Page 7

P iers had been dining more often at the Lyon’s Den, much to his chef’s chagrin, but he’d promised to break the habit soon. Mrs. Dove-Lyon had informed him that the kitchen maid who did all the soups would be leaving at the end of the week to rejoin her family.

He’d been bitterly disappointed and was eager to see the young woman again, to see if he might persuade her into his employ—assuming Francois could be persuaded to accept another helper in his busy kitchen.

However, Piers’s efforts had been blocked by any number of Mrs. Dove-Lyon’s staff, all of whom appeared to be above bribery, and the lady herself was always unavailable.

As the end of the week drew closer, his frustration increased to the point where he was neglecting his businesses, particularly the mine in Devon.

He’d have to go down there in person to make sure everything was in order—and a visit to Papa and Maman was overdue, anyway.

It was now Friday, and he was tired of trying to concentrate on the weekly takings from the Old Forum and the inevitable subtractions for staff wages, costume repairs, cleaning, refreshments, etcetera, etcetera.

Cleaning his nib on the pen wiper, he blotted the total at the bottom of a column of figures, then called for his hat and coat.

There was nothing like a good brisk walk across Town on a fine spring day to revive dwindling spirits.

The cobbled streets were newly washed by last night’s rain and glittered like silver in the sunlight.

With the bustle of London traffic, street cries, the smells of cooking and coal fires, and the colorful pelisses and hats of the ladies promenading along the pavements, London appeared at its most jovial and forgiving.

But that was just a thin veneer. Piers knew all about its blackened heart, about the web of treachery and greed that bound the streets and alleyways, about the dereliction, the poverty, the sickness, and despair.

Even now, his son Oliver, the heir he’d never seen, lived cheek-by-jowl with London’s lowlife and there was, for the moment, nothing he could do about it.

His mood changed. Where in God’s name had that woman taken Oliver?

When would he be permitted to meet his son?

He could see no reason for them to be kept apart unless there was something wrong with the boy.

But surely, Charlotte must understand that he could deal with that kind of thing, whatever the problem.

He was just passing a small market when he was startled out of his reverie by a voice he recognized. The voice belonged to the very last person he would have expected to find in such a place.

“Five fillets of your best turbot, please. Don’t try to bamboozle me with something inferior, as you did yesterday. I’ve spent enough time by the sea to know fresh fish when I smell it. Yes, that will be all, thank you.”

Looking forward to the encounter, Piers positioned himself behind a petite female swathed in an old, knitted shawl, her face hidden by a plain chip bonnet.

“Good morning, Miss Bellamy.”

With a gasp, the woman turned toward him, then immediately hurried away, stuffing the fish into her basket and ignoring the change held out to her by the fishmonger.

Not used to being run away from by young ladies, Piers decided to follow. He had no wish to make a scene, so kept his distance until Miss Bellamy turned a corner and disappeared into a small park. It was as good a place as any to end the chase.

Catching up with her, he grasped her elbow and pulled her to a halt.

“I’m puzzled to see you buying your own fish, and completely unchaperoned.

What if you were to run into a renowned rake like myself, who cares not one jot for the opinion of the ton?

” Why was she dressed in such dowdy clothes today?

The Earl of Aylsham could afford a decent gown for his wife’s sister, couldn’t he?

Miss Bellamy stared up at him, her rosebud mouth set in an angry line.

“Do you intend to haunt my footsteps for the rest of my life, sir? Is one permitted no privacy in London anymore?”

An uncomfortable feeling churned in the pit of his stomach.

He stared at her. Then stared some more.

After which he smote himself on the forehead and called himself every kind of a fool.

He couldn’t resist the urge to laugh, and the outrage on her face when he did so made him laugh even harder.

She gave a little huff of disgust and turned away, but he quickly pulled himself together, caught her arm again and somehow found himself possessed of her basket.

“You’re either quite mad or exceedingly fond of fish, Mr. Darvill. Please give me my basket.”

