Page 32 of Rakes & Reticules
“You, Siobhan, and your siblings are going to help me catch the culprits who have been harassing me and vandalizing my establishments for over a year.”
CHAPTERSIX
Still in her bedchamber
“Ibeg your pardon?” Siobhan gaped, her mouth parted.
Fletcher might have announced they would have salmon for supper or drive to Hyde Park for an outing tomorrow for all the enthusiasm he showed.
“You. Are. Going. To. Help. Me,” he said, articulating each word as if talking to someone without full possession of their faculties.
That assuredly had not been what she’d expected to hear.
It took another heartbeat or two for her to comprehend precisely what Fletcher had alluded to. He had best rethink his plans because no force in heaven or on earth would ever compel her to agree to his bacon-brained scheme.
Bristling, she shook her head. “Absolutely not. I’ll not have my sister and brother endangered. You can get that out of your codpated skull right this minute.”
“Codpated?” Wearing an irritating, half-condescending and half-amused grin, he leaned his narrow hips against the foot of the bed. “You don’t even know what the plan is.”
“I do not need to know,” she snapped, tossing aside her earlier determination not to let him rile her. “Kimber and Paddy will not be a part of whatever hair-brained schemed you’ve cooked up.”
He seemed utterly unaffected by Siobhan’s heated declaration.
Feeling suddenly vulnerable in the light cotton nightgown, though he had never regarded her with anything other than polite contempt, she swept the blanket she’d used yesterday off the bed and wrapped it around her shoulders.
She tried a different approach.
“My sister and brother are all I have in the world, Fletcher. I am responsible for their safety.”
“They will be perfectly safe.”
He still wore that amused expression, and she was torn between curiosity as to why and slapping him until next summer to wipe his smug countenance off his face.
Where had the ogre of the past few days gone?
What had occurred to change his demeanor?
Narrowing her eyes, Siobhan breathed deeply, trying to decipher if he smelled of spirits. She leaned forward and sniffed. “Are you pished?”
Away with the fairies?
Crazy?
“No.” Laughing, Fletcher shook his head, causing a chestnut lock to plop onto his forehead. “Not a bit of it. My, you are a suspicious little thing. Even more so than Clemmons.”
Siobhan gasped in affront. “I’msuspicious? You’ve kept me imprisoned because you’re convinced I conspired against you when I did no such thing.”
Fletcher’s secretary, Dawson Clemmons, wasn’t suspicious. The man was superstitious to such an extent that it bordered on absurd. Last week, he’d exited the club and walked around to another entrance rather than walk beneath a ladder.
A knock rattled the door, and Siobhan took the opportunity to wrangle her emotions under control.
“Come in,” Fletcher bid without the slightest hesitation.
Awful presumptuous of him since it was her chamber, but then again, he owned the building, and she was logical enough to acknowledge she had no power here.
Saul opened the door, allowing a fresh-faced, slightly out-of-breath maid to enter, bearing a loaded serving tray.
“Please set the tray on the table,” Fletcher said, completely at ease, even though he stood in a lady’s bedchamber with the dishabille occupant. Probably not for the first time, which explained the maid’s indifference.
