Page 22 of The Lyon Whisperer (The Lyon’s Den Connected World #79)

O n Tuesday afternoon the following week, Amelia sat before her escritoire holding the final RSVP for the dinner party she and Chase would host in less than two weeks’ time.

With bated breath, she broke the seal and withdrew the card, quickly scanning the checked box and signature.

Lord and Lady Selbie would attend.

She bounded from her stool and, card still grasped, flew from her chamber. She hurried down the steps and along the corridor to Chase’s office. Without knocking, she flung the door open.

Chase was not inside.

Frustration riffled through her. Where could he…She narrowed her eyes as an idea struck her.

A moment later, she hastened for the kitchens.

Cook gave her an arch look as she burst into the warm room. “If you’ve come for the three little hellions, you’re too late. His lordship’s already taken them out.”

She smiled. As she’d thought. He acted like he found the pups a burden, but nine times out of ten, he beat her downstairs in the mornings to take them out, and he had developed a similar habit of working with them in the afternoon.

He’d taught them to sit and stay on command—mostly. Roddy would not always obey stay, least wise, not when he got the impression Chase was getting too far away from him.

She shook her head and let herself out the back door. Poor little pup. He would miss Chase terribly when she found a home for him. She was beginning to think placing him was not going to be a problem. He was the staff’s favorite, by far. Everyone oohed over his indomitable spirit despite being the smallest of the three and having the handicap of only one eye.

She found them behind the coach house, and took a moment to simply observe.

Chase had unearthed a stick, a felled branch by the look of it. As she watched, he whisked it through the air.

As it sailed a good distance away, the hounds ran, their eyes, or eye, in Roddy’s case, on the goal.

Rose was the first to reach the landing spot. Amelia knew because her coat was darker than her brothers’. Just as she went to snatch up the stick, Fergus crashed into her.

Roddy promptly swooped up the branch and trotted back to Chase, who wore the smile of a proud parent.

Amelia clapped in delight and strode forward. “Well done.”

She reached Chase the same time Roddy did. Meanwhile, Rose and Fergus, who had commenced wrestling after their collision, stared in dazed stupefaction at the three of them as if just realizing they’d lost the game to Roddy.

Chase reached into his pocket and withdrew a scrap of something edible which he bestowed on the runt.

The scrap disappeared in a blink.

Chase turned his attention to Amelia. His dark gaze roamed over her, drifting from her head to her toe and back again.

Heat suffused her. Even in the middle of the day, her body reacted to him like that of the most hoydenish of women.

“Good afternoon, Amelia.” He tucked a lock of her hair behind one of her ears, his fingers lingering over her jawline.

She tried and failed to suppress a shiver.

One corner of his mouth kicked upward and his eyes gleamed knowingly. “I thought I’d take care of your mongrels’ never-ending need for play and allow you time for your correspondence.”

“I appreciate your efforts, so long as helping me does not occupy too much of your time I know you have many responsibilities.”

He scrubbed a hand over his jaw and only then did she notice crinkles of fatigue around the corners of his eyes. “I needed a break from scrutinizing the estates’ ledgers.”

He picked up the stick one of the puppies had delivered to him and tossed it again. Rose and Fergus raced after it. Roddy, on the other hand, sat beside Chase, his gaze shifting from Amelia to Chase as if he followed the vein of their conversation.

She crouched to rub a hand over his soft, curly head. She wished she could help Chase. Alas, numbers had never been her forte.

If her plot to discover the identity of the arsonist, or at least his fabric supplier, proved fruitful, perhaps, then, she would actually do some good for her husband.

She rose, dusting off her hands.

“Did you merely wish to see me, or did you have a purpose in tracking me down?”

“Actually, I had something to tell you.”

“Walk with me?” he asked.

She nodded, and the two—three, if she counted Roddy—set off along the wood perimeter.

As she had several times since receiving Lady Harriet’s well-meaning advice, she contemplated sharing her theory with him that no shopkeeper worth his salt would name names to a solicitor.

Fear pricked her, as it had from the moment she developed her scheme. At once she realized why she held back. It wasn’t his displeasure she feared, but the idea he might scoff at her efforts.

