Читать книгу Regency High Society Vol 7: A Reputable Rake / The Heart's Wager / The Venetian's Mistress / The Gambler's Heart - Diane Gaston - Страница 8

Two days later Sloane sat at his desk, gazing at the paper his secretary placed in his hand.

‘Culross Street?’ He glanced at the young man standing before him.

‘It is an ideal situation, sir.’ Mr Elliot spoke earnestly. ‘Completely furnished, and in a manner that is presentable—if not in the latest style. There are servants eager to retain employment, and the owner is done up and desperate for cash.’

Sloane read the paper again. ‘But Culross Street?’

Mr Elliot’s brow wrinkled. ‘I assure you, Mr Sloane, Culross Street is a very sought-after address. I took the liberty of making the agreement in your name—’

The young man stepped back as Sloane half-rose from his chair. ‘You made the agreement?’

‘As you gave me liberty to do, sir,’ Elliot reminded him, with an indignant lift of his chin. ‘If we had delayed, another buyer would have snapped it up, and I vow there were no other suitable properties in all of Mayfair. None that would allow you to move in directly.’

Sloane sat back down. Culross Street was a small one, to be sure, but there must be at least a dozen town houses on it. What were the odds of being too close to Miss Hart? He began to calculate the numbers, as if this were a game of cards, but caught himself and waved his hand in impatience.

Decidedly easier to ask. ‘Elliot, I am acquainted with a resident on that street. A Miss Hart. Can you tell me where this house of yours—I mean, mine—is situated in relation to hers?’

The young man beamed. ‘Oh, yes, Miss Hart. She would be right next door.’

Sloane groaned.

‘Is something amiss, sir?’ Elliot blinked, clearly baffled.

Sloane shook his head. ‘No. No.’

Nothing amiss. He was merely moving next door to a single lady, the cousin of the woman he intended to marry. What could be amiss? Only that someone was certain to attribute some lascivious meaning to the event and spread gossip. Why could Elliot not have put him next to some widowed viscountess or some such?

‘You gave me authority to make this decision,’ Elliot added defensively.

‘Yes, yes.’ Sloane rubbed his face and straightened in his chair. ‘Well, it is settled and I am sure you have done well. We did not foresee this peculiar circumstance.’

‘I have met the lady, sir, and she is perfectly respectable, I assure you.’

‘You met her?’

‘Quite by chance. I could not see any difficulty there.’

No, but Sloane could. He ought to have been wise enough to warn Elliot not to place him in any close proximity to a single lady of any age. But the cousin of his intended? Miss Hart, of all ladies.

Nothing could be done. He leaned back in his chair, balancing it on its back legs. ‘When do I take possession?’

Elliot brightened. ‘Today, if you like. The papers will be here for you to sign this morning.’

The chair nearly slipped out from under him. ‘Give me a day or so. You may take possession today, however, and make sure all is in order for me.’ Sloane needed a few days, if for nothing else, to alert the Cowdlins of his move. Would Lady Hannah dislike him living nearly in the pocket of her cousin? He was certain her father would.

‘Come with me, Lucy.’ Morgana practically had to drag the maid out of doors into the fine spring weather. She’d invented the excuse of desiring a walk in the park and needing a companion. Though it was not the fashionable hour, the park would be busy with other townspeople this fine day. A lady walking with her maid would not be remarked upon.

In some ways Morgana felt more kinship with her servants than with the few family members she possessed. The Cowdlins, including Hannah and Varney, treated her more as an obligation than a beloved relation, and her grandmother, the dear lady, could not even remember who Morgana was. It had not been much different growing up with her father. Baron Hart was always much too busy with some diplomatic crisis or another to attend to a little girl. As a result, Morgana had always formed attachments to the others around her, servants and governesses, short-lived as they were with her father’s frequent moves. It seemed natural for Morgana to consider Lucy’s problems as her own. She hoped to brighten the girl’s mood and encourage her to stay.