“Not until you tell me why Miss Bellamy, related by marriage to an earl, is working in the kitchens of the Lyon’s Den.”

He took a moment to wipe the tears of laughter from his eyes and realized that his hands now smelled of fish—so he might as well hang onto the basket for the moment. At least it meant he could keep Miss Bellamy captive without it being obvious.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Mr. Darvill. I have never heard of the Wolf’s Lair.”

“Lyon’s Den,” he corrected her.

“Well, I haven’t heard of that either. I’m buying fish for our household because I can’t trust the servants to make the best purchases. There. Does that satisfy you?”

“Not in the least. There’s no point trying to pull the wool over my eyes, Miss Bellamy.

You may have done it once before, but it was dark during our encounter at the theater, so my failure to recognize you from Mrs. Dove-Lyon’s kitchen can be excused.

I have a theater of my own so I’m familiar with the craft of acting and I must allow that you’re reasonably good at it.

Nonetheless, I’ve learned to see through people’s facades.

There’s only one Miss Bellamy in London, and for some reason that I cannot fathom, she’s spent the last week or so making soup—excellent soup, I should add—at a gentlemen’s gaming hell. ”

He pressed his finger to his lips, then wished he hadn’t. Pulling out a handkerchief, he cleaned his hands as best he could, then treated Miss Bellamy to his most piercing gaze.

It had no effect.

“I categorically deny it. As you say, why would a member of the ton spend their time in the kitchen when there is all the London Season to enjoy? It makes no sense. Therefore, the only answer is that you’ve confused me with someone else.”

He raised an eyebrow, and her cheeks pinked. He was making progress—she’d confess soon enough.

“Then I’m sorry that I’ve misrepresented you. My apologies also for delaying you. Now, please allow me to carry your basket and escort you back to your lodgings.” He waited, fascinated to see what her next move would be.

It wasn’t what he expected.

She slapped him. While he was still gaping in amazement, she turned her back on him and hurried off toward the other exit from the park.

He wasn’t going to let his prey escape that easily. No one was going to strike Piers Darvill in public, in full daylight, and get away with it!

His long stride soon brought him abreast of her. “What was that for? You can’t just go around hitting people.”

She didn’t slow her step. “And you can’t just go around kissing people.”

His good humor returned. So that was it.

“At least I did that surreptitiously, where nobody would see. Now, anyone who saw you hit me will be wondering what it was about, and we’ll be the subject of the gossip sheets in no time. Surely, you don’t enjoy attracting that kind of speculation?”

She emitted a groan. “Oh, for goodness’ sake, Mr. Darvill. Please give me my fish basket and let me go about my business.”

“You won’t tell me what you’re up to, then?”

“No. It’s vital that no one knows my secret. Since it’s partly due to you that I’m in this predicament, I think it would be churlish of you to bother me any longer.”

This only intrigued him more, of course, but he didn’t want to question her in a London park in the daytime. He sensed that the more he pressed her, the more she would retreat, and she was far too interesting an object for him to allow that.

“Very well, Miss Bellamy. You may keep your secrets, and I apologize if I’ve done you any disservice.

I would apologize for the kiss as well had it not been so delectable.

As you know, I have a reputation for being a rake, and I’m afraid we’re notorious for doing that kind of thing. Think nothing of it.”

Although, he rather hoped that she had thought about it. “Delectable” was an understatement; it had been as much as he could do not to kiss her again immediately. For a considerable length of time.

“I certainly do know about rakes.” She snatched the basket away from him.

“And other things. It’s a pity you had to pay that actress for her services the other night.

Yes, I saw you do so, from my carriage window.

I would have thought a real rake wouldn’t have to pay for any lady’s attention. Good day to you.”

She stomped off.

The devil! He’d had his face slapped and ended up smelling of fish. And now she’d insulted his manhood!

“Watch out, Miss Belinda Bellamy,” he muttered, wiping his hands again. “That payment wasn’t what you think. One day, I shall prove to you that I don’t have to pay for the attentions of women. Not even a basket of smelly fish will save you.”