Kitabı oku: «Sapphire», sayfa 4
“Jessup.” The ruddy-faced man rose, his legs appearing a bit unsteady.
“Clyde, good to see you.” He clasped his friend’s hand and then moved closer to wrap his arm around Clyde’s shoulder. “I look forward all week to Fridays, just to see your ugly face.”
“And I the same.” Clyde grinned, taking his seat at the table covered with white linen and set with crystal.
The waiter caught Jessup’s eye as he sat down and headed for the bar when Jessup nodded.
“So how was your day, old friend? Not too tedious, I hope.”
“Not at all.” Jessup settled in the comfortable, high-backed brocade chair and stretched his legs out beneath the table. “I had the pleasure of meeting with the new Earl of Wessex.”
“Really?” Clyde set down his glass and leaned closer, always one for a bit of gossip. “They say he’s an American, a cousin of the last earl. Mrs. Barker’s brother Barton knows a business associate who’s dealt with him. In shipping, I think.” He chuckled, which wrinkled his aged face. “Astute businessman but a real bastard, he says.” His eyes crinkled. “And rumor has it that he’s quite a man with the ladies….”
Jessup glanced up as the waiter set down a glass of bourbon. One a night was all Jessup allowed himself, as he had promised his beloved Emma on her deathbed. In the grave or not, he would remain true to his promises—not just because he’d loved her, but because he feared if he didn’t, the old bird would punish him when he met her at the pearly gates.
“I don’t know. He seemed a pleasant enough chap.” Jessup shrugged.
Clyde stared shrewdly, still leaning on the table. “Really? That’s not what the tone of your voice says.”
Jessup took up his glass. “Well, I’ll confess he is an interesting character. Avery bold young man, very sure of himself.”
“Like all the Thixtons.” Clyde sat back with satisfaction and reached for his glass. “Well, except for Edward’s father, Charles. Did you know him? Now, there was a bastard.” He lifted his glass thoughtfully. “You know what they say about bad traits skipping a generation.”
“The American is a distant cousin, not in the direct family line.”
“Still, you know what they say.” Clyde smiled and lifted his glass higher in a toast. “To good friends.”
“Good friends,” Jessup echoed.
Clyde took a long sip before setting his glass down. “I already ordered the trout and parsnips. Should be along anytime.”
“Excellent.”
“And what did the American have to say when he discovered that what he inherited was mostly debt?”
Jessup frowned. He had suspected everyone in London society knew the state of Lord Wessex’s affairs when he passed away. They always knew. “You know very well I cannot reveal the details of the conversation I had with a client.”
“That bad, was it? They say he has a temper.”
Jessup folded his hands on his lap. “I saw no temper demonstrated in my office. Lord Wessex was a complete gentleman.” Not exactly a lie, Emma.
“Does that mean he hasn’t met the old biddy Countess of Wessex and her ugly ducklings yet? I hear they’re staying in town.”
“Oh dear,” Jessup mumbled, taking the linen napkin from his lap to wipe his mouth. “I sent him to the town house to stay, thinking the countess was still in the country.”
Clyde laughed and reached for his nearly empty glass. “Oh, to be a fly on that wall. Do you think she’s already proposed marriage between the American and her eldest shrew, or do you think she’ll lay her cap for him herself?” He winked. “She might just have it in her, you know. Some say it was the threat of scandal that made Edward marry her in the first place. Gossip she actually set in motion to ensnare him.”
“Oh dear,” Jessup muttered again. “Dear me, I’ve made a muck of this, haven’t I.”
“Charles.” Clyde waved to the waiter. “Another round for us both. I believe Mr. Stowe may be feeling a little faint,” he finished, highly amused.
Jessup laid his hand over the top of his glass. “Dear, dear me.”
“Stowe.”
Jessup saw the American striding toward him, looking none too pleased.
Jessup grabbed his napkin and pushed away from the table to stand up. “My lord.”
The Earl of Wessex was dressed handsomely in a black overcoat and white silk neckerchief over a black evening coat and striped white waistcoat. He carried his top hat in his hand, and was brushing back a wisp of dark hair that had fallen across his forehead.
“How…how kind of you to join me,” Jessup said. “Please, let me introduce you to—”
“They’re there, did you know that?” Blake demanded. “The countess and her daughters three, but it seemed like three hundred when they all assaulted me at once with their chatter and batting of eyelashes. I thought I’d suffocate from the scent of their rose toilet water.”
