A question he really hadn’t wanted to explore, and given all the other things that had happened that night in the library, it had been an easy one to ignore. The sailing trip, however, had forced him to accept that his mother was not going to be swayed from her course, and his only choice now was to attempt to mitigate the damage. To that end, meeting Foscarelli was no longer a choice. It had become a necessity.
The taxi stopped in front of his destination, and Henry reminded himself that even if Foscarelli turned out to be every bit the scoundrel he expected, he could not, under any circumstances, put his fist through the other man’s face.
The driver opened the door. Henry drew a deep breath, put ducal pride in his pocket, and stepped out of the vehicle. Paying the fare, he instructed the driver to wait, then he entered the building and crossed the foyer to the stairs. But before he could ascend, he heard footsteps above him, and when he looked up, he saw a woman in black coming down. She turned on the landing, facing him, and he froze. So did she, hand on the balustrade, one booted foot suspended over the step in front of her.
“Henry?” she gasped, staring at him.
Appalled, he stared back at her. “Miss Deverill? What in blazes are you doing here?”
She lifted her chin, giving him a look he was coming to know well as she came down the rest of the stairs. “I might ask you the same question.”
It was a question he was in no frame of mind to answer. He strode forward. “Come with me,” he said, then took her arm and began pulling her—none too gently—toward the door, his only thought to get her out of here. “A woman, alone, in Camden Town, after dark,” he muttered as he opened the door. “Good God, are you mad?”
“Wait,” she ordered in a sibilant whisper and yanked a veil down over her face just before he propelled her out the door and down the steps.
“Do you know the risks you’ve taken?” he said as they crossed the sidewalk to his waiting taxi.
Her taxi was also waiting at the curb, and he waved to its driver. “Walk on,” he ordered, and the man on the box gave a shrug, snapped the reins, and started his vehicle down the street.
His own driver had already climbed down and opened the door. “Sixteen Upper Brook Street,” he said tersely, removed his top hat, and shoved Irene into the carriage. He followed, tossing his hat into a corner and taking the seat opposite her as the driver closed the door behind them.
“Good grief, Henry,” she grumbled as he jerked the curtains closed. “There’s no need to manhandle me.”
“I thought I was very clear when I said you could not meet Mr. Foscarelli. It’s obvious you had no compunction whatsoever about disobeying that instruction, so I have no reason to believe you would willingly obey one to accompany me into a taxi.”
“I am happy to accompany you for my business here is finished.” She pulled back her veil and settled her black crepe skirts around her. “I certainly never dreamt I’d encounter you here, though. I thought you couldn’t meet Foscarelli without an introduction.”
“I suppose that in spite of my very specific instructions, you chose to pay a call on Mr. Foscarelli out of curiosity, with no regard for your reputation or any consideration for the people who are currently introducing you into society. There were two young men lounging in doorways across the street, and I would wager my last quid that they are employed by your competition. Or do you think your fellow scandal sheets will refrain from writing about you because of some notion of professional courtesy?”
“Oh, stop exaggerating. It’s dark out. I came in a taxi.” She reached up, yanked out her hatpin, and removed her hat, waving the mass of black straw and chiffon at him. “I wore a veil, for heaven’s sake! Really, Henry, you might give me a little credit,” she added, sticking the pin through the crown and tossing the whole ghastly contraption to a corner of the carriage, where it landed on top of his own hat. “I know how to take precautions to protect myself from gossip. No one will ever know it was me.”
“I’m not so sure about that. You’re staying in my house, and I’m sure they saw me.”
“Well, the fact that you can’t be discreet isn’t my fault! Besides, if anything, they’ll think I’m your mother.”
“Odd, but I don’t find that possibility particularly comforting. And,” he added, his ire rising higher, “discretion isn’t even the most important consideration. What about your safety? You would put that at risk just to satisfy your curiosity?”
“I didn’t go to see Foscarelli out of curiosity.”
“Why, then?”
“I’ll tell you my reason if you tell me yours. Are you here to try again to buy him off? Because you won’t have any success.”
“I know that. As I told you, Mama spiked my guns on that score. I was hoping, however, that he might be persuaded to accept a smaller dowry than the one he’d finagled out of Mama.”
She blinked, startled. “So you’ve accepted their marriage as inevitable?”
“I’m not waving the white flag just yet, trust me,” he muttered. “But there’s no harm in preparing for the worst. And now that I’ve explained my reason for being here, I’d like to hear yours. What reason could you possibly have for jeopardizing your safety in this way?”
She sighed, looking away. “Thornhill Square is a perfectly respectable neighborhood,” she said, but the diffidence in her voice told him she knew he was right about the risks involved. “It’s safe enough.”
“Safe enough?” He studied her lovely profile, reminded of what consequences might have resulted from her decision to go gadding about northeast London alone at night. He leaned forward and grabbed her arms, forcing her to look at him. “Thornhill Square might be safe, I suppose, but the neighborhoods you traversed to get here are most definitely not. What if the cab had broken a wheel, or one of the taxi’s horses had gone lame? God—” He broke off, for contemplating what might have happened to her was more than he could bear, and he gave her a little shake. “Where are your wits, Irene?”
She smiled at him, and Henry sucked in his breath. Even in the dim light, her smile disarmed him, and his anger faded into bewilderment. “Why in heaven’s name are you smiling like that when I’m chiding you up hill and down dale?” he demanded.
“You called me Irene.”
“Sorry,” he apologized at once, and let her go, feeling as if he were coming utterly undone. “I know you gave me leave, but nonetheless, I should not have done it. Put it down to frayed nerves. This week’s events have worn them to a nub.”
