The Handbook to Handling His Lordship Page 6

  “Once he discovered I’d inherited my cousin’s membership, he nearly began weeping.”

  Now she remembered. The former Earl of Westfall had drowned up in the Lake District a year or so ago. He’d been a young, attractive fellow, as well, though not quite as exceptional a physical specimen as his cousin. “Your kindness toward your brother worked out well for me,” she returned, trying to keep her voice soft and silky. A relaxed man, and a well-complimented one, was so very easy to chat with, she’d discovered. And this one had earned every accolade. “And you’re looking for someone. Do I know her? I could help you.”

  “Oh, it’s nothing, really. Someone lost a necklace, and asked me to look for it. I like to look for things.”

  His eyes remained closed, his face relaxed. Was that all it had been? Someone with a lost trinket? Well, she’d perhaps done more than necessary to discover that, and more than she’d intended, certainly, but the inquiring had been delightful. “Do you often look for other people’s things, then?” she asked, trying to regain control of the conversation. “That’s an interesting hobby, my lord. Much more so than chasing foxes or shooting at birds—unless you do those things, as well, in which case I shall call you adventurous.”

  One green eye opened, then the other. Damnation. Had she stumbled and pushed too hard? Then he blinked fuzzily and rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Where did I put my spectacles?” he asked, sitting up.

  “On the chest of drawers. I’ll get them.” Relieved to have a moment, she swung her feet over the side of the bed and stood, in the same motion pulling a cloth from the folded clothes on her bed stand and handing it to him.

  While he cleaned himself, she padded over to the chest and retrieved his spectacles. He hadn’t answered her last question, but he didn’t seem to have realized that he was being interrogated, either. If she trod carefully, then, she still had a chance to learn whether there was anything to discover. If she could stop thinking about how much she wanted to have him again.

  Nathaniel watched the lovely, swaying backside of Emily Portsman as she went across the room to fetch his spectacles. The chit asked interesting questions, though he remained undecided whether they were pillow talk or if she was attempting to discover what he was after. Experience made him suspicious, but it had also taught him that suspicion was not the same thing as proof.

  She faced him again, so he blinked and smiled. “Thank you, Miss Portsman.”

  “You should likely call me Emily,” she said easily, handing the damned things over.

  He dropped the cloth onto the floor and slung the spectacles over his ears. “That’s right, we haven’t actually been introduced, have we? Westfall.” Even after two years the word still sounded foreign on his tongue. “Or Nathaniel. Or Stokes. Whichever of the three you prefer.”

  “So many names,” she mused, swinging her hair over one shoulder as she sat beside him on the bed again. “Westfall, I think.”

  The least personal of the three. Everything meant something, and so did her choice of moniker for him. “Westfall it is, then,” he returned, forcing his gaze to remain on her face, though this body was more interested in having her again. Now. And repeatedly. “In which case I believe I’ll address you as Portsman,” he continued. “You were asking me about my hobbies, yes? What are yours? What does a Tantalus girl do when she’s not tantalizing Tantalus guests?”

  She grinned. “Very good, my lord.”

  Ah, it had been rather pitiful, actually, but he’d pushed his bumbling disguise to the limit already with the way he’d mauled her lovely, naked, smooth body. Nate swallowed. “Thank you.”

  She nodded. “Since you asked, I like to read.”

  In a bawdy house her answer would have been surprising, but the Tantalus girls were all said to be well educated as well as lovely. But according to his interviews, Rachel Newbury was a reader, as well. “Ah,” he said aloud. “Shakespeare? Johnson? Richardson? Smollett?” She didn’t resemble the description Ebberling had given for Miss Newbury all that closely either in appearance or with her enthusiasm in bed, but he wasn’t about to call her innocent yet, either. And considering that the governess was reputed to be high in the instep, she would read at least one of the authors he’d mentioned. Probably.

  With a chuckle, Emily shook her head. “Radcliffe and Lewis, more like. At the moment I’m reading The Scottish Cousin.” She pulled the book from the bedstand and handed it to him.

  “You are?” he returned dubiously, flipping through the pages.