“Would…would you care to join me and my friend Mr. Barker for dinner? We’ve not yet been served.”
“What I want is to know is why you sent me to that town house knowing those women were there?” Blake demanded.
“I was not aware of that, my lord. I apologize for not checking again. Last week when I received the message that you’d be arriving, I had the town house in Mayfair opened up and aired and servants hired in anticipation of your arrival. The countess must have come to London since.”
Blake tightened his grip on his thoroughly wet hat and looked away, giving himself a moment to let his anger subside. They were in a dining room of one of the many gentlemen’s clubs in the city. This one appeared old and well-established, and though it was not as well-furnished as some he had visited in Boston and abroad, it did have a certain air about it. The scent of tobacco and hickory wood seemed to permeate the air of the dark-paneled rooms.
“I truly apologize for the inconvenience,” Mr. Stowe repeated, pulling himself up to his full height, which was still nearly a head shorter than Lord Wessex’s.
Blake scowled, but he was not as angry as he had been when he stormed out of the town house into the rain and had been unable to hail a carriage for a full block. “I suppose it could not be helped.”
“No, my lord, it could not be,” Stowe answered firmly. “If you wish, I shall bring about proceedings first thing tomorrow morning to have the countess removed from your property.”
Blake caught sight of the butler hovering in the doorway. “Get me a scotch,” he grunted.
“Certainly, my lord.” The man rushed forward. “Could I take your wet things now, my lord, and then bring you a meal, as well?”
Blake handed him his hat and the scarf and coat. “Thank you, but nothing to eat. Just the scotch. I’ve another engagement, but I think I’d best fortify myself before I go.”
“Yes, my lord.” Calvin bowed. “Just let me get you a chair, my lord.”
“I can get my own,” Blake grumbled, grabbing an upholstered chair from the nearest empty table. “Nice to make your acquaintance, Barker.” He placed the chair at the linen-set table and thrust out his hand to shake Barker’s. “I suppose you’re a barrister, too. You’ve got the same barreled abdomen as Stowe and a dozen like you. Comes from sitting behind that desk all day.”
“Yes, my lord.” Mr. Barker pumped Blake’s hand enthusiastically, and all three men took their seats.
“Damn it, tell me what the hell I’m to do now, Stowe. And don’t tell me it’s my prerogative to throw these women out on the street.” Blake gave his head a shake. “I knew I should never have made this journey. I knew it would be nothing but trouble.” He accepted the glass the bartender brought him and impolitely lifted it to his lips, not waiting for the other two men before he drank. “Tell me what you advise concerning the countess and her frog spawn, else they’ll be sleeping in your bed tonight, sir.”
After two scotches, Blake was able to catch a hackney—even in the rain—thanks to the butler at the men’s club. He arrived at the address of one of his business associates more than two hours beyond the engraved invitation’s specified time, but was nonetheless greeted by a flurry of activity and fuss. He had gained overnight status as a celebrity of sorts and everyone addressed him as Lord Wessex. The party was in celebration of his associate Mr. Todd Warrington’s daughter’s eighteenth birthday, but Blake barely gave her a moment’s notice beyond propriety’s perfunctory waltz. He preferred his women a little older, and certainly more experienced.
A brandy in his hand, Blake wandered out onto the granite balcony that overlooked a lush garden. The rain had stopped and a crescent moon had risen high in the sky. As he gazed upward he realized that the night sky was different here in Europe, different in a way that made him yearn for Boston.
“Good evening.”
Blake turned at the soft voice to see a woman close to his own age dressed in a pale pink gown, her light blond hair upswept in an elaborate coiffure, a heavy string of pearls hanging above a well-rounded bosom. He immediately understood the tone of her voice due to his many late-night balcony experiences, with women who stood alone in the darkness while a lively party ensued inside. They were sad women, vulnerable.
“Good evening,” he replied with a smile.
Hesitantly, she moved toward him, offering her hand. “Elizabeth Barclay…Mrs. Williams,” she corrected herself, as if on second thought.
“Blake Thixton.” He took her hand, kissing it…lingering. She smelled of lilacs and utter femininity.
“I know who you are, Lord Wessex.”
When he lifted his head, he saw that she was smiling at him. Not exactly a coy smile, but an honest one, a sad one. He had read her tone correctly.
“And I believe I know you, Mrs. Williams. New York, right? Your husband is Jefferson Williams, in iron?” He recalled meeting Williams once in New York City, an ugly man twice his wife’s age with an even uglier disposition.
