Page 9 of Season of the Scoundrel (The Bridewell Sisters #3)

T he next day, as much as Ivy wanted to go back to Fleet Street and find out what Blackbourne had discovered during this dinner with Penrose, she kept a previous promise she’d made to take the twins to the London Zoo. The outing had been planned weeks ago, and she couldn’t disappoint them.

“I think I’d prefer to see them in the sea.” Hyacinth had been pensive since they’d left the grounds of the zoo’s Fish House.

“But you couldn’t see them if they were in the sea,” Marigold pointed out.

Hyacinth sighed. “Yet I think they’d be happier there, wouldn’t they?”

Marigold couldn’t argue with Hyacinth’s point, but she lifted her sketchbook. “I made some drawings. Once I add watercolor, I’ll give them to you, so you can see them anytime you like.”

Hyacinth smiled. “Thank you.”

“I made a sketch for you too, Ivy.”

Ivy guided them through the other zoo visitors toward the entrance. They’d agreed with the family’s coachman to collect them at this hour.

“Oh? Thank you.” Ivy glanced down at her sister’s sketchbook. “Is it the sea anemone I admired?”

“No, it’s the gentleman you admired.” Marigold held up the page proudly.

Ivy slowed her steps and felt the maddening rush of her heartbeat—this time at a drawn image of the man. Mari had done an excellent job of capturing the squareness of his jaw, the waves of his hair, even the shape of his mouth.

“I don’t admire him,” she said a little too emphatically.

Both twins stopped walking. Hyacinth, who’d been holding Ivy’s hand, pulled her to a stop too.

“Why would you fib about such thing?” Marigold asked. Her tone rang with utter disappointment.

“She doesn’t want to admit that he flusters her,” Hyacinth said, relaying Ivy’s sentiments from the previous night.

“Yes, thank you, Cinthy.” Ivy only barely resisted rolling her eyes. “Come, let’s not keep Mr. Henshaw waiting.”

Once they’d located the coach and climbed inside, the twins on one bench and Ivy opposite them, the girls started going through the sketches Marigold had made at the zoo.

But Hyacinth kept glancing up at Ivy. “Perhaps you should tell him that you admire him.”

Marigold looked up with a mischievous look. “Or perhaps you should investigate him.”

During their sister Daphne’s Season, it had become an amusing topic in the family that Ivy would investigate any gentleman who so much as looked Daphne’s way, after one particular scoundrel had betrayed her trust.

Blackbourne, if he’d ever participated in the Season’s events, would no doubt have been investigated too—at least within the scope of Ivy’s amateur sleuthing skills.

“Perhaps I should look into him,” Ivy mused.

Though she’d have to possess the worst luck of any aspiring lady journalist in London if she’d taken an article about one nobleman’s involvement in criminal activities to an equally nefarious duke.

“Maybe he’ll go to the party you’re attending this evening,” Hyacinth said, almost hopefully.

Ivy hoped he did not attend because she had a plan to see what she could uncover inside Penrose’s townhouse. Blackbourne would certainly call her plan reckless.

But she cared far less about etiquette than uncovering the viscount’s crimes.

Ross couldn’t quite believe that he was in evening wear again.

At dinner the previous night, Penrose had invited him to attend a small gathering in which a painting of his wife would be unveiled, and Ross should have declined.

At least at The Savoy, the others in the dining room had been attending to their meals.

Tonight, Ross felt as if he was being considered as the meal.

Ladies’ eyes followed him hungrily. Not just marriageable debutantes and their mamas, but others like Lady Wentworth, a lovely widow who’d propositioned him at the last soiree he’d attended years ago.

Ross considered bolting. While his conscience might remind him he needed a duchess, he wasn’t seeking the sort of liaison someone like Lady Wentworth might propose.

As he took a drink offered by a servant winding their way through the gathering, he spotted a familiar face on the far side of the room—Edgerton was here with his duchess.

His presence gave Ross a moment’s pause. Good grief, had Penrose drawn Edgerton into one of his investment schemes? If Ivy knew, she’d certainly warn her brother-in-law about consorting with the man, which made Ross curious about the couple’s presence.

Edgerton seemed to sense his regard and looked his way. Ross approached the two.

“Blackbourne, have you met my wife?” Edgerton asked amiably.

“I have not had the pleasure. It is an honor to meet you, Duchess.” Ross offered her a nod.

The Duchess of Edgerton offered him a graceful nod in return and then assessed him with one tawny brow arched. “You might have met me years ago if you’d accepted one of our invitations, Your Grace.”

“Lily,” Edgerton said lightly and with a slight chuckle.

“I have been remiss, Duchess. Your chastisement is entirely fair.”