  “Oh, yes. You see, it’s very romantic,” she continued with a grin. “The cousin, Bartholomew Pinkerton, attempts to seize control of Lord MacKenzie’s estate, and MacKenzie must marry a duke’s daughter to end a family curse and thwart the evil Bartholomew’s plans. His grandfather’s ghost is determined that only a true Scotsman live on the grounds of MacKenzie Mew.”

  “But isn’t the cousin Scottish, as per the title?”

  “Well, it’s very complicated, but evidently he’s actually the illegitimate son of a Spanish troubadour.” She took the book back and set it aside. “I haven’t actually finished it yet, but there’s been something about a mermaid, as well. And smugglers.”

  “You know that’s drivel, don’t you?” he countered. Logic and torrid, sentiment-filled romance certainly had very little to do with each other, and logic served him much better.

  “So is Anderfel’s treatise on the poor,” she returned. “At least The Scottish Cousin is amusing, and doesn’t make me wish to hit someone.”

  He pounced on that. “You’ve read Anderfel’s treatise?” Nathaniel pushed his spectacles up.

  “Haven’t you? It was serialized in the Times.” Emily stretched, the bounce of her round breasts making his cock sit up and take notice all over again.

  Other than discovering that Emily Portsman wasn’t quite what he’d expected of any Tantalus girl, this particular interrogation was netting him nothing. Well, a very diverting afternoon, certainly, but nothing of use to his investigation. Even so, he was loath to pull his trousers back on and leave. At home he would have Laurie complaining about being sent away from the Tantalus, and he would have to review all the notes he’d taken about Rachel Newbury in order to attempt a different strategy for hunting her down—all of it much less arousing than having Portsman again.

  The idea that his quarry might have been—might still be—at The Tantalus Club was an intriguing one, and it remained a possibility. Short of directly asking his bed partner if she knew a Rachel Newbury, however, he needed to retreat and reconsider his plan of attack. The last thing he wanted to do was warn Miss Newbury before he’d identified her, because then she would likely flee—or decide that removing him from the equation would be the best solution to her difficulties. Aside from that, it would remove an excuse for a second visit to Portsman’s bedchamber.

  At that moment she stood again. “Well, that was much more pleasant than the way I’d intended to spend the afternoon,” she commented, smiling at him, her gaze lowering to his waist, as she bent down enticingly to retrieve her gown.

  Evidently the interlude was over. Since he’d practically assaulted her, he supposed it was only fair that she dictate the end of the encounter. He could use some damned space to think for a moment, anyway. Nate climbed to his feet and yanked up his trousers. “And how had you intended to spend the afternoon?” he asked. This was supposed to be an interrogation, after all.

  “Finishing the work schedule for next week. Which I still need to do.” Rather than pull on her sumptuous dark green gown again, she folded it over a chair and went to her wardrobe for a modest shift and a much plainer yellow muslin.

  Nate took a swift glance past her shoulder, but there was no governess’s multipocketed pelisse inside that he could spot. If Rachel Newbury had ever even worn such a thing it would have been long gone by now anyway, but he refused ever to discount luck. “May I say I’m disappointed that you dress so sensibly when you aren’t out among the club’s membership, Po
rtsman?”

  “You aren’t the first to say so, Westfall. Apparently half the membership believes we wear nothing at all back here.” She grinned, tying her red-brown hair back with a simple ribbon.

  Pointless to his investigation or not, there were a great many less pleasant ways he might have otherwise spent the afternoon himself. Nate smiled back at her as he fastened his trousers and sat again to pull on his shirt and waistcoat. Somewhere in the past thirty minutes the button in his left boot had slipped down to his toe, but he merely scowled and tolerated it. A limp was a limp. “Forgive my ignorance,” he began, not entirely convinced himself that he was proceeding merely because of his inquiries, “but do we simply part company? Do I suggest we repeat the enterprise, or ask if you’d care to join me on a ride through Hyde Park or some such thing?”

  “I don’t leave the premises,” Emily returned, color briefly touching her cheeks and her gaze darting toward the window and back again. “Scandal is well and good for business in here, but outside these walls the world is much less tolerant of Tantalus girls. We’re not courting, Westfall.”

