The Defiant Lady Pencavel by Diane Scott Lewis Page B

being shaved. “Good point, my man.” He snatched the razor—so much for calmness. “Most men shave themselves now. I’m too restless to stand still for this.” He quickly skimmed the blade along his neck, chin and cheeks, leaving a few dots of blood. “Sorry to be so abrupt, even if I don’t need to explain myself to a servant.”
    “You’re in a highly disgruntled mood, sir.” Kenver handed him a towel.
    Griffin rubbed the cloth over his face. “So I am. I think I’ll take a quick ride in the park to clear my head.”
    “Before that, sir.” Kenver set down the dish, and the returned razor, on the wash stand. “A man approached me down in the common room. He says he wants to meet with you tomorrow, outside London on the Great North Road in Islington. There’s a—”
    “And why does this person wish to meet with me?” Griffin pulled on his buff leather riding breeches over cream clocked stockings, fine silk shirt and leather riding jacket with frogged buttons.
    “I’m getting to that, sir.” His valet glanced around as if they weren’t alone in the chamber. “He says he has something important you might wish to buy.”
    “Everyone seems to know my extra-curricular activities.” Griffin hid his leeriness over meeting with another stranger. He waved his valet’s assistance away and jerked on his dark leather jockey boots.
    “He assured me these items will bring much profits.” Kenver frowned thoughtfully. “But he seemed a sleazy type to me, so I’d be cautious.”
    “I do need to build new cottages for my tenants, to make their lives more comfortable. Very well, tell him I’ll meet him in a public place. Get the particulars.” Griffin donned his cape and something else he kept concealed from Kenver.
    Outside in the corridor, Griffin dropped a few coins into a box mounted there with the words, To Insure Prompt Service, abbreviated as TIPS.
    He’d gallop on a hired stallion, and maybe find something or someone to garner his fevered attention, and blur his desire for Miss Pencavel.
     
    ****
     
    “You’re a bit drab lately, m’lady.” Clowenna brushed rosemary over Melwyn’s over tunic to sweeten the garment after using lye and kerosene to treat a stain. “An’ far too quiet these past two days, which ain’t like ‘ee at all. Even as me ears is enjoyin’ it.”
    “And you never silence your jaw, do you, Clowie?” Melwyn reclined on her bed in Aunt Hedra’s guest chamber and turned the page of Le Antichità di Ercolano, the folio collection of the archaeological discoveries of Pompeii and Herculaneum. The book was beautifully illustrated, but didn’t hold her interest as it usually did. This latest volume had been published in 1792, however, all she could think about were mahogany eyes and a deep, cultured, if oh so mocking, voice. “I think I might leave you on the mean streets of London to fend for yourself. You could be a mud lark, perhaps.”
    “I’m too old to scavenge in the river mud for booty.” Her abigail bent over the book, her round face thoughtful. “Teach me some o’ that Eyetalion, if I’m to go wi’ ‘ee to Italy.”
    “I detest it when you’re right.” Melwyn slammed the book shut with a slap. “Nevertheless, I’m in no mood to teach one who had no education in the first place, as servants aren’t bothered to be educated, especially women, as unfortunate as that may be.” She softened her rhetoric. “I’ll teach you later if you behave.”
    “‘Tis true. People is afeared we low-borne might get airs above ourselves, isn’t they?” Clowenna fluffed out a feather on her lady’s straw hat. “Instead, lessons be wasted on privileged toffs like ‘ee.”
    “Mine weren’t wasted. At least they won’t be if I can tweeze that thorn of a scoundrel out of my life.” She’d almost said “heart” but the idea stunned her. She couldn’t be falling in love with Lord Lambrick. She trembled. Oh the dreadfulness of it! She nearly fell off the soft