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“You mean I can’t just go on walking the rope forever?” Lola teased. “You said I’m talented. Just imagine how good I’ll be twenty years from now.”
“Lola,” Sofia said, disbelief in her tone.
“I know.” Lola tried to laugh, the effort not completely successful. “I suppose that’s part of the sacrifice I accepted when I stepped forward and took responsibility for my decisions. I knew I had to do something and balancing embarrassment for their child against imprisonment for my father made the choice obvious to me.”
“Please know I’ll never repeat a word of this.” Sofia laid her open palm on her heart. “Your secret is safe with me.”
“Thank you,” Lola said, swallowing a well of emotion. “Marco knows, but sometimes I wish I’d never told him.”
“Don’t worry about him. He’s too hotheaded for his own good, but deep down I know he cares about you,” Sofia said, shaking her head sympathetically.
“Exactly, that might be the bigger problem.” Lola nibbled at her lower lip before she picked up her spoon and went back to her ice. “Honestly, I like the bergamot better.”
“Of course, you do and from what you told me earlier, I know why,” Sofia said with a wink. “When will you see Lord Essex again?”
“I don’t know, but I hope its sooner rather than later.” She paused, regretting her choice of words.
Hope.
Hope was such an unreliable emotion.
“You know, whenever you’re expecting a late-night visit if you need my help, you only have to ask. I can effectively keep my brothers busy so they don’t notice the earl’s arrival,” Sofia said, licking the last of her dessert from the spoon.
“Thank you,” Lola answered. “You’re a wonderful friend.”
“I’m happy to help you.” Sofia grinned. “And some day, when I send my letter, I know you’ll return the favor.”
Lola reached across the table and laced her fingers with Sofia’s. “You can be certain I will.”
19
Theodore entered White’s in need of a brandy. His search of Fremont’s bedchambers and study had yielded nothing except more questions. A journal was a personal item usually kept in one’s private rooms and yet there was no locked leather book with black cording found anywhere in Fremont House.
He considered stopping at Bow Street and inquiring with the Runners in regard to their progress in the investigation, but at the last minute he’d decided to come to the club instead. Maybe he could garner some snippet of speculation or piece of information that would prove useful. The message on the note he’d found in the back of Fremont’s household ledger haunted him still.
Sum to be paid on the last Friday of every month and delivered on the eastmost path of the Pleasure Garden within Vauxhall.
Without more detail, the words were too vague to prove Fremont was a victim of extortion, although it seemed the sensible assumption. However, it was difficult to decipher if the scrawled sentence was written in Stephen’s hand or someoneelse’s and that complicated the matter. Was he the recipient of this demand or had he made a note to himself? And how did he end up fatally stabbed if he’d adhered to the delivery instructions?
Too many questions badgered him and he rubbed his temple, wishing he was kissing Lola instead of standing in the entry hall of his club. He wondered for the umpteenth time what she was doing, wanting to learn everything about her; how she spent her time when she wasn’t practicing or performing, her interests and experiences, what fragrance she preferred and flavor of trifle was her favorite. He could no longer deny his feelings, and he’d developed more than a few of them.
He’d barely completed this thought when he spied Huntington across the room. Theodore hadn’t heard from his friend since they’d played cards with Baron Mowbray and therefore assumed there was no news to share, but circumstances changed rather quickly of late. With a wag of his chin, he indicated they should meet at a private corner of the room.
“Good to see you, Huntington.” Theodore greeted him with a handshake.
“Likewise,” Huntington said. “Have you any news on Fremont’s death?”
“There are few clues to follow, unfortunately.” He scowled as he shared the words aloud. “It’s all bloody frustrating.”
“And Bow Street?” Huntington asked. “Have they uncovered anything useful?”
“Nothing of which I’ve been informed.” He signaled to a footman for a brandy. “How goes things with you?”
“The usual,” Huntington said, though he donned a sly grin. “Although I may not be spending as many evenings within these walls in the upcoming weeks. I’ve met someone who has meaccepting invitations to dinner parties and luncheons just for the chance to spend time in her company.”
Theodore’s brows went up in question. Much like himself, Huntington rarely expressed interest in society’s schedule other than an occasional obligatory event but then again, Theodore had been away for two years. While his friend was once a sworn bachelor and regular at White’s making use of the brandy and gambling as his primary vocation, it didn’t mean Huntington hadn’t changed his outlook toward the future.
The idea gave Theodore pause. He wasn’t looking for any kind of personal relationship when he’d returned to England and yet here he was at his club wishing he was with Lola instead.