He treated her with the utmost consideration, and his lovemaking stole her ability to think. But what if she discovered he did not respect her the way she did him?

And why would he? Certainly her father always found her notions “hare-brained.” Why wouldn’t her husband? The two seemed birds of a feather in many ways.

No, she wanted to—needed to—prove herself and saw her investigation into the fabric source as an opportunity to do so.

Her upcoming dinner was another opportunity to show her worth.

“I received the final RSVP today. Everyone I invited has agreed to come.”

He nodded and his mouth curved up slightly. “Remind me who’s on this illustrious list.”

She narrowed her eyes on him. Was he making fun of her? “My father,” she began, “whose presence lends credence to any affair. Your aunt and uncle, who bring a degree of levity and whom everyone likes.”

She waited.

He nodded.

“Lord and Lady Selbie,” she continued.

His dark eyes sharpened on her. “He has been one of the hardest swing votes to pin down. I have yet to speak with him at all, despite my best efforts.”

She smiled inwardly. “I understand he leads the faction of the most fiscally and socially conservative. Where he goes, others follow.”

“He’s tightfisted,” Chase summarized. “It’s doubtful I can draw him to my camp.”

“If anyone can, you can,” she said, “and I have often heard my father say, forewarned is forearmed—politically speaking.”

“True. It would be helpful to know what I’m up against, assuming I can’t reel him in.”

“You shall assume no such thing,” she chastised.

“Yes, madam wife.”

“Lady Frommer, the dowager duchess of Glastonbury, to balance things out.”

“An interesting choice.”

Amelia bit her lip. “The dowager’s husband, the late duke, worked hard to better the lives of the common man, and, as I recall, his duchess worked tirelessly behind the scenes, hosting soirees , balls, dinners, luncheons, even welcoming traveling diplomats into her home when it behooved her husband for her to do so.”

“Really?”

“Yes.”

“My, you have done your homework. Where did you come by this information?”

The Ladies’ Literary Club members, of course. “One hears things.”

“I see. A week from Saturday?”

“Yes. That reminds me—you recall I will need the carriage to go into town again this coming Saturday, do you not?”

“Yes. Your club again. Do you often meet weekly?”

“It depends,” she hedged. “Is it a problem?”

He grasped her elbow, steering her in an about-face. “I must return to my work,” he said by way of explanation. “In answer to your question, no, I do not foresee a problem unless you mind me riding along with you. I have some things to see to in town.”

Amelia spent a good part of the week considering how to get herself to Bond Street and then to Lady Harriet’s without alerting her husband to her activities come Saturday.

In the end, the solution was simple. She told him she needed to stop by Madame Eloise’s shop. Not wishing to lie, she did not tell him precisely why. She did ask if he wished to join her. She thought that aspect of her plan particularly clever.

He arched his jet-black brows and stared at her as if she had lost her mind. He chose his words with more diplomacy. “Unfortunately, I must meet with my uncle and his man-of-affairs to go over this quarter’s books. I haven’t got time to spare for a Bond Street expedition.”

“Of course.”

She gazed at him, seated on the bench across from her.

He was so dark and mysterious to her, even now. She wanted to know everything about him, to glean all his secrets. She wanted… his love.

She swallowed. There was that word again. Love. She feared her friends had the right of it. She had fallen head over heels in love with the man.

She esteemed him, found him maddeningly captivating, devastatingly handsome and altogether unlike any other. The rumble of his voice thrilled her. His scent intoxicated her. His actions filled her with a quiet sense of safety and pride.

But what did he feel for her? Passion, yes, there could be no denying that, but did she interest him as a person? Did he find her intellectually stimulating?

“You look very intent, Amelia. Is everything all right?”

He was a keen observer, as well, she thought, wryly. “I was just wondering about you, my lord.”

He stretched out his long legs and lounged back, arms spread over the tops of the cushions. “About me?”

She nodded. “What captures your interest, other than your work, of course?”

He glanced out the small window at the passing countryside. “I’m not sure what you mean.”