“That’s correct.” She withdrew her bare hand; she wasn’t wearing gloves like all the other women.
“Your husband is here in London on business?”
She nodded, coming to stand beside him to gaze down into the garden below. She shivered, and Blake reached out to draw her matching silk wrap around her bare shoulders. When she turned, her mouth rested half open, as if longing to be kissed by someone younger than sixty.
Blake set his brandy on the balcony’s rail and drew her against him with the arm he had raised to cover her shoulders. She gasped and stiffened in surprise as he touched his lips to hers, but when his tongue entered her mouth, she surrendered.
Blake knew Elizabeth Williams had never made love to a stranger on a balcony, but he had done so many times. Holding her in his arms, covering her mouth, her neck, her breasts with hot kisses, he led her to the darkest corner of the balcony, beyond the musicians’ waltz and the bright gas lamps that flanked the double doors that led inside to the ballroom.
Elizabeth struggled for breath, clearly shocked by her reaction to him. He thrust his hand into the bodice of her pink gown and felt her nipples harden instantly at his touch. She moaned. She was starved for a man’s touch. He lowered his head, taking one nipple between his lips and tugged gently with his teeth.
She groaned aloud, leaning against the damp stone wall, both arms above her head in utter surrender to her need. Lifting her skirts without further preliminaries, he pulled aside her silk encumbrances, penetrated her roughly and deeply, and satisfied them both.
Only afterward, as he fastened his wool trousers and smoothed her silk skirts and bodice, did he see a single tear slip down her pale face.
“Don’t cry,” he murmured as he kissed her cheek.
“I…I’ve never done this before,” she said breathlessly.
“You’re a beautiful woman, a woman whose needs must be met—”
“Mrs. Williams, are you here?” called an older gentleman.
She flinched at the sound of the door opening onto the balcony.
Blake kissed her, whispering against her lips. “Come see me in Boston.”
By the time Mr. Jefferson Williams stepped onto the balcony to retrieve his wife, Blake was at the rail again, sipping his brandy, looking into the garden. If Williams saw him, he paid him no mind.
“Are you ready to go, Mrs. Williams? I have an early morning appointment.”
“Yes, of course, Mr. Williams.”
The hem of her gown almost brushed Blake’s polished boot as she glided past him. Either Mr. Williams didn’t see him or he didn’t care what his wife did on balconies with strangers.
Blake smiled. Yet another reason to be in no hurry to wed…
5
“Ah, there you are, ma chère.” Lucia swept into the bedchamber Sapphire and Angelique were sharing on the third floor of Lord and Lady Carlisle’s town house near Charing Cross, dressed for the afternoon in a pale green and lavender barege gown, gloves and a berib-boned straw bonnet. “Are you certain you won’t join Lady Carlisle and me for tea at Lady Morrow’s?”
“No, thank you, Auntie.” Sapphire glanced up from her book of Lord Byron’s poetry, trying to appear fatigued. “I’m afraid I’m still tired. My horseback ride this morning with Lord Carlisle was long and I think I’d rather just stay here and cozy up with my book.”
“Very well, puss.” Lucia sighed as she adjusted her new bonnet with its upturned brim that made her look years younger. “I can stay with you if you like, though. I don’t really want to go visit with Lady Morrow. Nearly a month on the ship with her was enough to last me a lifetime, but I was just going so we could stop at the Royal Exchange on the way home.”
Sapphire, wearing a ruffled, ribboned blue dressing gown, was seated in a chair under the window, her legs tucked beneath her. “Don’t be silly, Auntie. I wouldn’t want you to stay on my behalf, especially when you have the chance to shop.” She smiled mischievously.
“Well, I suppose Angelique will be here with you should you need anything.”
“Mmm-hmm,” Sapphire intoned, pretending to read again.
“Where is Angelique, anyway?”
“I believe she might be taking a walk in the gardens.” Sapphire licked her fingertip and turned the page of the book without looking up. “Or did she say she was going to the stables to see those new kittens again? I can’t recall.”
“Well, all right.” Lucia rested her hand on the glass doorknob. “You’re certain you’ll be fine?”
“Of course—now go and don’t worry about me. A little reading, perhaps a nap, and I’ll be fine by dinner.” Sapphire smiled sweetly.
