Wicked Widow by Amanda Quick Page B

expression was one of unwavering determination, but he could see the haunted look beneath the surface.
    “Tell me, Mrs. Deveridge,” he said quietly. “Who or what do you fear? ”
    “I cannot imagine what you are talking about, sir.”
    “I realize that because I am Vanza, you assume that I am something of an eccentric, if not a complete crackpot, but kindly credit me with some elementary reasoning ability.”
    She began to have the appearance of a creature that has been cornered. “What do you mean?”
    “You employ an armed coachman who clearly performs the services of a bodyguard. You barricade your windows with shutters that are designed to keep out intruders. Your garden has been stripped of foliage so that no one can approach the house unseen. You yourself have learned to use a pistol.”
    “London is a dangerous place, sir.”
    “It is indeed. But I think you feel more at risk than many other people.” He held her eyes. “What do you fear, madam? ”
    She gazed at him for a long time. Then she went back behind her desk and sank down into her chair.
    Her shoulders were rigid with tension.
    “My personal affairs are none of your concern, Mr. Hunt.”

    He studied her averted face, taking in the evidence of her pride and courage. “Everyone has dreams, Mrs. Deveridge. I comprehend that yours is to be free of the fear you feel.”
    Her gaze turned curiously speculative. “What do you think you can do on my behalf, sir? ”
    “Who knows?” He smiled slightly. “But I am the Dream Merchant. Perhaps I can make your dream come true.”
    “I am in no mood for jests.”
    “I assure you, I am not particularly amused myself at this moment.”
    Her hand clenched around a small brass paperweight. She studied it intently. “Even if what you say is true, if you
could
just possibly be of some assistance to me, sir, I suspect there would be a price for such services.”
    He shrugged. “There is a price for everything. Sometimes it is worth paying. Sometimes it is not.”
    She closed her eyes for a moment. When she opened them, her gaze was steady, penetrating.
    “I will admit,” she said carefully, “that last night after I returned home, a certain notion did cross my mind.”
    He had her, he thought. She had taken the bait. “What notion was that?”
    She put the brass paperweight down. “I spent a great deal of time pondering a pair of old sayings. One was the adage that it is best to fight fire with fire. The other was that it takes a thief to catch a thief.”
    Understanding flashed through him. “Bloody hell, madam, this is a Vanza matter, is it not?”
    She blinked twice at his leap of comprehension. Then she scowled. “In a way. Possibly.” She sighed. “I cannot be certain.”
    “What are you thinking? That you will employ a master of Vanza to deal with an affair of Vanza? Is that your logic?”
    “Something along those lines, yes.” She drummed her fingers on the desk. “I am still pondering the matter, sir, but it has occurred to me that you might be uniquely qualified to assist me in resolving an issue that is causing me a great deal of concern.”
    “You mean that you have thought of a way to use my skills as a master to solve your problem.”
    “If we were to come to an agreement,” she said deliberately, “I would see our association as being in the nature of employer and employee. I would, of course, pay you for your expertise.”
    “This becomes more intriguing by the moment. Just how the devil do you plan to reimburse me, Mrs.
    Deveridge?” He held up a palm. “Before you answer that question, let us be clear on one point. As you have noted, I am in trade and I do very well in my business affairs. I do not need or want your money, madam.”

    “Perhaps not.” Her eyes narrowed. “But I think I have something you do want, sir.”
    He let his gaze slide coolly over her. “Do you indeed? I will admit that the offer is an interesting one.” He thought about the standing wager in