Кейси Майклс - The Secrets of the Heart

“You’ll do as I’ve asked, St. Clair?” Lord Buxley inquired, as Frapple stepped forward smartly to present him with his hat and cane.

“I’ll sleep on the matter, if you don’t mind, dear fellow,” Christian told him, personally opening the door to the square for the man. “I confess to being malicious enough to enjoy my power, but I hesitate to use it in this instance. After all, my lord, when we think of the starving children, the desperate mothers…” He allowed his voice to trail off, shrugging eloquently.

“The Peacock must be stopped, St. Clair,” Lord Buxley reminded him from between clenched teeth. “You owe your service to your King.”

“Odds bobs, my lord,” Christian responded, drawing himself up to his full height and screwing his face into a comically belligerent scowl, “I know that. But do I owe my service to Lord Sidmouth? That, dear man, remains the question. And you refuse to allow me to be in on the Peacock’s capture. That is disappointing. But I will think on it, you have my word as a gentleman.”

“I’d rather have your words spoken in the ballrooms of Mayfair. At least there they carry some weight. Good evening to you, St. Clair,” Lord Buxley said, jamming his hat down on his head and rigidly descending the stone steps to the flagway, halting at the bottom to turn and add, “I should have known I’d get no help from you.”

“Nonsense, old fellow,” St. Clair called after him. “You could apply to me at any time for my assistance in selecting your wardrobe. To each man his forte, I say. Have a good evening, Lord Buxley. I know I shall.”

Christian stood in the light from the chandelier, still smiling and waving at his lordship with his handkerchief until Frapple closed the door, at which time his inane grin evaporated. “Not a word, Frapple,” he warned softly, knowing the servant had overheard everything Lord Buxley had said. “Not a single word of this to anyone—most especially Grumble. Do you understand?”

“What wouldn’t I understand, my lord?” Frapple countered, handing Christian his hat and walking stick. “If your friends were to know how the noose tightens, they’d refuse to ride again. Why confuse the issue with common sense?”

Christian patted his servant and friend on the shoulder as he motioned for him to open the door once more. “I’ve no thought of running my head into a noose, Frapple,” he assured the man. “And now, as my carriage awaits, I fear I must be going.”

“Will you still visit Little Pillington tonight?” Frapple asked.

Christian winked, already planning his next meeting with Herbert Symington. “Frapple, how you wound me. Was there ever any doubt?”

She was…the darling of a brilliant throng,

adored, fêted, petted, cherished.

Baroness Orczy

THE SAME WEAK, FADING, late-afternoon sun that lighted St. Clair on his way to his first social engagement of the evening stole timidly through the front windows and into the small drawing room of the narrow Percy Street townhouse, falling on the furnishings some might find elegantly simple and others might condemn as rather sparse. There were four chairs scattered about the room, two of them clustered near the fireplace, a few tables uncluttered by much in the way of vases or figurines, two paintings of little merit, a gilt-edged mirror, and a single couch.

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