“Do you like the opera? The theater? Do you enjoy reading, or traveling? Do men’s fashions hold any appeal—”

He snorted at that, interrupting her train of thought. “As to the last, fashions? No. Opera?” He shrugged. “Also, no. Nor do I make a practice of frequenting the theatre, though Uncle Harry keeps a box. I suppose I did find the last performance I attended vaguely entertaining. If it’s an interest of yours, we can certainly arrange to go.”

She smiled. “I would like that very much. My father does not keep a box. He and my mother did, but after her death…” She left off with a small shrug. “It is of no consequence.”

His eyes narrowed on her briefly, as if digesting her words. A moment later he went on. “Let’s see. What else did you ask about?”

“Reading,” she replied, heart aflutter. He listened to her. Truly listened, and now bothered to give her a thoughtful answer.

Her heart sank even deeper into the mire of sticky, bottomless love.

“Reading. Yes, I do enjoy reading.”

“The last book you read?”

He slanted her an amused glance. “One of your favorites, I believe.” He crossed his arms over his chest, and one side of his mouth quirked upward.

“Mine? But how could you—”

“Amelia, or should I call you, Lady MacIvor?”

She blinked at him, completely lost for a full two seconds until she remembered her midnight visit upon learning she and he had been betrothed. Abruptly laughter burst from her lips. “You refer to the name I gave your London butler,” she half accused.

“Quite right. Then there are the names you assigned each of your rescued hounds—Roderick, Rose, and Fergus who remain with us, which means, the two you’ve rid us of—”

“—Found homes for,” she interjected.

His dark eyes shone with undisguised amusement. “—must be Flora and Edward.”

She fell back into the cushions, succumbing to a fit of giggles. When she could talk, she sat upright and smoothed her skirts. Embarrassed heat spread over her from head to toe. “I beg your pardon, sir.”

“Whatever for? For your laughter?”

She lowered her eyes. “For my unladylike laughter.”

He gave a grunt of dismissal. “I find your lack of feigned ennui refreshing. Now, kindly affirm or deny my theory. I’ve long wondered.”

He’d long wondered… about her? Her heart ached from the in-pouring of emotion.

She cleared her throat. “You are quite correct, sir. I adored Waverley. You also enjoyed it?”

“I did. I’m curious about your thoughts on it, and, more to the point, why you chose the name Flora MacIvor as your alias.”

“Well,” she began, drawing out the word. “Our club voted on whether or not to read it and unanimously decided in favor.”

“How very democratic. Go on.”

“I went in not knowing what to expect, the genre of historical fiction being new to me.” She bit her lower lip. “I’m not sure how you’ll feel about what I have to say next.”

One corner of his mouth quirked upward. “Try me.”

“It’s just, I rather sympathized with the Jacobite cause as portrayed in the book, and, to be frank, I found it refreshing the author spared a moment to explore a viewpoint other than that which paints Great Britain as infallible. Not that I’m a stern Jacobite supporter of olden days, mind you, but I appreciated that the author took the time to thoughtfully consider both sides.”

She held her breath. Her husband was a renowned military leader. Would he take umbrage with her ideas?

He regarded her a long moment. “In games of state, the truth often lies somewhere in the middle—not always, mind you.”

“As in the case of Napoleon’s aggression.”

He inclined his head. “Just so.”

“As for why I chose to borrow the name of Flora MacIvor—”

He snorted, and she flashed him a grin. “I admired her outspokenness and selflessness. I cheered her willingness to sacrifice her own wants and needs for the greater good, unlike her counterpoint Lady Bradwardine.”

She waited for him to comment. When he did not, but merely stared at her with inscrutable dark eyes, she grew anxious. She felt bared, as if she’d inadvertently shared too much.

“What did you like about the novel?” she asked, smoothing her skirts.

“I thought it a good story, and historically accurate.”

The carriage rumbled to halt. They’d arrived at Bond Street, already?

Disappointment lanced through her at the prospect of parting ways before she could remind herself she had taken pains to assure such an outcome.

She gathered her small reticule and pelisse, preparing to exit the coach. “I shall see you on the journey back to Warren House. Perhaps we can continue our discussion then. Thank you for a diverting afternoon.”