But Lucy tied the ribbons of her bonnet with a desultory air. Determined to be cheerful, Morgana led the girl to the pavement. As they neared the corner of the street, a gentleman approached.

He tipped his hat. ‘Good afternoon, Miss Hart.’

It was Mr Sloane’s secretary. ‘How do you do, Mr Elliot. How nice to see you again.’

Mr Elliot’s eyes wandered to Lucy, and she, in turn, regarded him shyly from beneath her long lashes. Morgana did so like this young man. His expression towards the maid held nothing but kindness.

‘My maid and I are going for a walk in the park.’

He touched the brim of his hat again. ‘I will not detain you.’

Lucy lagged behind Morgana as they crossed the street and turned towards one of the park entrances. As Morgana had anticipated, there were plenty of people enjoying the fine day. Governesses letting their charges run about while they passed time flirting with young men. Shopgirls and workmen eyeing each other with interest. There was even the occasional curricle and cavalryman exercising his horse.

They walked in silence for a very long time. As they reached the Serpentine and stood gazing at the water, Lucy spoke. ‘I think I’ll be leaving your house, miss.’

Morgana turned to her. ‘Oh, no, Lucy!’

The girl kept her gaze on the water. ‘I cannot stay. I’ve been thinking about it all the time. I must go.’

‘You cannot.’ She felt like grabbing Lucy and shaking sense into her. ‘The life you seek is no life for any girl.’

Lucy lifted a hand to her brow. ‘Lots of girls is in it, miss. I heard of a madam who treats her girls fair well.’

A madam. Morgana cringed at the thought of Lucy in such an establishment, where men came to pay for favours. Neither love nor the creation of children would enter into the transaction. Why, Lucy might catch a disease, one that could kill her.

Morgana had learned about such things when she kept her father’s house in Spain. She’d overheard plenty from the men who called upon her father and from servants’ talk. And, of course, the memory of the Portuguese girl always hovered in the recesses of her mind.

She wanted to spare Lucy such a life, but what did she have to offer her in exchange? A life of hard work, no matter how kind she was as an employer?

‘Lucy, what if I could procure some other sort of work for you?’

‘Like what, miss?’ Lucy asked, with little interest.

Morgana thought for a moment. It would be difficult to convince anyone to hire a maid to do another sort of job, but she could at least try. ‘In a shop, perhaps.’

‘And stand on my feet all day? I could not do it.’ Lucy shook her head.

Morgana racked her brain to think of other jobs. For every one, Lucy gave an excuse.

A nurse? Lucy hated sick people.

A governess? Worse than a maid, Lucy vowed. Besides she was not good at learning.

A seamstress? It would ruin her eyes.

‘What if I set you up in a business, like a shop of some sort?’ Morgana was grasping at straws, but she could probably get her father to release enough money for a little shop.

‘I cannot do sums, Miss Hart,’ Lucy said. ‘Besides, m’mind’s made up on the matter. I’m going to go to the bawdy house.’

Morgana took Lucy’s hands in hers and made the girl face her. ‘I believe you are making a very bad mistake, Lucy.’ She spoke in a calm but firm voice. ‘It is not too late to live a virtuous life. I am happy to employ you and keep you as part of my household. I will not make you work too hard. In time you will meet a young man who will want to marry you—’

‘No!’ Lucy wrenched out of her grasp. ‘There is no marriage for a girl like me. I want to go to the madam. She pays her girls well, I heard. That is what I want, Miss Hart. I want money and pretty dresses.’

It was no use. Morgana stared at Lucy for a long time, but could think of nothing else to say. Finally, she turned back in the direction they had come. ‘Let us make our way home.’

They returned to the path. Walking silently a few steps in front of Lucy, Morgana waited while a carriage rumbled past.

Through the carriage window she spied the auburn-haired woman she’d seen at the opera. Harriette Wilson. The woman laughed gaily and happened to turn towards Morgana, giving her a smile of recognition and of something else—something rather smug and defiant, Morgana thought.

