Page 46 of The Counterfeit Scoundrel
But it had opened her up to welcoming his attentions in the carriage. It infuriated her to think that perhaps the kisses and touches he’d bestowed upon her had been exactly like the kiss he’d given Mrs. Parker:pretense. Because he’d been continuing to play at a role, at a game.
Just as well that they’d parted on less-than-ideal terms because she no longer trusted herself to remain impartial where he was concerned. The chaotic organ known as the heart could not be relied upon. A woman needed to depend upon her head, her reasoning, her logic. All three guided Daisy toward steering clear of Blackguard Blackwood. Even if she now suspected he wasn’t a blackguard at all.
The carriage rolled to a stop a few streets away from her building. After several minutes of simply sitting there, she leaned out the window. “Summers?”
He shouted down, “Sorry, miss. Appears there’s been some sort of incident up ahead that’s blocking the path.”
Vehicles and horses getting entangled or a broken axle or something else equally inconvenient. She wasn’t accustomed to simply lounging around as she had since Friday. She was more than ready to get back to the business of living—and to her occupation of searching for the answers to others’ dilemmas. “I’m going to walk from here.”
“Yes, miss.”
The footman climbed down, opened the door, unfolded the step for her, and assisted her onto the street.
“Thank you,” she said. Her time portraying a servant had taught her that occasionally gratitude wasn’t unwarranted.
“I’ll accompany you, miss.”
“Not necessary. I walk about alone in this area all the time. The advantage to being a spinster.” He scowled, and she smiled to reassure him. “I’ll be fine.I’m a working woman, not a debutante on her way to a ball.” Women with occupations didn’t require chaperones. She was beginning to wonder why any single woman did. Shouldn’t a lady be trusted to behave without needing to have a guard about?
She marched over to the bricked pavement that ran in front of all the buildings and began wending her way through the jostling crowd. She tended to walk faster than most and was constantly skirting around mothers with their children or men taking a leisurely stroll. Usually, if she didn’t sleep in her apartment, she arrived at her office before many people were seeing about their day, because she relished the early morning quiet and used the time to sort through her plans and appointments—when she had them. Her uncle provided her with a modest allowance she intended to repay at a future date, once her business was thriving.
She stopped to purchase a newspaper so she could peruse it for any opportunities to hire out her services. She wasn’t yet established enough to have a steady stream of clientele.
As she was nearing her office, her heart gave a little thump when she spied the tall, broad-shouldered man, hands on his hips, staring at her door with enough intensity to bore a hole through the thick, oaken wood. She slowed her pace because she didn’t particularly want to speak with Bishop. However, curiosity got the better of her. What the deuce was he doing here?
He stalked over to a window, raised to his brow the hand that had stroked her cheek, leaned in, and stared through the glass. Not that he would have seen anything beyond the backside of the draperies that she closed each evening, opened each morning. Steppingback, he glanced around. His gray beaver top hat cast a shadow over his upper face, so she could see little save the tautness of his jaw. He was not happy.
Then he turned slightly, and she knew he’d spotted her because his jaw relaxed a fraction, but more she could almost feel his gaze landing on her like a physical presence, could have sworn it traveled from the top of her hat to the tips of her toes, taking in all of her. Or perhaps she was merely associating his actions with her own in-depth perusal of him. Did he have to look so incredibly well turned out? She almost imagined that he’d gone to extra bother to ensure not a single wrinkle disturbed the perfection of his black coat and trousers that fit him flawlessly. His jacket, secured with a solitary button at his waist, revealed a dark gray waistcoat and light gray silk cravat. It was unfair that he should be so ridiculously handsome or that he had the ability to make her disloyal heart flutter uncontrollably.
Still, her step never faltered. Not even when she was near enough to see through the shadows created by his hat brim and into the depths of his dark eyes that seemed to take in all of her. “What are you doing here?”
Her tone was curt but respectful, her voice giving away none of the tumultuous emotions rampaging through her. Jolly good for her.
“Do you have any notion regarding how challenging it is to find you? You have no shingle advertising this is your place of business, nothing painted on the windows or doors. Even with your address in hand it was deuced difficult to locate.”
She wondered who had given him her address, notthat it particularly mattered. Newspapers were reluctant to allow advertising from sleuths so most of her clients came to her through word of mouth. “My landlord has no respect for my occupation and threatened to double my lease fee if I identified what sort of service I provided. He thought it would lower the property values of the area.”
“Paint a bloody daisy on the door then.”
She hadn’t considered that. She also wondered why, if he was keen to find her, he hadn’t gone to her aunt’s, since he’d known she was there. “Why are you here?” She reiterated her earlier question.
“I have a matter to discuss with you. Preferably indoors.” He nodded toward the building.
She should go inside and lock him out. She really didn’t care what he had to say, and yet she desperately did.
Retrieving the key from her reticule, primly and incredibly slowly, because the impatience shimmering off him made her smile inwardly, she approached the door. In his residence, he’d been remarkably skilled at not revealing what he was feeling, part of the reason she hadn’t known that he’d already deduced who she was, but now he inhabited her dominion, and she intended to reign over the sweetness of it as long as possible.
With a turn of the key, a releasing of the latch, she marched into her sparsely furnished office and threw back the draperies to let in the sunlight before taking up her position behind her desk, standing tall, steadfast, and proud, like a general daring anyone to try and take what he had conquered. She set her newspaper on top, dropped her reticule into a drawer, andthen indicated with a wave of her hand the chair in front of the desk for her visitor.
He looked at it as though someone had dumped offal in it. Rather than take the offering, he wandered over to her small bookcase.
“Why would you have guidebooks on London?” he asked, as though truly interested.
“Because sometimes I’m called upon to frequent areas of the city with which I am not familiar. Again, why are you here, Mr. Blackwood?”
Still bent over, studying her books, he peered at her, a half smile curling those lush lips slightly. He’d removed his hat. His hair, usually so tidy, had fallen over his brow. She refused to leave her position in order to brush it back because he was no doubt attempting to stage an ambush or at the very least take the chair behind the desk in order to gain the upper hand.
“We’re going to be formal, are we?” he asked.
