Page 25 of How to Fall for a Scoundrel
His chuckle was hardly reassuring. “Nothing of the sort. I merely took the chance to see if he had our missing book concealed on his person. He did not, by the way.”
“That was a very risky thing to do,” she scolded.
“Not if you’re as skilled as I am. Willingham didn’t suspect a thing. He accepted my profuse apologies, of course, and I’m pleased to say that in the ensuing conversation we discovered a shared interest in vingt-et-un.”
“Of course you did.” Ellie rolled her eyes.
“Not only that, but he kindly extended an invitation to a festive little gathering he’s hosting tomorrow evening. Deep play guaranteed.”
Ellie let out a frustrated growl. “I don’t know whether to scold you for interfering, or commend you for getting the invitation. How on earth did you know that Willingham would be here in the park at this hour? Was it just a lucky guess?”
Her hand was still nestled in the crook of his arm, and he patted the back of it with teasing condescension.
“Of course not. You know how I feel about luck; it’s far better when it’s helped along. I spent last evening enjoying a few pints with His Lordship’s stablemaster and footman, Albert and George.”
“As Henri Bonheur?”
He shook his head and affected an entirely different accent, one that made him sound as if he’d lived his entire life without ever leaving the bounds of London.
“Gawd no, love. As plain ’Arry Smith, rat-catcher and knife-grinder from Covent Garden.”
“In far less expensive clothes, I assume,” she sniffed.
“Too right,” he said, still with his accent. “The scratchiest shirt and worst-fitting jacket you ever saw inyer life. We won’t even mention the boots. Still, old ’Arry bought a round or two of drinks and it didn’t take long to learn that old Willingham takes a morning constitutional at ten o’clock every Thursday to avoid his wife’s sisters when they visit.”
“Good sleuthing,” Ellie said begrudgingly. “As long as you made yourself unrecognizable.”
“Oh, me own mother wouldn’t ’ave known me,” he chuckled. “I didn’t shave, and I even added a gold tooth”—he tapped one of his straight white incisors with his finger—“right ’ere.”
“You must have looked like a pirate,” she scoffed, even as the unbidden and annoyingly alluring image of him as a roguish buccaneer swam in her brain. The cold was clearly affecting her ability to think rationally.
She tried to tug her hand from his arm, but he tightened his grip, and she resigned herself to the not-unpleasant warming effect his proximity had on her body.
It was a relief to see the crested panels of his carriage waiting just beyond the park railings.
“Willingham said I was welcome to bring a female guest,” Harry said, reverting to his usual voice as he handed her into the conveyance.
“I can’t attend as myself,” Ellie said. “Not with you. Perhaps Daisy and I can dress as servants and—”
He shook his head, and his eyes crinkled at the corners. “Oh, I didn’t introduce myself to Willingham as Henri Bonheur. I told him my name was Enrico Castellini.”
“You pretended you were Italian?” Ellie said, aghast. “For Heaven’s sake! Why?”
“Why not?” he chuckled. “Variety is the spice of life. And I haven’t been the Visconti di Modrone for a long time.”
“You’re mad.”
“Maybe. But there’s method in my madness. Enrico Castellini is a slightly eccentric, clearly rich and bored nobleman on his first visit to London. Willingham’s arrogant enough to think him a plump pigeon ready to be plucked; hence the invitation to play cards for ‘proper stakes.’”
“Well, I still can’t go with ‘Enrico’ either. Not unless Tess comes with us as a chaperone.”
“Eleanor Law isn’t invited,” he said, and Ellie tried to hide the sudden wretched swoop of disappointment that pitched her stomach.
“I told him I’d bring my paramour.”
She forced a polite smile. “Oh. And who is that?”
Harry was so handsome that she shouldn’t be surprised that he had a lover. Would it be one of the beautiful actresses or opera singers who trod the boards at Drury Lane? Or some lucky society widow or wife?