Next to Miss Wilson, Morgana spied a gentleman, but she could not see who it was. The carriage, however, was an expensive one, and the horses, matched bays, were very fine indeed.

After the carriage passed, Morgana could not make herself move. She was frozen by a thought flying through her head.

‘Miss Hart?’ Lucy asked uncertainly.

Morgana swung around and grabbed the girl by the upper arms. ‘Lucy, I have an idea. A much better idea than you running off to that bawdy house!’

Lucy tried to pull away. ‘I’m not staying, miss. My mind is made up.’

‘Oh, yes! You will stay! For a while at least.’ Morgana knew this idea was mad, but rather than consign Lucy to a life akin to slavery, she could set the girl free.

‘You do not have to be beholden to a madam or a procurer or any of those sordid persons. You can be like that woman who just drove by!’

Lucy gaped at her as if she were indeed bound for Bedlam. ‘I cannot be like her, miss! She was a lady.’

Morgana laughed. ‘No, Lucy, that’s the thing! She was not a lady. She was a courtesan!’

Lucy regarded her with a blank expression.

Morgana explained what a courtesan was. For the rest of the walk home, she talked about how handsomely gentlemen paid for the favours of such women. How courtesans could own property and fine clothes and jewels. She explained that a courtesan did not have to obey the dictates of a brothel madam. She did not have to take just any man into her bed. A courtesan could choose her gentlemen, and no one could tell her what to do. A courtesan could look gay and carefree like Harriette Wilson, not empty and hopeless like the Portuguese girl.

‘But I do not know how to be a courtesan!’ Lucy protested.

‘I shall teach you,’ Morgana said, her excitement building.

‘You, miss?’ Lucy cried in horrified tones.

‘Well, I cannot teach you all of it,’ Morgana admitted. ‘But I know how to teach you to walk and talk and dress. We shall find tutors for the rest.’ This was the right course, Morgana knew. How to precisely bring it all about was less certain, but she was determined to save Lucy from the bleak existence of a common whore. If she could not convince the girl to live a virtuous life, at least she could train her to be as gay and free and flush with funds as Harriette Wilson.

They had reached the house and Morgana stopped before the front door. ‘What say you, Lucy?’

Lucy stared down at the pavement. As Cripps opened the door for them, she looked up at Morgana. ‘I will do it, Miss Hart.’

Morgana grasped her hand and squeezed it, then she led the maid into the house past the butler, who, Morgana suspected, did not approve of her friendly manner towards a lower servant.

Sloane sounded the knocker to the Cowdlin town house. When he gained entrance, he handed his hat, gloves and stick to the butler.

‘Shall I announce you, sir? Lady Cowdlin is receiving callers in the drawing room,’ the butler said.

‘Is Lord Cowdlin at home? If so, I would request a few moments of his time.’

Sloane was engaged to drive Lady Hannah and her insipid friend, Miss Poltrop, in the park. He’d deliberately arrived early to see Lord Cowdlin.

The butler bowed and made his dignified way up the stairs. Sloane cooled his heels. While he waited, a footman answered another knock.

His nephew stepped into the hall and handed the footman his card. ‘Lady Cowdlin, if she is receiving callers.’

Sloane would have wagered his new home it was not the mother David had come to see.

The young man looked over and noticed him. ‘Oh, Uncle. Good to see you.’ He strode over and extended his hand.

Sloane accepted the handshake, but with an ironic twist to his mouth. ‘Calling upon Lady Cowdlin, I hear?’

David responded with an abashed expression. ‘I thought I might. And you?’

Sloane glanced towards the stairway. It was taking a devil of a long time for the butler to return with Lord Cowdlin’s response. ‘Lord Cowdlin first, I hope.’

David’s brows shot up. ‘Are you making an offer, Uncle Cyprian?’

