Undesirable Liaison by Elizabeth Bailey Page A

proved to belong to a
gentleman standing within the doorway to the parlour. He was tall
and loose-limbed, with a striking countenance. A frame of dark hair
tied in the nape of his neck outlined a powerful looking jaw line
and a strong, inflexible nose. Deep-set eyes of brown were fixed
upon Florence’s face, their expression dark and unfathomable.
    Her first
thought, unbidden, was that Lady Langriville must have been mad to
have lost him. Her second, prompted by a pattering of blood in her
veins, was a fervent wish she had abandoned her principles and
stayed safe and sound in Poland Street.
    ***
    Jerome was
labouring under strong emotion, but as he watched the colour
draining from the girl’s face, instinct drove him to action. He
turned his gaze upon his housekeeper.
    ‘Ask Fewston to
bring wine to this room. You need not return.’
    He noted the
suspicious glance Brumby cast, on her exit, at the female who had
brought news both staggering and appalling. She was rising from her
seat. Jerome waved her back again.
    ‘Stay where you
are.’
    Gratefully,
Florence sank down. ‘Thank you, my lord.’
    ‘Don’t thank
me,’ came the abrupt reply. ‘You look as if you might collapse at
any moment. Though I should think I have more right to do so than
you.’
    Startled, Flo
gazed at him. Was there a hint of humour there? It was dry, if so.
She dared not appear to notice it. To her annoyance, she found
herself making an apology.
    ‘I believe I
must have discomposed you, my lord. I am sorry for it.’
    ‘Not half as
sorry as I,’ he returned.
    His abruptness
began to irritate, and Florence’s sympathies veered back to the
deceased Lady Langriville. If this was the gentleman’s usual
manner, she might be pardoned for seeking to be rid of him. Only it
was hardly a judgement Flo was in a position to make, she chided
herself. Who would not be a trifle out of temper upon hearing such
news?
    Lord
Langriville crossed the room in three strides and fetched up at the
far end of the mantel, leaning his arm upon it and turning to
survey her with a disconcerting stare. Flo continued to meet it,
despite the hurried pulse persisting its uneven beat in her throat.
Her intentions had been honourable. It was not her fault if her
advent had set the cat among the pigeons.
    The challenge
in her pose had the odd effect of calming Jerome a little. As
unexpected as it was unusual in the females he had known, who were
more inclined to simper and kowtow, it was yet inappropriate in
this dowdy creature with no visible pretensions to gentility. Her
riding habit had seen better days, and the felt on a plain bonnet
was shiny with use. Had not Fewston referred to her merely as a
female “person”? One could not but wonder at her true motive.
    ‘I have not yet
understood the rigmarole my relative saw fit to unfold,’ he said at
his coolest. ‘Perhaps you would be good enough to repeat your story
for my benefit.’
    She gave a
faint sigh, he thought, but she answered readily enough.
    ‘That is easily
done, sir. I bought a gown—’ touching the cloak bag reposing at her
feet ‘—from a pawnbroker.’
    Was there a
slight inflexion of defiance on the word? The implications were
legion. Jerome was conscious of tightening within himself, but he
said nothing.
    ‘When I tried
it on,’ pursued the girl, ‘I discovered a jewel concealed in the
material. I set about finding out the owner, and—’
    ‘Why?’
    Caught mid-sentence and
off guard, Florence could only echo him. ‘Why?’
    ‘Why did you
set about finding out the owner?’
    There was
blandness in his tone, but Flo mistrusted it. ‘I should have
thought that was obvious, my lord.’
    ‘Not to
me.’
    ‘Then you have
a very odd idea of human nature!’ It came out without will, and
Florence immediately regretted her tartness. She looked away from
his intent gaze, forcing out the words. ‘I—beg your pardon, my
lord.’
    ‘Don’t. I
require neither your apologies nor your