Gail Ranstrom - The Rake's Revenge

“You have had bad news?”

“No. Oh, no.” She gave a little laugh and shook her head. “I was just thinking of, well, of the season, and of how I wish I were back in Little Upton for the holiday.”

“Homesick, eh?” He grinned. “One’s own hearth and home is a great comfort, is it not?”

“A great comfort,” she repeated with a little shiver.

Lord Glenross lifted her hood from her shoulders and settled it over her head again, arranging the fur-lined drape to frame her face. His gloved hand grazed her cheek and she caught her breath at the intimacy of the touch. He glanced at the stairway again and she suspected he was headed for Mr. Evans’s office to make another appointment. She did not envy the factor having to put Glenross off.

“Thank you for your assistance, my lord. I…I should be on my way now.” She shivered and backed away from him, anxious to clear her head.

He took her elbow once more and led her into the busy foot traffic on Fleet Street. “Where is your escort, Miss Lovejoy? Your coach?”

“I am my aunt’s employee, my lord. I have no escort, and I walked from her house.”

“Mrs. Forbush allowed—”

“She tried to send me in the coach, but I told her I could use the walk to clear my head. Sometimes she tries to do too much for me, and I have to remind her that I am in her employ.”

Snow mixed with rain began to fall, forming small pellets that made little clicking noises as they hit buildings, windowpanes and cobblestones. If the temperature dropped a few more degrees, there would be a heavy snowfall. The pavement had already grown slick as the sleet froze on the smooth surface. She shivered and drew her cloak a little closer.

Glenross’s features softened. “I believe I passed a tearoom a few doors down. I think you need to be warmed, Miss Lovejoy. Your aunt’s house is not exactly nearby.” He shook his head when she opened her mouth to protest. “I will not hear any objections. If you were found frozen tomorrow, I’d never forgive myself. Come. It is nearly tea time.”

Afton had no choice but to allow him to escort her the thirty yards or so to the small tearoom. A little bell above the door rang when they entered the shop, and a woman dressed in black with a white apron and dust cap came out of the back room.

“Welcome,” she said, her accent suggesting a hint of cockney. She led the way to a small private booth in the back, designed to protect them from curious stares. It held a small round table and two chairs. Ladies were not served with the general population and most genteel establishments had similar arrangements to accommodate just such circumstances. “You’re the first of the afternoon trade,” she said, hinting that they would not be disturbed.

Afton glanced at her escort. She’d never been to tea with a man. Country living did not lend itself to such refinements, and she had not been in such a position since arriving in London. She knew she was a country bumpkin, but she took a deep breath and decided to carry it off with as much aplomb as she could manage.

The warmth of the cozy tearoom was welcoming after the cold starkness of Mr. Evans’s office and the chill of the sleet. Lord Glenross lifted the cloak from her shoulders and hung it on a peg outside their booth. He held a chair for her and she sat. When she took her hand out of her fur muff, the folded sheets of paper fluttered to the floor. She had forgotten about Mr. Evans’s lists in the shock of colliding with Glenross.

Glenross had closed the little curtain that would shield their privacy when he turned and noted the papers on the floor. He lifted one eyebrow in question as he bent to pick them up. “Yours?”

“Oh!” she squeaked. “My…my errand list. A-and a shopping list.” She reached out to take the sheets from him. If he unfolded them, he would see the names and appointment times, and would know what she had been doing at Mr. Evans’s office.

Something of her panic must have reached him because he hesitated and gave her a curious look. “Miss Lovejoy, are you certain you are quite all right?”

“Yes, of course.” She extended her hand farther in wordless insistence.

He glanced at the papers as if he had forgotten them, then looked at her and smiled. “If it is errands, I’d do you a favor to lose them.”

“No! Please, my lord.”

“I was teasing, Miss Lovejoy. Apparently I need more practice. I would not have suspected Mrs. Forbush is such a harsh taskmaster.”

“She is not, my lord. The lists are mine. Personal.” Afton hated the panic lacing her voice, but she was growing more desperate. The knowledge that he could recognize the appointment list made her dizzy with anxiety.

Slowly, almost reluctantly, Glenross offered her the papers. She claimed them and quickly pushed them back in her muff, safely out of sight. When she glanced up again, he was studying her with a puzzled frown.

“I…I had forgot what was on the lists already, and feared I would return home with errands undone,” she said, compelled to offer an explanation for her behavior.

His expression grave, he nodded. “I have a theory about that.”

“Yes?” she asked

“If you forget, you truly do not want to remember. And if it is truly important, you will remember.”

“Yes, but I recall now that one of my errands is to buy ribbon for Dianthe’s hair for the Spencers’ ball tonight.”

He grinned as he sat across from her. “Ah. Ribbons. Important, indeed.”

The shop bell rang and the sound of another group entering the tearoom and taking seats in the main room carried to them in the back. Afton flashed Glenross a nervous smile, suddenly realizing how compromising their discovery together could be. Had she been an ordinary servant, no one would remark upon it, but since she existed on the fringe of society, her behavior should have been more circumspect. Glenross was a controversial man, and his title made him even more interesting to the ton. Ah well, too late now.

Glenross returned her nervous smile with a quirk of his own expressive mouth. She realized he was fully aware of the potential for gossip, and did not care a whit. Odd, she thought, for a man who valued his heritage and family name.

The serving girl brought a tray laden with teapot, cups, little biscuits, muffins and tea cakes, pots of jam and honey and thin cucumber sandwiches. When she’d unloaded the tray, she stepped back and asked, “Will there be anything else?”

Glenross shook his head. “No, thank you, miss. I shall ask if there is.”

She bobbed a curtsy and hurried away. After an awkward pause, Afton took charge of the pot. When she had served them both to her satisfaction, she sat back and sipped from her cup. Glenross looked completely out of place with a dainty teacup in his large scarred hand and she couldn’t help but laugh.

“I am sorry, my lord, but you do not look altogether comfortable. Which, of course, only indebts me further.”

“How so, Miss Lovejoy?”

“That you have sacrificed your comfort for mine. I do not much fancy having to repay you by bellying up to a bar with a tankard of ale, or rum, or some such beverage.”

It was his turn to laugh, a rare and unexpected sound. “I would not ask so much of you. I shall count myself well paid if you grant me another waltz.”

“Then do count upon it, Glenross,” she said, more firmly than was wise.

Conversation outside their booth stopped. His identity now known, Glenross’s assignation with an unseen woman would certainly be the topic of conversation around dinner tables and dance floors. Afton gave her companion an apologetic look.

“I am sorry,” she whispered. “I did not mean to call attention to you.”

He did not seem perturbed in the least. “This makes an excellent argument for a less formal form of address, does it not? Please forgo my title, Miss Lovejoy. Call me Rob, or McHugh. All my friends do.”