‘Not at the moment,’ he replied. That ought to be his errand, but Sloane, who usually acted with dispatch over important matters, continued to drag his feet on this one. He told himself he hesitated only to give Lord Cowdlin time to accommodate to the idea.

A sudden thought occurred to him. He peered at his nephew. ‘Are you making an offer?’

David shook his head. ‘I cannot make an offer to any woman. At the moment, I have nothing but an allowance and prospects. It will be another three years before my trust provides me the means to support a wife.’

How like the Earl to have control of the boy’s money for as long as he could. ‘I see,’ was all Sloane said.

The footman came for David long before the butler reappeared for Sloane. ‘His lordship will see you now.’

Sloane followed the butler to Lord Cowdlin’s library. He barely looked up from the papers at the desk in front of him. It was a rudeness Sloane would not let pass.

When the butler bowed himself out, Sloane approached the desk. ‘You make no secret of your dislike, sir.’ Sloane made certain he spoke these words in a casual manner.

Lord Cowdlin shot to attention. ‘What? What?’

Sloane gave him a knowing smile. ‘You do not rise to greet me. I assure you, sir, if you are so busy, you ought not to have received me.’

Cowdlin glared at him. ‘Well, what do you want?’

Sloane made the man wait, but he stared at him until Cowdlin squirmed in his leather chair.

Cowdlin was no match for him. Sloane had sat across a card table from many a man just like Cowdlin, men who fancied themselves gamesters but who only had the skill to drive themselves into dun territory. Sloane would play his hand with Cowdlin with cunning and resolve. He would comport himself as a gentleman. ‘I wish to do you the honour of informing you of my purchase of a property in Mayfair.’

‘That is it? You waste my precious time to tell me you bought a house?’ Cowdlin huffed with indignity.

‘I came to tell you, before someone else bandied the story about, that I have purchased the town house next door to your wife’s niece.’

Cowdlin stood. ‘What? What nefarious plans are you hatching, sir?’

Sloane gave him a level gaze. ‘My secretary was charged with securing a property for me. He did as I’d wished and found precisely the place I required at the right price. The bargain was secured before he knew I was acquainted with Miss Hart.’

‘You expect me to believe this?’ Cowdlin barked.

Sloane slid into an ironic smile. ‘No, I do not expect you to believe it. But it is the truth, and because of your connection to the young lady, I bring you the news first.’

‘If I hear of any of your mischief towards my niece—’

‘What sort of mischief, Cowdlin?’ Sloane broke in. ‘I am desirous to know.’

The short, round man stood and raised himself to his full height. ‘You know very well what your reputation is, sir.’

‘Ah…’ Sloane pretended to relax. He strolled over to the library window and back again to Cowdlin’s desk. ‘The thing is, I do not know. What is my reputation, sir?’

‘Why… why… why… that of a womaniser. And a bounder.’ A bit of spittle dripped from Cowdlin’s lip.

‘Precisely what have I done? I am not aware of ill using any female, though I confess to having a man’s needs. The ladies involved generally have not complained.’

‘Well, there is how you made your money during the war. Smuggling. Bah! Answer that, will you?’

Sloane had no intention of breaking his word of silence about his war activities, not for this foolish fellow. He leaned casually on the desk, bringing his face closer to Cowdlin’s. ‘And, you, sir, did you forgo your brandy during the conflict? Did Lady Cowdlin or Lady Hannah never wish for French silk? How did you come by such items?’

‘Well…!’ Cowdlin began, but he looked down at his desk and fussed with his papers.

‘Let me speak plainly, sir,’ Sloane said. ‘You are a man in need of money, with a daughter in need of a husband. I have the wealth you desire and am an eligible suitor. Can you afford to earn my dislike?’

To his credit, Lord Cowdlin met Sloane’s gaze. ‘Are you making an offer for my daughter?’

It was the perfect time to do so. Sloane had only to form the words.

He could not. ‘I will make a formal offer if and when I choose to do so. But if you intend to refuse me, it would suit me well enough to be told now.’