“Not a true chastisement, Your Grace. I feel a fondness for you now that you’ve seen my sister’s potential as a journalist.”

“I do,” Ross agreed.

“Speaking of Ivy, where is she?” Edgerton looked around.

Ross’s body tensed. “She’s here this evening?”

Neither of them answered, but the duchess swung her gaze to the far side of the room. “She went to speak to Miss Cartwright and her mother. They’ve been friends since last Season.” The duchess’s brows dipped. “But she’s not there anymore. Perhaps she went to the retiring room.”

”You’re not thinking of investing funds into any of Penrose’s schemes?” Ross asked Edgerton, trying for an untroubled tone.

“He’s asked me to,” he admitted. “Several times, in fact, but I always decline. I’m content with my investments at the moment and am not looking to speculate. Especially as we’re planning to leave the city for several months.”

“Back to Derbyshire?” The prospect of Ivy Bridewell leaving London should have been entirely satisfying to Ross.

The most distracting lady he’d met in years would be far away.

There’d be no running into her at The Savoy or anywhere else.

And more importantly, she couldn’t endanger herself by further prying into Penrose’s investments.

Yet the prospect wasn’t satisfying. Ross felt strangely bereft at the notion. At least for all of three minutes until he caught the scent of vanilla in the air and turned to see her approaching.

He swallowed hard at the sight of her. Tonight, she wore emerald and she was as dazzling as any jewel. A simple black ribbon choker at her throat drew his gaze there and then lower to where her bodice?—

“And you, Blackbourne?” Edgerton prodded, as if he’d spoken to Ross previously and he’d failed to respond.

Ross turned back to him, though he was damnably aware of Ivy drawing closer.

“Pardon?” he said to Edgerton.

“Have you invested in any of Penrose’s business ventures?”

“Have you?” Ivy asked from the spot she’d taken up tantalizingly close to his elbow.

“I have not.” Ross turned a look her way as he answered.

She nodded as if satisfied with his answer, but her eyes told a different story. Her suspicion was clear in the slight tightening of her jaw, the subtle narrowing of her eyes.

“Oh, it looks like the unveiling will commence soon,” the Duchess of Edgerton noted.

“Do find a spot to gather around,” Penrose called to his guests.

The Duke and Duchess of Edgerton strode closer to the cloth-covered painting. Ivy stayed next to him.

“Finding you here tonight makes your claim from last evening quite hard to believe, Your Grace,” Ivy said in a low accusatory tone.

“You have my vow that I told him nothing. I’m merely curious about the man.” He turned a look her way. “As are you.”

“Mmm.” The noncommittal sound was one he used out of habit. She seemed to take delight in using it against him. “If you discover anything, Your Grace, you’ll share it with me, won’t you?”

“Of course.” Or at least he would as long as it wouldn’t cause her to do anything reckless.

“Blackbourne, good God, it really is you.”

Ross turned at the man’s voice and wasn’t at all surprised to see Lord Alec Grainger at Penrose’s event. The two were thick as, well, thieves, which is precisely what Ross suspected they were. As soon as he’d read Ivy’s piece, he’d suspected Grainger had to be involved too.

“Penrose mentioned he’d dined with you.” Grainger leaned in a bit. “And that you might join us on the Southwell Shipping endeavor.”

Ross gave him a half-smile and offered no reply.

The nobleman was younger than Penrose, charming, fine-looking, and unmarried—everything Penrose was not. But the baron’s angelic face did not at all match his devilish reputation.

When Grainger slid his leering focus to Ivy, Ross had the sudden and irrational urge to wrap a hand around the man’s throat.

“I have not had the pleasure of meeting your lovely companion,” Grainger all but purred.

“Oh, I’m not—” Ivy began.

“Grainger,” Ross began, resting his fingers lightly at her elbow, “may I present Miss Ivy Bridewell.”

The rogue reached for her hand. To Ross’s shock, he felt Ivy slide her arm through the crook of his own.

Grainger’s jovial expression cooled a bit. “Pleased to meet you, Miss Bridewell.” With that, he nodded at Ross, pivoted on his heel, and approached Penrose.

Ivy immediately slid her arm free of Ross’s. “Forgive me for that.”

“Nothing to forgive.” He’d quite liked the feel of their arms entwined, though of course he couldn’t admit it.

“I fear it gave him the impression that we are…courting.” She glanced up at him. “I simply had the oddest impulse to avoid letting him touch me.”

“An excellent impulse.” Ross tried to ignore how his heart thrummed faster in his chest at the realization that she trusted him to touch her. “The man is an utter cad.”

“And an associate of Penrose’s,” she murmured, her voice still low enough to keep others from overhearing.

Ross nodded.

“I wonder why I never came upon his name,” she mused.

“He’s careful.”