“All right, dear.” Lucia opened the door to go, then turned back, her hand still on the doorknob. “I do hope this has nothing to do with my not allowing you to go immediately to Lord Wessex’s residence. I understand your impatience with wanting to meet your father, but we’ve not even been here a full day and there are channels to follow, society rules to oblige. This is far too important to make a muck of it.”
“I understand. You’re right, absolutely right.” Sapphire turned another page and reached for her teacup on the table beside her. “Have fun, and do buy yourself a hat. The one you’re wearing today is delightful.”
The door closed and Sapphire glanced up over the top of her book, listening as her guardian’s footsteps echoed in the hallway, then down the stairs. She took a deep breath, still listening, as she rose and set the book down, using a piece of wide hair ribbon to mark her place.
Walking to the bed, she knelt, pulled her mother’s old leather casket out and gently lifted the lid. Smiling tenderly, she drew her fingers over the brittle love letters given to her mother by her father when they were courting—letters she had reread a hundred times during the journey to London. Also inside was her mother’s locket, worn in her days in New Orleans, and a small curl of Sapphire’s auburn hair. Deeper in the small, leather-bound trunk she found pressed flowers, a tiny silver hairbrush that had been Sapphire’s as a baby and one of Armand’s old handkerchiefs. Digging beneath the lining at the bottom of the casket, her fingers found the velvet bag she sought. Sitting back on her knees, she opened the drawstrings of the bag and lifted the cold, smooth gem from the soft folds of the fabric.
Sapphire’s breath caught in her throat as she lifted the jewel toward the window and the sunlight struck it, lighting it with a blue brilliance that was almost blinding. After all these years, she was going to meet her father….
“But I think our meeting will not be what you imagined, Mama,” she said, pressing a kiss to the glittering jewel. “I’ve a thing or two to say to this man, I’ll warrant you.” She eased the sapphire into the black velvet bag, tightened the string and returned it beneath the casket’s worn burgundy velvet lining, so that even if a nosy servant did open the box, she would never suspect the treasure hidden inside. To the unknowing eye, the old, battered leather casket looked simply like a box of worthless female keepsakes.
Sapphire pushed the trunk back under the bed and got to her feet, her fingers untying the ribbons of her dressing gown. Confident Lucia was in Lady Carlisle’s carriage by now, she stripped off the gown to reveal the dress she’d bought as soon as they’d arrived in London, the dress she would wear when she confronted her father.
Sapphire placed the dressing gown on the bed and turned toward the floor-length oval mirror. The dress was actually of two pieces, a skirt and a front-buttoning jacket with a short basque in a brilliant jewel-blue challis. The sleeves were narrow, as was the latest fashion, and dainty new square-toed black leather boots peeked from beneath her petticoats.
She smiled at her reflection, knowing that the moment her father saw her eyes—one blue, one green like his—he would know who she was.
But she realized she had no time to waste if she was going to escape the house undetected, meet Lord Wessex, and then be back before Lucia and Lady Carlisle returned. She went in search of the bonnet she wanted to wear. It was her plan not to tell Lucia what she had done, and then, when they were formally introduced according to the plans Lady Carlisle and Lucia were making, there would be no scene. Once she had given him a piece of her mind privately—out of respect for her mother and Armand—she would be cordial, if not remote, publicly.
The door opened as Sapphire lowered her bonnet over her auburn curls, and she whipped around to see Angelique walk in, her dark hair mussed and the bodice of her peach-colored day gown slightly rumpled.
“What do you think you’re doing?” Angelique demanded.
Sapphire turned to the mirror, adjusting the hat before drawing the ribbons under her neck. “Me? What about you? What do you think you’ve been doing? Though why I bother to ask, I don’t know.”
Angelique sighed and threw herself on the bed. “His name is Robert and he’s the stable master’s eldest son. He thinks I’m the most beautiful woman he’s ever seen.”
Sapphire glanced doubtfully at her companion, then back at the mirror, attempting to achieve just the right tilt of her bonnet. “We spoke of this before we left Martinique, Angel,” she chastised. “You cannot kiss every young man you run into.”
“And why not? I won’t be in nearly as much trouble for kissing Robert if I get caught as you will be for sneaking off to Lord Wessex’s.”
“I’m not sneaking.” Sapphire spun around. “I’m walking right out the front hall, out the front door and hiring a hackney to take me to Mayfair.”
“Does Aunt Lucia know you’re going?”
Sapphire frowned as she opened the drawer of a chifforobe to retrieve a pair of scented travel gloves.
“Are you going to tell her where you’ve been when you return?”
