One Night in London by Caroline Linden Page B

bland as the rest of him. “I am Edward de Lacey. You wished to see me about James Wittiers?”
    She put the miniature into her reticule. “Yes, I do,” she replied. “I am not certain if you are aware of it, sir, but you have done me a grave disservice.”
    A slightly raised brow was his only reaction. “I fail to see how that can be possible, madam. We have never met, to my recollection.”
    “This morning I was in the offices of Mr. Wittiers. It took me weeks to secure an appointment with him; he is very much in demand, you see.” He looked unimpressed, and unmoved. Even a little bored, to her eyes. Francesca’s poise slipped, and she plunged along with her grievance. “He agreed to take my case. We discussed it at some length, and at the end he agreed to handle the matter for me. He excused himself for a moment, and never returned. His clerk came in shortly after to tell me that Mr. Wittiers had been called away on an urgent matter and wouldn’t be able to assist me after all. He recommended I seek other counsel.”
    “It sounds to me as though your complaint lies with Mr. Wittiers,” said the infuriating man in that cool tone.
    “He left in response to your summons!” She could hear her voice rising and fought to control it. “Before your note arrived, with its noble crest, he was willing to help me. And then suddenly he was gone, leaping to do your bidding and leaving my case without so much as a word!”
    “Again,” he said, “your displeasure should be directed at Wittiers, if he has treated you so abominably.”
    “No,” she retorted, flinging out one hand. “That won’t do any good. I know his services are well and truly lost to me now—lured away by your title and your money. But I want you to know that you have cost, not me, but an innocent little girl her best hope of happiness.”
    “Madam—” he began, but Francesca had lost all hold on her temper.
    “You disclaim all responsibility,” she charged, jabbing a finger at him, “but through your interference with my solicitor, a child, my niece, has been wrongly kept from me and now spirited away, to God knows where, in the custody of a cold and possibly cruel woman, and I shall be forced to waste precious days and weeks searching for another solicitor and an investigator to find her!”
    “I sent a note to Wittiers asking him to call upon me when he found it convenient,” said Edward de Lacey, as calmly as before. How that calm infuriated her. “How he arranged his schedule to find a convenient time, I do not know. Why he turned you away, I do not know. I was by no means ready to engage him blindly, and thought it entirely possible that he might not suit my purposes.”
    She narrowed her eyes. “And did he?” she asked softly.
    He looked back at her with implacable eyes. “That is not your concern.”
    She caught her breath. Slowly she crossed the room until she was just a few feet in front of him. “How dare you,” she whispered. “I—I should insist that you help me now.”
    The man had the nerve to smile. It was a flat, dry smile, with only a spark of amusement in his eyes to indicate it wasn’t forced. “Should you?”
    “It would be only fair,” she said wrathfully. “Since you have snatched away my solicitor.”
    “He wasn’t really ‘your’ solicitor, though, was he?”
    “He agreed to take my case!”
    “Apparently he changed his mind.”
    “Through your interference!”
    “Oh?” He rocked back on his heels, then abruptly leaned toward her. She refused to give ground, but had to look up to meet his eyes. They gleamed like polished silver, as if he enjoyed this, and she caught a whiff of his soap. He smelled very masculine and very rich, with nothing of hard work about him. “Then win him back,” the coldhearted devil replied. “Steal him away from me, Lady Gordon.”
    “But no.” She raised her eyebrows at him. How she hated that tone of voice, partly mocking, partly daring, and underpinned with