  That made sense, whether it fit nicely into his suspicions or not. Had she protested just a hair too quickly or too vehemently, though? Or was he merely too cynical? Reaching for his cane and limping a bit to look less threatening, he supposed it was, he put a frown on his face. “You never leave? Doesn’t that get frightfully dull? How long have you been here?”

  “Three years or so. And no, I don’t find it dull at all.” She flashed a bright smile at him. “I have The Scottish Cousin and all its relatives to keep me occupied, and truer friends beneath this roof than I’ve ever had elsewhere. As for the other part of your question, I would enjoy repeating this interlude, I think. If you would, that is.”

  “Oh, I definitely would.” Whether she was a suspect or had knowledge of his quarry or not, a fellow with his background could hardly ask for more than a pretty girl who disliked emotional entanglements. He’d had and avoided enough of those to last a lifetime. “Perhaps tomorrow?” Or did that sound too eager even for a bookish earl? “Or the day after,” he added.

  “You may ask for me at the front door most afternoons,” she said, handing him his waistcoat. “I’ll show you out the back way; we can’t have gentlemen wandering about our sanctuary willy-nilly.”

  “What about those large fellows Haybury has lurking about?”

  “The Helpful Men? They’re our protectors. Older brothers with large muscles.”

  Hm. Older brothers frequently knew more about their younger sisters than they even realized. Perhaps one of them might be worth a chat. Later, though; he didn’t know what Miss Hampton might have said about his search for a necklace, and the last thing he wanted was to have to drop one of Haybury’s employees if they went after him. It would be difficult to put on his helpless mask again once he’d broken some former boxer’s nose.

  “They’re quite effective, I imagine,” he said aloud, tucking his shirt into his trousers and buttoning up his waistcoat. “I’d had no idea The Tantalus Club’s inner workings were so intriguing.”

  She laughed. “You have an interesting idea of intrigue.”

  Oh, she had no idea. “Do I? My brother says so. I love puzzles and such. And finding baubles people have lost.” It made sense to confess it, and to make it sound less threatening than he certainly knew it to be.

  “So if I’d lost a ring or something you would be able to find it for me?”

  “That depends if it fell off while you were walking, or if someone stole it from you. In the former case, no, I likely couldn’t locate it. In the latter instance, everyone leaves a trail, whether they realize it or not. They boast about it or sell to someone who’s willing to share the information for a few shillings. Things like that.” As he spoke, he watched her carefully, looking for a reaction.

  She stepped into her shoes, her expression unchanged. “Goodness, that sounds fascinating. How did you come to realize you enjoyed finding things for people?”

  Another innocent question? Or something more? He was beginning to think that Emily Portsman did know something, and that she was very good at disguising her questions as casual conversation. And very good at distracting him with her exceptional physical charms. “I suppose in the way some men are good at shooting or riding or sheep shearing,” he responded, attempting not to sound as though he’d made this same speech a thousand times, “I’ve been finding bits and bobs for people since I can remember, Portsman. It’s my hobby.”

  “I shall remember that, the next time one of my friends has something stolen.” Emily gestured him toward the door, touching his arm—whether accidentally or intentionally—in the process. “Shall we exit? I do have some duties to attend to.”

  “Certainly.” He had some duties to attend to, himself. The first one of which was to obtain the names of everyone presently and previously employed at The Tantalus Club.

  Chapter Five

  This was not good.

  Emily closed the servants’ rear door on Lord Westfall’s backside, then stood for a long moment staring at the heavy oak barrier. She could lock it, of course, but the front door stood open and welcoming to anyone with a membership or a friend with a membership, and for every hour of every day save Christmas.

  She shook out her hands. It could be nothing. He enjoyed finding baubles, he’d said, and that was precisely what she’d overheard. A bauble meant a necklace, or a ring, or a teacup. And she was no teacup.

  Neither, though, was she a fool. He’d set her off balance. She didn’t think she’d said anything incriminating, but for a few moments there she couldn’t remember precisely what she had said. Scholarly men weren’t supposed to be so adept at sex. If he meant her trouble, she needed to deal with it. With him. And she needed to stop wondering if he would call on her tomorrow and if a second meeting would be as satisfying as the first one had been.