Cowdlin averted his eyes. ‘I do not refuse such an offer at this time.’

Sloane stepped back from the desk. ‘Very well. With your permission I will then keep my appointment with your daughter and her friend to drive through the park.’

Cowdlin nodded.

Sloane bowed and strode out of the room.

He was more quickly admitted into the drawing room where Lady Cowdlin and her daughter received callers. Lady Cowdlin sat with Lady Poltrop on a sofa, the two ladies engaged in a whispering conversation, most likely the latest gossip of which lady of their acquaintance was sleeping with which gentleman. Lady Hannah and Miss Poltrop also had their heads together, watching David play at cup-and-ball. When Sloane was announced, Hannah looked over and waved happily. He paid his respects to the mothers and walked over to the younger group.

David gave an embarrassed laugh and set the child’s toy on the table. Sloane felt suddenly very old.

‘Are you ladies ready for a turn in the park?’ he asked.

Hannah clutched at his arm excitedly. ‘Oh, yes. It is such a fine day.’ She batted her eyes coquettishly at David. ‘It is a pity there is not room for you, too, Mr Sloane.’

David smiled. ‘I would have been delighted for the company, but I must take my leave.’ He bowed to each of the young ladies and then to Sloane. ‘Good day to you, Uncle.’

After a long drive through the park, crowded with vehicles of all kinds, as well as riders and pedestrians, Sloane delivered Miss Poltrop to her door. As his tiger jumped on the back of the curricle and he and Lady Hannah started off again, the young lady exclaimed, ‘I cannot believe you will be living immediately next door to my cousin!’

Sloane had imparted this information to the young ladies during the ride, eliciting happy squeals and exclamations.

‘Do let us drive by your new house!’ Hannah begged.

It was only a small detour, so Sloane turned down Park Street and was again on Culross Street. Lights blazed in the house next to Morgana Hart’s; through the windows, Sloane spied servants hard at work dusting and polishing.

What would those servants think if they had seen some of the places he’d lived over the years? Would they be so fastidious? Sloane had slept in dingy rooms listening to mice scurrying and scratching within the walls. He’d even slept on the streets of Rome, when, as a young man, he had temporarily run out of funds during his wanderings.

‘I think it will be lovely!’ cried Hannah. ‘Why, we might run into each other when I call upon my cousin. Would that not be a treat?’

‘Indeed,’ he said, keeping up the conversation. ‘Do you call upon Miss Hart often?’

Lady Hannah gave a deep laugh and wrapped her fingers around his arm. ‘I shall now,’ she murmured.

When she allowed such a peek at the woman she was bound to become, Sloane wondered what was keeping him from formally proposing marriage to her. Her girlish giggles would eventually disappear, and then this hint of a woman would truly flower.

He slowed the curricle in front of his new home. In the window of the house next door, a face appeared.

‘Oh, look! There is Morgana!’ Hannah waved energetically.

Miss Hart’s returning wave was less exuberant, and she peered at them with a puzzled expression.

Well, Sloane thought, she would know soon enough why his curricle had paused in front of her house.

Morgana stepped back from the window. No longer visible from the street, she still could see her cousin, blooming like a spring rose, seated next to the tall Cyprian Sloane, his fingers confidently holding the horse’s ribbons.

How could a person feel such a combination of thrill and dejection? She simply must get over this tendency to moon over Mr Sloane and to flame with jealousy every time her cousin put her arm through his.

He was a man spoken for, even if he was the most interesting man she’d ever met. It would be ill mannered in the extreme to place herself in competition with Hannah. Morgana had enough difficulty maintaining the docile, agreeable manners prized by society. She would not be judged a man-snatcher as well.

She gave an audible groan.

As if a man like Mr Sloane would want her to snatch him. Hannah was the sort men wished to marry, all delicate and biddable. Not a harridan who scrapped with men in the park. Or who all too often spoke her mind. Or one who must be asked to dance out of pity.

