk-nosed man with graying hair turned from a conversation with Sir William Taylor and a younger gentleman to glance his way.
The Lord Lieutenant of Hampshire had made a personal appearance.
He stiffened his spine and went to greet the duke and remind him of their previous acquaintance years earlier in Paris when he’d been a lowly aide fetching and carrying.
Hermione proved to be excellent at playing Hearts, as well as an excellent teacher to Nicholas and a lady willing to spend hours entertaining both children.
While Blythe paced the drawing room and listened to the friendly chatter of Hermione coaching Nicholas about which card to play, and Coralie about wagering her farthings, out in the hall, Adwick made frequent trips to the front door sending away the nosy visitors wanting to know why she and Graeme had gone to the country and whether they had returned. Adwick assured them that neither she nor Graeme was at home. Since word of their late return to town had apparently already spread, the bolder callers, like Mrs. Netley, scoffed a bit before leaving. Adwick had not needed the help of the hired Runner hovering out of view to assist—so far.
Today, there were three guards on duty, one in the back garden, one at the front of the house, and one roaming the corridors.
She was glad for the Runners. Adwick was no pugilist, and other than Clive, their male servants were older. Nor would her brother Will be any help today.
When a servant reported that Will was still abed, Blythe had visited him. He hadn’t got up because he hadn’t been able to. After a night spent following Lord Vernon to his various haunts, even drinking with the fellow, he’d been too sick.
She’d wager her next quarter’s income that Lord Vernon had tampered with his drink.
Will had patted his bedside and asked her to fill him in on the latest developments. She told him about their hurried trip, the children’s presence, and the morning’s early unsuccessful attempt to find Lunetta.
“Demme, but I would that you hadn’t gone there, Blythe. No place for a lady like you. And you decided to confide in Chilcombe?” Will asked. “Might as well, I suppose. He’s promised me on his honor that he’ll support your claim to Bluebelle Lodge.”
Whether she could truly trust Graeme remained to be seen, but for now, she had no other choice.
She left Will with the footman, who delivered a tray with the housekeeper’s concoction for curing a hangover. Will promised to join them in the drawing room as soon as the floor stopped moving, which he hoped would be soon.
The drawing room mantel clock chimed—again—and Blythe rose and paced to the window facing onto the street. The gray day outside mirrored her emotions. How quickly would Jarrow and Morley arrive for this meeting Graeme wanted to hold with them?
Would Graeme keep her secret?
