Page 2 of An Honorable Deception
“Exercising?”
At that, she let out a huff. “My physicians have cautioned me not to overexert myself. You know that.”
“Over, yes. But a bit of exertion is necessary for regaining one’s strength.”
The look she directed to his arms wasn’t exactly admiring. “I suppose you think yourself the expert, Mr. Strongman?”
His lips twitched upward. “That’sLordStrongman to you. And I’ll have you know that after my devastating wound, which I took savingyourlife—”
“You did not!” It got her laughing, anyway. If they could laugh about it now, that surely meant her heart was recovering from the blow her mother had dealt it. “Isavedyou!”
He waved away that little detail. “While recuperating, I definitely found it of the utmost importance to push myself a little more each day, to truly recover.”
Lavinia rolled her eyes again. “It was barely a scratch.”
“I took a dagger to the leg! Eight stitches!” But he grinned and flopped down beside her on her sofa, leaning in and draping a sweaty arm around her just to watch her flinch away and wrinkle her nose. “Come on, my lady. Join me in the gymnasium. I’ll have your heart as healthy as Leonidas’s in a month.”
“Tempting as that is...” Lavinia nodded toward Marigold. “I’ve come today to beg your sister to let me go home with her and keep her company at the Tower until Papa decides to return to Northumberland. I’ve found I’ve had my fill of Town.”
It had tired her too quickly, she meant. The late nights, the rich foods, the stress of gossip—and there had been no shortage of that. The country air would restore her, though. As would his sister’s company.
Yates nodded, reclaimed his arm, and pushed back tohis feet. “Good. Any gents you want me to look into while you’re gone?”
She didn’t know about the Imposters. But shedidknow he was a friend and that he’d make sure anyone she was considering was deserving of her.
Lavinia shook her head. “No. They’re all ... no.”
Leopard stripes. There was a world of meaning in the sigh she let out that he didn’t have time to explore right now. But Marigold would take care of it. He made certain of that with a glance her way, and then moved toward the door. “Well, I know you two will cry over my absence, but I have an appointment to keep. Enjoy your trip north tomorrow. Know you have my envy.”
Their laughter followed as he vaulted up the stairs, and he made quick work of his ablutions so that he could slide down the banister again and hurry out the door.
Hot, damp air swamped him the moment he stepped outside. The thermometer read ninety-five degrees, but the dratted uniform of the gentry—shirt, waistcoat, tie, jacket—made it feel about twice that. What he wouldn’t give to be able to leave the house in his exercise garb.
Usually he’d walk to a tube station farther from home so he could stretch his legs, but today he opted for the Underground as quickly as possible, and he thanked the good Lord for the coolness of the cavernous cathedral when he stepped inside its back door twenty minutes later. Voices from James’s office said he might be with a parishioner, which was too bad—Yates always enjoyed popping in and chatting with their former steward’s son whenever he could. James didn’t knowpreciselywhat they did, just that they did it. He knew why, and he knew they focused on truth and justice, so he lent them the old confessional for their meetings whenever Yates needed it.
He slipped into the confessor’s side of the booth, indulging in a long breath and loosening of his necktie. Though he pulled a slender tome of poetry from his pocket, he didn’t open it yet. He closed his eyes. He breathed out a prayer. And he looked deep into himself.
Ever since he started meeting potential clients in this booth, he’d made a habit of examining his own conscience first. To make certain he was always working for the good, that he didn’t fall into judgment as he investigated truths that were too often ugly. And to ensure that though every other foundation he ever took for granted shook, his faith didn’t.
Today, he looked back over his life of the past week and had to purse his lips. Had his complaining moved from joking to truth? Probably. And Gemma hadn’t taken it well when he jested about how she seemed bent on catching Marigold up with the size of her stomach, though her own pregnancy was a month behind. He ought to apologize for that. He’d fallen into worry again on Friday when he was reviewing their accounts, which he knew was a lack of trust in God’s provision.
And they weren’t doingbadly... but they weren’t doing as well as he’d hoped they’d be. Cases always slowed down as the weather cooled and society left London for their country homes, and he’d hoped to have a bit more of a cushion for the winter this year, what with his sister and Gemma both with child. What if they needed a doctor? Hospital? Medicine?
He gave that again to the Lord and said a prayer, while he was at it, for the health of both mothers and babies. For his sister, especially ... but then for Gemma, especially. She and Graham had lost Jamie when he was only nine months old. If anything were to happen to this babe—it didn’t bear thinking about.
Another few minutes of prayer, and then he cracked openhis Tennyson and read until he heard the large front doors squeak open. He glanced at his watch. It must be the potential client, who had signed the note the urchins had delivered to him simply asA.B.Not exactly a lot to go on, that, but the hand had been feminine.
Which was not exactlyunusual. But not the most common. The cards he placed at the Marlborough brought far more clients their way than the ones his sister and Gemma left at the ladies’ clubs—a fact that he rubbed their noses in regularly, out of brotherly duty. And when womendidhire them, all too often it was to investigate a spouse they suspected of infidelity. Not his favorite task—because far too often they proved exactly what the ladies feared.
He didn’t know if he had another such investigation in him when he wouldn’t have Marigold on hand to keep his spirits up. But then, winter was coming, and he’d prefer it not be too lean.
The steps were definitely feminine—but quick. He heard a few moments of hesitation as the woman searched the massive chamber for the confessional, but once she spotted it, her stride became as sure as it was fast. The door to the penitent’s side opened, shut again, and someone sat on the bench, nothing but a vaguely girlish silhouette through the screen.
“‘We are such stuff...’” she said, as he’d instructed her to.
Yates smiled and pulled forward the accent he’d decided on today—a Scottish burr. “‘...as dreams are made on.’ Good day ... miss?”
Her voice sounded young—not childish, but certainly not matronly. Were he to guess, he’d have put her somewhere in the general range of his own twenty-three years, give or take a few. But he’d always found it wisest to err on the sideof youth when addressing women he didn’t know. Give amadamto the wrong one and you’d earn quite a scowl.
