“Miss Hale,” Stephen said, taking a step toward her.
“No.” She held up a hand, turned, and began to descend the attic stairs. “I can see myself home. I’m certain you have better things to do than to waste your time with a mistake like me.”
“Miss Hale!” he called, but she was gone. Bloody, bloody, bloody hell.
He sank down on the crate beside him and put his head in his hands. Perhaps he was not as bad as he thought. How much of a rake could he be when he’d obviously lost his touch with women? They used to run to him, not away from him.
No, he amended, they’d always run away in the end. No woman stayed too long. He’d made sure of that. He didn’t want commitment, didn’t want emotion. He wanted companionship, varied companionship, and when one woman became too familiar, he made sure she wanted to go.
The scenes had not been unlike tonight’s with Josephine Hale. But tonight was worse, far worse. Josephine was not some woman he could ignore on the street or in a drawing room. She was his partner. She was going to make him a hero—or at least her treasure was.
He could send her a letter of apology. He could send flowers. He could climb into her window and beg her, on one knee, to forgive him, but he knew none of it would work because there was one variable he’d forgotten.
She was a virgin.
“Damn.” He stood and paced back and forth across the attic floor. He’d known it all along, but tonight confirmed it. In her anger, she’d said twice that their lovemaking had been the most wonderful experience of her life.
Now, Stephen knew he was good. He knew he could please a woman, but he wasn’t vain enough to believe he was the only man talented in this area or even the best lover in London. Certainly, his ministrations tonight had been intended to give her pleasure, but they were nothing compared to what he could do. Her pleasure had been minuscule compared to what he could have given her.
And himself, he thought, feeling the longing rise up inside him. Just thinking about her made him want her again. He wanted to hear those little mewing sounds again, he wanted to feel her tense and jump at his smallest touch, he wanted to taste her again, hear her laugh.
“Bloody hell,” he roared, slamming his fist down on an old chest and slamming the emotion out of himself as well. He was beginning to sound like a besotted schoolboy. He didn’t have feelings for Josephine Hale. He was not ever going to have those feelings for her. He didn’t have the time or the leisure to fall—To have feelings for an unsuitable woman.
What he needed to do was to find that treasure and restore his family before all the shaky walls he’d built came crashing down. He’d repaid so much of his debt, but he still owed so much. If his investments failed, if his estates didn’t produce, the creditors would descend on him and devour him and his family honor without compunction.
So to hell with his promises to Josephine Hale. He didn’t need her to find this treasure. She was the one who’d left, not he. He’d find it without her and then, just to show her how magnanimous he could be, he’d give her the Hale half anyway. In fact, Stephen thought, picking up the crowbar and sliding it under the edge of another crate, he would probably work faster and more diligently without Josephine Hale to distract him. He’d go through the rest of these boxes and if they yielded nothing, he’d search his mother’s house. The clue to that key had to be here somewhere. Maybe the other half of the map held the secret?
True, it was her map, but there was nothing wrong with him borrowing it for a day or a week or two. He patted his tailcoat absently, reassuring himself that the map was still there.
It wasn’t.
Dropping the crowbar, he patted again, then removed the tailcoat all together and shook it. Still nothing, but Stephen could not believe it. He searched the coat again, and still nothing. How could that be? There was no way Josephine Hale had picked his pocket. Had he dropped it or—
And then he had a mental picture of his library. He had an image of his hand placing the map on the table near the couch he’d been lounging on. He hadn’t wanted to wrinkle the map. Stephen sighed with relief, and then he remembered Hale’s penchant for windows.
Swearing, he rushed down the stairs, all three flights, skidded through the entryway, threw the library door open, and stared.
It was gone. Of course. She’d taken it. Of course. He was a fool. Of course.
THE NEXT AFTERNOON, Stephen tried not to look like he was pacing outside the bakery on Bond Street. He tried to look like he had an inordinate interest in the cakes and pies on display. He tipped his hat to the ladies who came and went and cursed the random footman who had told him Miss Hale had been seen inside.
Stephen craned his neck, trying to get a look through the glass and inside once again. But there were too many people inside, all ladies and all wearing bonnets. How was he supposed to distinguish Josephine from the rest?
The bell to the shop jingled again, and Stephen glanced dejectedly at the lady who emerged, carrying a white baker’s box. It wasn’t Miss Hale.
And then he looked again and jumped in front of her so quickly that he startled her.
“Miss Brittany! Forgive me,” he said with a quick bow. “I didn’t mean to startle you. But, I own, I am glad to see you.”
Ashley Brittany raised her blond eyebrows and gave him an amused smile. “I am glad to see you as well, Lord Westman. But never say you have been waiting outside this shop for me.”
Stephen opened his mouth, prepared to flirt, and then decided he couldn’t stomach it today. He wanted answers, and he wanted them fast. “Actually, no. I was told Miss Hale was inside. In point of fact, I was hoping to see her. Is she still inside?”
Miss Brittany shook her head. “She never was inside. I’m afraid your information is bad, Lord Westman.”
“But you know where she is.”
She glanced down, and he realized he was clutching her arm, his grip rather tight. He pried his fingers loose, and she continued to smile at him. “Lord Westman, might we walk a little way together?” She looked about herself, indicating the numbers of people passing them and, no doubt, taking note of their conversation.