Morgana watched the curricle pull away, experiencing more conflicting emotions, this time relief and disappointment. For a few heart-pounding moments, she thought her cousin and Mr Sloane might call upon her.

‘Stop all this foolishness,’ she said aloud to herself.

She resolved again to tuck Cyprian Sloane away in her mind as merely a man with whom to engage in interesting conversation, a man she was bound to see often in her cousin’s company. When he made his offer to Hannah, as Hannah insisted he would, Morgana would wish them very happy.

That was settled. She gave a firm nod and turned her thoughts to her most pressing problem. How to find someone to tutor Lucy in the skills of a courtesan. It was not as if such a person would advertise in the Morning Post. Where were they to be found?

Morgana needed a woman who could teach Lucy how to conduct the business, how to set prices and mode of payment. Morgana had no knowledge of such matters.

That lack of knowledge paled in comparison to her ignorance of how such women lured men in the first place. How did they display their ‘wares’? She could not send Lucy to promenade outside Covent Garden. That seemed as sordid as lounging in a brothel. And when a courtesan entertained gentlemen, what did she do? Morgana knew what a courtesan would do in general. She simply did not know specifically how one went about it.

She needed an expert, someone like Harriette Wilson, to teach these skills. If she knew where Miss Wilson resided or how else she might contrive to speak to the woman, Morgana would summon the pluck to ask her to be Lucy’s tutor. Such an opportunity might never come her way, however. She needed to do something now, or Lucy would lose faith in her and run off.

With sudden resolve, she marched from the drawing room in search of Lucy.

A few minutes later she and the maid were headed towards the shop where Lucy had made her contact with the world of the fashionably impure.

‘I cannot think it proper for you to be seen out and about at this hour, Miss Hart.’ Lucy needed to skip to keep up with Morgana’s determined stride. ‘A lady oughtn’t to walk to Bond Street in the afternoon.’

True, at this hour young dandies and bucks tended to loiter in the street, waiting to accost any female who walked by with their catcalls and pinches.

‘I think it the perfect time,’ said Morgana. ‘If we wait until the morning, think how many ladies will be in the shops. Do not concern yourself so. The veil of my hat quite obscures my face.’

‘But a lady should not even talk of these matters, miss,’ Lucy went on.

‘Nonsense,’ countered Morgana. ‘How else am I to discover the proper tutor for you? Besides, you have spoken to these people, why shouldn’t I?’

Lucy looked at her as if she were a doltish child. ‘Because you are a lady.’

Lucy had told Morgana that the source of her information about the madam with the brothel had been none other than Morgana’s modiste, the ton’s new darling of dressmaking. They hurried to Madame Emeraude’s shop, which, if they had any luck, would be deserted at this hour. The ladies who might patronise the latest rage in dressmakers would more likely be proudly showing off the new creations in Hyde Park. Morgana lifted the veil from her face as they entered Madame Emeraude’s shop. No other customers were present.

Madame Emeraude emerged from behind a curtain leading to the back. ‘Miss Hart?’ She gave her a quizzical look. ‘A pleasure to see you.’ The modiste next examined Morgana’s clothing. ‘You are wearing one of my dresses! I hope you have been satisfied. Is the fit acceptable? Did my dresses emerge as you imagined them?’

Morgana smiled at her. ‘Your gowns exceeded my expectations, Madame. I am now launched back into society with great success.’

Madame Emeraude beamed both with pride and relief, then she seemed to remember to be puzzled. ‘What may I do for you at this… unusual hour?’

Morgana glanced towards the doorway. Even if no tonnish ladies walked through that door, a gentleman might, one escorting another sort of female to be dressed in fine clothes. ‘May we speak in one of your private dressing rooms?’

The modiste gave her a puzzled expression. ‘But of course.’ She tossed a wary look when Lucy followed behind them.

Madame Emeraude led them to a room with brocade-covered chairs, the room where Madame Emeraude had previously shown her various fabrics and fashion plates, as well as some examples of her finely stitched creations.