Sapphire didn’t answer.
“Then you’re sneaking.”
“He’s my father, Angel. I will not have our first encounter in front of hundreds of people at some formal ball or another.”
“Let me go with you, then.”
“You’re not going with me.” Sapphire traversed the bedchamber to the door, tucking a stray pincurl beneath her bonnet. “You’re going to stay here and cover for me in case my father and I fall into a lengthy conversation and lose track of the time.” She glanced back at Angel. “Although I think that is highly unlikely, considering what I have to say to him.”
“Just don’t say I didn’t warn you. Aunt Lucia is going to be furious.” Angelique followed her into the hallway. “Are you nervous?”
Sapphire shook her head, biting down on the soft flesh of her inner lip. It was a lie, of course, even Angel knew it, but saying she wasn’t nervous somehow made her feel stronger, bolder. “Cover for me if you must, but don’t get yourself in trouble. I wouldn’t ask that you lie for me.” Sapphire gave her friend a quick peck on the cheek and, seeing the third-story hall was empty, hurried for the staircase, raising a gloved hand in farewell. “I’ll be back before you know it.”
London was noisy, smelly, dirty and deafening. There were so many sights to see—churches, elegant town houses, narrow shops, public buildings—that she couldn’t decide where to look next. Throngs crowded the streets: butchers’ boys carrying huge sections of beef, mutton and pork; ladies’ maids hurrying by on errands; beggars; plump merchants’ wives; clergymen; farmers in wooden clogs and straw hats; bewigged judges and uniformed soldiers, all threading their way past riders on horseback, hackneys, carriages, ale wagons and wicker carts, not to mention the stray dogs, pigs and occasional chicken. The carriage ride from Charing Cross to the fashionable West End of London was not nearly as long as Sapphire would have liked, and before she knew it her coachman reined in his horse in front of the marble steps of an elegant town house—one she had discreetly discovered was her father’s home when he was in the city.
“Would you like me to wait, miss?” the driver called from the high seat of his hackney.
Sapphire put on a false smile, lifted her chin a notch and tried to imagine how an earl’s daughter would behave around common working men. “No, thank you, sir. Good day.” She passed him what she hoped was the correct fee for his service.
He grinned, tugged at his forelock and nodded. “Thank’ee, miss.” Then he cracked his whip over the horse’s back and the hired carriage rolled away, leaving her no choice but to lift the ornate lion’s-head knocker on the paneled walnut door that was wide enough for two broad-shouldered men to pass through side by side.
The door was opened almost at once, startling her.
“May I help you?” a slender, middle-aged footman in a spotless black coat inquired, looking down at her through the lenses of his eyeglasses.
“Yes, thank you, sir.” Sapphire felt as if she couldn’t breathe as she stepped into the front hall without waiting to be asked. “I’m here to see Lord Wessex.” She was amazed how true and clear her voice sounded; it was without a hint of waver.
“And may I ask who is calling?”
Sapphire could tell by his tone of voice that he did not approve of her arrival without a proper invitation. In the day they had been in London, she had learned that English society life was quite different from the laissez-faire existence in Martinique among the wealthy French and English landowners. Here, there were rules concerning proper etiquette for visiting involving calling cards, morning invitations and evening invitations and even the length of sleeve appropriate. It was her lack of a proper calling card, presently at the printers, that probably made the footman suspicious of her.
“His daughter.” She smiled sweetly.
The footman could not hide his surprise. “Miss?”
“You ask who calls on Lord Wessex. I am his daughter.” She plucked off a glove, amazed at how easily she could fall into the role of Lady Sapphire Thixton. “Please tell him that I’m here. I haven’t but a moment.”
The butler gave a half bow, still looking as if he did not believe her. “Would you care to sit down while I see if his lordship is available?” He indicated a row of white and gold brocade chairs along one wall of the large, ornate receiving hall.
“No, thank you.” She hoped he would interpret her smile to mean he should hurry along.
“One moment, miss.”
He bowed again and disappeared through an arched doorway. The town house did not appear especially large from the outside, but she could now see that it was immense. Her father was not only titled, but obviously quite a wealthy man.
Sapphire exhaled slowly, pressing her hand to the knot in her abdomen, staring at the huge formal portraits of balding men that lined the walls.
Only a moment more, she told herself, and we’ll meet face-to-face.
