Maybe she hadn’t stolen his watch? Maybe he had it all wrong?
Mason suddenly laughed, recalling their conversation on the balcony. “Well, I did say if I was a betting man, I would wager on you. It seems that I am indeed the misfortunate one between us.”
She shrugged. “That ought to be between you and your uncle. By the by, why would he wish to steal a family heirloom?”
“He is the greedy sort.” His lips curled to a bare-there smile. “There is no telling how low he will stoop to get what he wants.”
“Your family sounds charming.”
You are one to cast stones, little thief.
No woman had ever intrigued him as much.
Mason puzzled over what he knew about Lord Digby, but had little information to draw from. Digby never married. There was, however, an accident with a carriage many years ago. A woman died. But nothing ever came of it. Not that he could recall. Nothing significant after that either. Not a whisper about an illegitimate daughter. In recent years, however, his addiction to opium had become well-known and had landed him a notoriously messy reputation. Beyond that, no noteworthy gossip circled the rumor mill. That, of course, didn’t mean much. Nobles were quite skilled at keeping their private matters secret. And Digby had kept the existence of his daughter well under wraps.
He couldn’t resist asking, “Then what about tonight? If you are as innocent as you claim, then what were you doing at the ball in the first place? Are you a mouse aiming to drink the cream of the cat?”
She snorted. “It was but a taste and quite bland if you ask me. I should have stayed home and curled up with a book.”
One thing they agreed on. The extravagance and pomp did leave a rather bland taste. He did not care much for it either.
“Why come out then?”
She smiled. “Curiosity got the better of me.”
“Do you always leave your home unchaperoned?”
She laughed, and Mason felt the vibration of that splendid sound straight to his soul. A mad urge to pull her into his arms and kiss her struck him senseless.
Kiss her?
This little thief?
What nonsense.
He ground the urge to dust. He must have lost his bloody mind.
“Why bother?” she replied. “No one knows who I am.”
Mason did not respond.
Miss Hardwood possessed the dazzling skill to chip away at his guard. He dared not put it down. She’d all but addled his brain.
Where the hell is Hunt?
“I wonder what is keeping Mr. Hunt,” she echoed his sentiments.
“So eager to spend the night in a cell? Mason grumbled, still shaken by the sudden urges of his body. In fact, he had half a mind to demand they stick her in a cell for the night, had Mason not suspected the woman would actually enjoy the experience. And therein lay the conundrum. He could not tell what Miss Harwood wanted.
Not from her expression.
Not from her behaviour.
Not from her tone of voice.
Bloody maddening.
“A night in a cell?” Her eyes seemed to light up at the prospect. “How positively thrilling.”
