One Night in London by Caroline Linden Page A

uncovered. He had made discreet inquiries and heard nothing but praise and admiration for the man’s ability, but that was not conclusive. If this woman, Lady Gordon, had dealings with Wittiers, she might know something he didn’t. It was certainly possible Wittiers’s reputation wasn’t entirely supported. By the time he made his way to the blue salon, Edward was more than a little curious—and wary. He hadn’t forgotten the look of hostility on the woman’s face when she stepped out of her carriage.
    A footman swept open the door of the salon before him. His guest didn’t appear to notice. She was standing by the fireplace, gazing down at something cupped in the palm of her hand. Her expression was pensive and still, but something in her pose hinted at anguish. Indoors her hair appeared to be light brown, without the coppery sheen he’d noticed before. Her figure, though, was every bit as luscious as it had looked from the upstairs window.
    Edward closed the door behind him with a loud click. Her head jerked up, and her hand squeezed into a fist about whatever she was studying. “Lady Gordon,” he said, bowing politely. “I am Edward de Lacey. You wished to see me about James Wittiers?”
    A flush rose in her cheeks. She shoved the object in her hand into her reticule and pulled the strings tight. “Yes,” she said in a warm, husky voice that stroked across his senses like a siren’s lure. “I do.”
    F rancesca had almost begun to regret her impulsive action. After some small wait, the butler had shown her into an elegant room done up in icy blue, a cold but beautiful room that looked more like a museum than anything else. She eyed one of the exquisite marble tables flanking the tall windows, and would have bet a month’s housekeeping that the only thing that touched their surfaces was a maid’s dust cloth.
    Perhaps she had better just go. The owner of this mansion wouldn’t be impressed, let alone deterred, by her cause or her outrage. She had been consumed by fury when she realized that Ellen had stolen away with Georgina and not left a word where she could be found, and in the absence of any pertinent party, she had searched for someone on whom to vent that fury. This won’t do any good, whispered a little voice in her head. It was the voice of reason, finally breaking through the shrieking storm of emotion. Francesca straightened her shoulders and dug out her tiny miniature of Georgina. It had been done right before Giuliana’s death, as a gift for Giuliana’s parents. But no one had sent it when Giuliana died in childbed, and then John had given it to her.
    A round, cherubic face stared up from the golden frame, the dark eyes serious, the mouth a dainty little pink bow. She was a beautiful child, and as dear to Francesca as her own child could be. The portrait was two years old; Georgina had grown since it was done. Mrs. Jenkins said she was thin now, and Francesca’s heart constricted that she didn’t know what her own niece looked like anymore.
    The door opened as she was sunk in maudlin thought, and she looked up. Not the butler again, nor any other servant. From the cut of his clothing, this was the man she had come to see, the man who could summon James Wittiers with a snap of his fingers. She took in her nemesis with one critical glance. He was tall and on the lean side, although with a nice breadth in his shoulders. Dark hair, cut neither long nor short; well dressed, but in singularly dull, dark colors; a face that was neither arrestingly handsome nor unremarkably plain. Even his eyes were ordinary, a colorless gray, with all the warmth of the steel they resembled. All in all, he was the most uninteresting man she had met in a long time. And he had stolen her solicitor, the one she had maneuvered for weeks to hire, which was simply intolerable. She closed her fingers around Georgina’s miniature as some of her ire returned.
    “Lady Gordon.” His voice was cultured and smooth, but as