Blake heard the first knock at the door to the study but ignored it. The knock came again and he peered up irritably from behind the desk that had belonged to the late Lord Wessex. “Yes, what is it that is so urgent?” he barked. “Did I not say less than half an hour ago that I did not wish to be disturbed unless the house was aflame? I don’t care what color livery the footmen wear today and I don’t care if we have the eel pie or the tripe soup because I will not be dining in this house tonight! Not if it were the last table of food on God’s earth,” he finished.
The paneled study door opened and the butler, Preston, stood at attention, his eyes downcast, until Blake completed his string of insults. “My lord.”
“Yes?” Blake groaned.
“There is someone to see you here, my lord.”
“Who?” He half rose from the chair, pressing the heels of his hands into the polished wood of the desk.
“A young lady, my lord, who says…”
“She says what, Preston? Come, now, I grow old before your eyes.”
“She says she is your daughter, my lord.”
“My daughter?” Blake exploded. “I haven’t got a damn daughter. What in God’s name—” He broke off before completing the sentence when he realized what was going on.
Word apparently spread fast in London when it came to inheritances, and people had been pouring out of the woodwork all week, claiming the previous earl owed them money. Perhaps a few were owed, considering the state of Edward Thixton IV’s accounts, but mostly these scavengers were on his doorstep hoping to take advantage of a grieving widow or an aged, addlepated heir. “Would you like me to turn her away, sir?”
Blake thought for a moment as he tightened the tie of the silk dressing gown he wore over a pair of silk trousers. The earl’s daughter? At least this claim was more inventive than an unpaid receipt for a wig or an evening coat. “No, no, Preston, I’ll take care of this one myself.” He wasn’t properly clothed to receive a caller, but he didn’t care.
“Right this way, miss,” the footman said as he led Sapphire down a hall and into a receiving parlor.
She couldn’t help but take in the room, the walls painted a pale green, the heavy drapes in stripes of a complementary hue. The furniture was old but well kept and far more attractive and elegant than some of the newer styles she had seen in the Carlisles’ home. She sighed, then whispered to herself, “I’m here, Mama, at last.”
“His lordship will be in directly,” the footman said, backing through the doorway and closing the double pocketed mahogany doors behind him.
Sapphire turned toward one wall to study a large seascape hung in a gilt frame. She could just make out the name E. Thixton scrawled in the bottom right corner of the painting. It was really quite good. Had her father painted it? Taking a step closer, she admired the bold strokes of blue and green that seemed to bring the sea pounding against the rocky shore to life.
The doors behind Sapphire slid open and she turned.
For a moment, Blake found himself speechless. Preston had said it was a girl come to call, claiming to be the daughter of the Earl of Wessex, but he had fully expected a malnourished chit with bad teeth, dressed in a cheap gown and ugly hat.
But standing before him was a full woman with glossy dark red hair, an expensive, fashionable gown and eyes he would fantasize about for many nights to come. She had the creamiest, most luscious skin, with a sprinkling of freckles across her straight nose and a charming chin with the slightest cleft. But it was her mouth, even more than her shocking eyes or lustrous hair, that mesmerized him most. Hers was the mouth of a courtesan—perfectly shaped with a thin upper lip and a full, sensuous lower lip, a mouth his own suddenly ached to taste.
Only when she blinked was Blake jolted back to reality.
“What do you think you’re doing?” he demanded.
“Pardon me?” she replied angrily, her mind racing in confusion. He was young, certainly too young to be her father, who would be close to fifty. Who was this rude man and what was he doing in her father’s house?
“You heard me,” he said as he strode in. He was a shockingly handsome man, perhaps ten or twelve years older than she was, with a shock of ebony hair and the most intense brown eyes she had ever seen.
“I suppose I should ask you the same thing.” She took a step toward him, lifting her chin as she crossed her arms over her fitted jacket.
“I don’t know who you are or what you want but I will not tolerate any false claims from fortune hunters or thieves. Now, whatever you might believe is owed to you will be paid, if it is indeed owed to you,” he said. “I will provide you with the name and location of my barrister and all bills will be submitted to him and only him. I’ll not pay a pence until your claim is investigated.”
Sapphire stepped back. The man’s words didn’t make sense. Who was he calling a fortune hunter and what bills was he talking about?
“What have you to say for yourself, young lady?”
The stranger strode across the room. He was so close, she could smell his shaving lotion and the masculine scent of his skin.
“Who are you?” she asked. “I’m looking for Lord Wessex, the Earl of Wessex who owns this house.”