  No. First things first. Ignoring the pounding of her heart, Emily returned to the dining room to find Jenny Martine seating the Marquis of Brundy with his sons Lord Allenglen and Lord William Brundy. Emily took a breath, pasting the usual calm smile on her face as she stood well back and waited.

  “What is it?” Jenny murmured as she returned to the postern at the fore of the main dining room. “You’re dressed most unsuitably.”

  Damnation. She’d forgotten her attire, and that wasn’t like her at all. “Has Lord Haybury returned yet? Or Diane?”

  “No. Is something amiss?”

  “No. I just wanted a word with one of them. Nothing urgent. I’ll retreat before I cause anyone to become disillusioned.”

  A swift smile cracked Genevieve’s solemn expression. “Yes, do. We don’t have enough smelling salts to revive all these gentlemen.”

  In the past, Emily would have gone to chat with Sophia White, because if nothing else Sophia’s warm heart and quick wit would have distracted her from her own worries. But her friend was now Sophia Baswich, the most unlikely Duchess of Greaves and no longer a Tantalus girl. They could still have a coze, of course, but only if Sophia came calling here. Which she wasn’t likely to do, considering that she and the duke hadn’t yet arrived in London for the Season. Of course, even if Sophia had been residing across the street from the Tantalus instead of in Yorkshire, Emily still couldn’t—wouldn’t—have ventured out to find her.

  Swallowing her nerves, Emily climbed the back staircase and retrieved her book. If The Scottish Cousin couldn’t distract her, nothing could. She took it with her into the common room, though, disliking the idea of sitting alone in the silence of her rumpled bedchamber. With the bustle around her she could at least pretend that Lord Westfall didn’t make her exceedingly uneasy and nervous and aroused all at the same time. She didn’t like the sensation. All she required was safety and orderliness, and the earl had brought neither.

  “Well?”

  She started, looking up from the book. “Beg pardon?”

  Lucille Hampton plunked herself down onto
the couch beside Emily. “Westfall. Is he sinister, or are you going to leave him for someone who wants more from him than a naked frolic?”

  “A what?” Emily stifled what was likely an inappropriate grin, despite the fact that she’d experienced just that. Under the circumstances, she supposed that Lucille might have distracted Westfall as well as she could, but despite the accompanying unsettled sensation, she was abruptly glad that it had been her invitation the earl had accepted. She closed her mouth against a satisfied sigh.

  “You heard me. I mean to marry the earl, and you know it. I said so just this morning. You said he might be dangerous. So what is it, then?”

  “I don’t know yet, Lucille.”

  Her companion frowned, looking far younger than the twenty-one years of age Emily knew her to be. “You’re only saying that so you can have another go at him. Why not simply confess that you’re attempting to steal him from me?”

  “Because I’m not attempting to steal him from you. You have to have possession of him before anyone could steal him. A daydream is well and good, but—”

  “Don’t you even finish that sentence, Emily Portsman. If you wish this to be a fight, then so be it.” With a flounce of her skirts Lucille stood again and stomped out of the room.

  Oh, dear. If Westfall was merely a befuddled aristocrat with a peculiar hobby, then she’d hurt Lucille for no reason other than her own paranoia and lust. But the fact was, she didn’t know yet if he was a threat. Her hesitation, she could tell herself, had nothing to do with the fact that he was a very fine lover and a very attractive man, or the thought that he was too sensible and too skilled for Lucille’s heavy-handed antics. Or that lately she’d been lonely and that the conversation—or fencing match, depending on what she still needed to discover about him—with Lord Westfall had been nearly as diverting as the sex.

  Whatever Emily said, Lucille would never understand how vital it was that Emily discover what had motivated Lord Westfall to attend the club today, and whether the bauble he was after had brought him here, specifically. Sighing, Emily set aside her novel and returned to her scheduling. The pages could wait until tomorrow, but the numbers, the finesse of making certain all positions were covered without injuring anyone’s feelings or overstaffing or understaffing, taking into account who had a holiday and who needed an extra few hours—all that engaged her mind and thereby gave her a measure of peace.