‘We are private?’ Morgana asked as she sat.

‘Yes,’ the modiste replied. ‘I am alone except for the girls upstairs.’

Previously Morgana had assumed those ‘girls upstairs’ were merely hard at work sewing seams and tacking on lace. But now she wondered if those girls were sometimes required to perform other tasks, the sort of tasks Lucy was prepared to perform.

‘I will speak plainly, Madame,’ Morgana began. ‘You told Miss Jenkins here that you knew the madam of a brothel where Miss Jenkins might be welcome—’

Madame gasped and threw Lucy a venomous glare. ‘I did no such thing.’

Morgana gave an impatient shake of the head. ‘I am not here to give you a scold. I want to know how to speak to this madam. I may require her assistance.’

Madame Emeraude’s eyebrows nearly disappeared under her stylishly coiffed hair. ‘You, miss?’

‘I will not explain further, Madame, except to assure you my business with this person is not of her usual sort, nor will I bring trouble to her.’ Morgana spoke in a confident tone, one she learned as a young girl of seventeen when she first assumed the management of her father’s household. The appearance of confidence had been necessary to convince servants and tradesmen she knew what she was doing. Perhaps now it would convince Madame Emeraude—as well as Morgana herself.

She gave the madam a steady look. ‘May I remind you I have spent a great deal of money in this shop and I plan to spend a great deal more; however, I suspect the ladies who have flocked to your door would turn their backs upon a woman who referred their maids to a brothel.’ She paused to let her threat sink in. ‘If you provide me with the information I seek and your word you will not speak of it further, I will not speak of it either.’

Madame Emeraude’s eyes looked as if she were calculating sums. ‘She is on Jermyn Street.’

Sloane turned the corner of Jermyn Street on his way to return the curricle and horses to the stable he’d rented. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw two women climb down from a hack. One looked suspiciously like the girl Miss Hart had been rescuing in the park, the one who had worn the red dress. He twisted around, but only the women’s backs were visible as they walked into a glove shop. Calling to his tiger, he pulled the horses to a halt. His tiger hopped off and ran to hold the horses’ heads.

‘Take them, Tommy.’ He handed the ribbons to the tiger and jumped down from his seat. ‘See them stabled. That will be all I require of you at present.’

‘As y’wish, sir,’ his tiger replied.

Sloane, hands resting on his hips, stood on the pavement and directed his gaze at the glove shop door as Tommy drove the curricle away, the horses’ hooves clattering on the cobbles.

He was a damned fool.

It was folly to believe the girl he’d only glimpsed had been Miss Hart’s red-dressed companion. And more folly indeed to think it his responsibility to ensure the girl was not up to more mischief.

He walked slowly to the shop, swinging his swordstick, and slanting his gaze to peek through the window. Through the display of gloves of various lengths and colours, he glimpsed several ladies in the shop. One gestured angrily to the two who had arrived. He could faintly hear her raised voice. He sauntered past the shop and paused by a lamppost pretending to search his pockets.

The subterfuge came naturally to him. Many were the times during the war he’d had to watch and listen without anyone being suspicious of his presence. He used those same skills now and appeared to go unnoticed by the one or two men who walked by.

This was no innocent ladies’ shop, he figured, but one that had rooms abovestairs with pretty mollies willing to entertain. Miss Hart’s girl was up to the same larks, it appeared, though he still did not know why he bothered with the business.

He peered into a nearby wine merchant’s shop, pretending to examine its wares, but keeping an eye on the glove-shop door.

The door opened, and the same two women came out, female screeches from the inside ringing behind them. They glanced around the street as if uncertain what to do.

Sloane approached. ‘Pardon me, miss. Do you require assistance?’

He directed this question to the young woman he’d recognised correctly—Lucy was her name, he recalled. She did not answer him.

From behind a great deal of netting attached to the hat of the other female came a familiar voice.

‘Mr Sloane!’