Lord Abney shoved his hands into his pockets. “I do not doubt it. But I could not simply stand by and watch it happen.”
Clarissa rose, not liking the way she felt at having to stare up at him. “Well, thank you all the same. It was appreciated, even though—”
“Even though you could have handled it yourself. Yes, you made that clear.”
Clarissa narrowed her eyes, not sure if he was poking fun at her or not.
Lord Abney seemed more relaxed than last night. For one, he did not wear that constant scowl, as if he was studying everyone within seeing distance. She decided she quite liked this version of him.
“What were you doing around here?” she couldn’t help but ask. “This is not the usual path taken for strolls.”
“Which is exactly the reason I tend to take it,” he responded. “So imagine my surprise when I come across my dear friend from last night and the rather overzealous Lord Fornsworth in what could have easily become a compromising position.”
Clarissa only heard one thing. “Dear friend? Since when have we become friends?”
“You wound me. Are we not?”
“Is that how quickly you make friends?”
“Not usually. But you are different.”
“How so?” she asked softly.
Lord Abney tilted his head slightly to the side, voice lowering as he said, “It would be far too much to say now. But by the end of our walk, I shall answer your question.”
“But we aren’t on a walk together.”
“Now we are.” He took her hand gently and slowly as if giving her time to protest. Clarissa didn’t think herself capable of doing such a thing. She let him tuck her hand into the crook of his elbow.
She was helpless to his charm, she realised a little too late. But she had a feeling that, with the viscount, that was not such a bad thing.
Chapter Eleven
The cover of dusk was the only thing that gave Michael the courage to enter such a disreputable establishment. Before his father died, when Michael was simply a young heir with nary a care in the world, he would have entertained the thought. He would have chased the adventure that came with frequenting a seedy tavern in the middle of the London slums, simply because he could. But now, he was on a mission.
The stench of stale ale assaulted his senses as he stepped inside, mixing with the faint odour of smoke. Michael tried not to twist his nose in distaste, grateful that he had at least worn a large coat before leaving. Everyone had noticed his entrance, even as they continued drinking and talking as if nothing were amiss. The coat gave him a bit of cover, allowing him to blend into the shadows. He would only have a target on his back if he were to step into the tavern in his usual fineries, immediately dubbing himself a person of wealth even if they did not realise that he was a duke. And the kind of men who frequented places like these were not kind men.
George Horton was that kind of man. The kind who wanted to live in the shadows, who did not hesitate very long to commit immoral acts if it meant food on his plate and a warm shirt on his back. Michael would have had a smidgen of respect for a man like that if it weren’t for the fact that George Horton was involved in his father’s downfall. At least, that is what he’d learned after his extensive research. Now it was time for him to confirm it.
It took Michael a moment to spot him. George was the only one who didn’t seem to notice Michael’s entrance, slumped overhis table in the corner of the tavern. Michael kept his head low as he headed over to him.
He claimed the chair across from George and rapped his knuckles against the sticky surface of the table. George groggily opened his eyes, frowning against the dim lighting in the tavern.
“Ye are?” he croaked.
“The man who requested to see you,” Michael said calmly. A storm was brewing in the back of his mind, bolstered by his constant, overwhelming need for revenge. After spending nearly the entire day thinking about someone he should not be thinking about, and doing very little work, he was eager to get to the bottom of something.
George frowned deeper, pulling himself upright. He looked Michael up and down before slurring, “Ye’re not what I expected.”
“That’s odd. You are exactly what I expected.” Though he couldn’t say he expected him to be Scottish.
George only stared at him as if he couldn’t figure out if he should be offended or not. At last, he said, “I’ve been waiting a long time for you. You should catch up.”
He shoved his half-drunken tankard ale towards Michael. Michael didn’t pay it a glance.
“I asked for us to meet at ten o’clock. I cannot be blamed if you decided to start drinking by eight.”
George snorted what must have been a laugh. “Fair enough. I cannae doubt that I have been drinkin’ half me life away from midday. I don’t know why Morris hasn’t kicked me out yet.”