Page 9 of Eliza and the Duke
But why?
As he followed Devonworth through the depths of the house to all the various entrances, he did his best to pay attention as a niggling concern wormed its way through the back of his mind. She couldn’t be the phantom woman. He couldn’t imagine a situation in which she would have found herself in the club. Everyone knew that Lady Devonworth and her sisters had come to London to find husbands.
The newspapers hadn’t been kind to the Americans since their arrival a few months earlier. There had been a particularly crude cartoon in one of them that showed the sisters standing with bags of cash behind them and a line of lords before them, except instead of human heads the men had been drawn with horse heads, preening like prized stallions so that the women would pick them. Eliza Dove would not have risked her reputation and a possible marriage to come into the club. She could not be that woman.
Thankfully, when they returned to the front entrance almost an hour later, there was no sign of her in the drawing room. An attractive woman who appeared to be in her forties stepped out, instead. She was dressed in a fashionable morning dress of olive green with her shining brown hair pulled up to artfully drape across her shoulder.
“Devonworth, the girls mentioned you were here.” She sailed over and leaned up to kiss Devonworth’s cheek. “This must be Mr. Cavell.”
Devonworth made the introductions and Mrs. Dove held out her hand for him. “I’ve heard of you,” she said in a way that might have been rude coming from anyone else. Her directness, however, was accompanied by a glint of good humor in her eye that softened her words. “They say you’re quite the prizefighter.”
It all clicked into place. Eliza must have heard about his reputation as a fighter. Montague Club had formed an informal league with several other clubs. Every few months or so they would arrange an exhibition bare-knuckle brawl for club members. Simon had quickly become a crowd favorite because he actually knew how to fight, unlike most of the gentleman participants who played at brawling. Several upper-class women, bored wives, had sought him out in the past year,hoping to see if his stamina in the ring translated to the bedroom. He’d been quite happy to show them that it did. She must have heard about his reputation and been keen to meet him.
That shouldn’t have disappointed him, but it did. He was accustomed to people only being interested in the idea of him, without caring about who he really was. Why should one slip of a girl be any different?
He took Mrs. Dove’s hand. “Undefeated, ma’am.”
She nodded, suitably impressed. “Good, then I’ll not worry about my girls. They’ll be in your capable hands.”
“I’ll do my best to stay out of sight,” he said.
“Don’t do that. The place could use a livelier atmosphere, don’t you think?”
It was rather stuffy and formal in here. Every tabletop was cluttered with bric-a-brac and curios, and the furniture was old and wouldn’t hold up to Montague Club standards. As the Hereford dower house, it likely hadn’t been updated in the past century.
Mrs. Dove was very clearly a woman who appreciated familiarity, so he said, “You liven it up all on your own, Mrs. Dove.” He was accustomed to such talk with the few women who frequented the club.
She smiled at him in a way that lit up her entire face. She was quite beautiful. Glancing to her son-in-law, she said, “Oh, I do enjoy him, Devonworth.”
Devonworth gave a long-suffering sigh. “Please, Fanny, don’t interfere—”
“I wouldn’t dream of interfering with his very important work.” The tone she used implied she didn’t think his work here was very important at all. “In fact, I am on my way out. Would you be available to drop me off at a friend’s house for luncheon?”
“Of course,” Devonworth agreed. “We were finishing here. Cavell, is there anything else?”
Simon assured him that things were well in hand and ushered them out the door. Then he turned to take the servants’ stairs to the kitchen downstairs where he had a meeting set up to go over things with the staff. He’d need to meet them all and make certain that he understood their schedules and that they understood that under no circumstances would strangers be allowed inside the house.
He made it as far as the butler’s pantry next to the dining room. The door to the stairwell was closed, and before he could open it, a voice stopped him cold.
“Hello again, Mr. Cavell.”
He turned to see Eliza Dove, one arm raised to lean against the doorway. She wore the same rose-colored morning dress she’d had on earlier. It was pretty on her. She was pretty regardless, but it brought out a rosy tone in her cheeks and a golden glow in her skin. “Miss Eliza.”
“You sound different.” She smiled at him, that same knowing smile from earlier, and let her arm fall to her side, as if she’d only been leaning that way for some great effect that escaped him.
Different than when he’d met her an hour ago? “In what way do you mean?”
She took a few steps into the small space, which put her close enough that he could reach out and touch her. It was an interior room with counters and cupboards that ran the length of two walls. The other two walls held the door that led out and the door that led to the stairs. If she got it into her head to kiss him, then there would be nowhere for him to go. The idea of kissing her in itself wasn’t repulsive, but he rather felt that it would be in bad form while he was working.
“I mean that on the evening we met, you sounded less formal and polished.”
Had he met her at a fight, then? He could hardly believe that a debutante would attend a Montague Club fight. Besides, the last one had been months and months ago. By all accounts, the Doves had only arrived in England a few months back. She couldn’t mean one of the fights Brody arranged. Those were always in far less fashionable areas.
“Forgive me, but I believe you’ve confused me for someone else,” he said, and turned toward the door to the servants’ stairs.
“You don’t remember me, do you?”
The affectation was gone from her voice and she sounded genuinely amused now. She put her hand on his arm. Her fingers were long and gracefully formed. She wasn’t wearing gloves, and there was nary a callus to be found on her fingers. But what struck him was the rose scent that wafted over him.
