Page 5

P atrick walked along Bond Street toward his favorite tea shop with nothing overly concerning occupying his thoughts other than the plate of cakes in his future. Glancing around, he noted the fine weather had brought plenty of people out today. He just hoped there was a spare seat in the tea shop.

He’d dreamed of that bloody woman again last night. It was as if she’d taken up residence inside his head. The problem was, he didn’t just want the Countess of Monmouth; he wanted to know the truth about her. Patrick hated unsolved puzzles, and she was that for him.

But why do you care?

He loathed people who were frauds, that was why. Even if she was not hurting him and even if Lady Carstairs seemed close to the woman, he needed to know what her story was. And you’re lying to yourself if you think that’s the only reason.

Preparing to cross the road, he looked right and saw her. The Countess of Monmouth was standing with her late husband’s nephew up ahead. To Patrick, Dutton looked angry and was leaning toward her in a threatening way.

Not your business. As those words slid into his head, Patrick watched Dutton grab the countess’s wrist. She tried to pull away and failed. The anger was swift, and in seconds, he was heading in their direction.

Neither saw him approach, but the other woman who stood slightly behind Dutton had, and whatever she read on Patrick’s face had her eyes widening.

“Release Lady Monmouth at once, Dutton,” Patrick said when he reached her side.

Her head turned fast, and their eyes collided. He saw the fear in the wide green depths, and Patrick thought he’d been angry before, but seeing that lit something inside him. A fuse that rarely, if ever, ignited. He would think about his reaction later.

“Now, Dutton,” he growled.

“We are related, Coulter. Get on with your business,” the man said, looking smug.

“If you do not release her at once, I will break your fingers,” Patrick said.

“You c-can’t speak to me like that,” Dutton stuttered. Like all bullies, he was a coward when faced with someone larger than him. “We are gentlemen!”

“And grabbing a lady’s wrist so hard that it will likely leave marks is the act of a gentleman, is it?”

Dutton released her.

“I believe your carriage awaits you, my lady,” Patrick said, cupping her elbow. He wore gloves but swore he could feel the heat from her skin. “Come, I will escort you.”

“I was just having a chat with my dear aunt, Coulter,” Dutton said, his eyes darting to Patrick and away again. “It is many months since we did so.”

“It looked to me like you were intimidating her, Dutton. So perhaps, if you want to talk to her in the future, do so in a more gentlemanly manner.”

He and Dutton had never crossed paths before, but that had now changed, Patrick thought. The man had just made an enemy of him.

“Move your feet, Countess,” he said, urging her forward.

“I need no escort, Lord Coulter, from you or Lord Dutton, thank you.” She found her voice, even if it was a little high-pitched.

“I will take care of Lady Monmouth,” Dutton said.

“No, you won’t,” Patrick said, nudging her away from the man without another word of acknowledgment.

“Thank you, my lord, but I can walk to the carriage from here,” she said.

“Why was Dutton threatening you?” Patrick continued to walk, and as he still held her elbow, she had to as well.

“A family debate, Lord Coulter, and nothing more,” she said.

Patrick wasn’t sure what he had interrupted, but Dutton’s anger was real, and he had a feeling it was more than a family debate. He noted her chin was raised, as if daring him to continue with this line of questioning.

He dared because Patrick wanted the truth, and when he went after something, he didn’t stop until he had answers.

Looking down her body, he did exactly what he’d accused Dutton of—behaved in an ungentlemanly manner. Why her? There were many beautiful women in society, and not one of them had made Patrick react as he did around this one. Was it just that he wanted to know her story, or was there something more?

You don’t care about people, especially women. His mother had taught him that.

As if realizing she was holding his arm, the countess released him and moved a foot away. He hated that his first instinct had been to haul her back to his side.

“My carriage is here, my lord. Good day to you.”

“That was not a family debate, Countess. I think there was rage in Dutton’s eyes and?—”

“A family disagreement and nothing more,” she interrupted, her tone icy now. The walls were again in place.

“Is all well, So—my lady?” the driver said, preparing to climb down as they arrived. “Jenny said that scoundrel Viscount Dutton was?—”

“All is well, Robbie,” she cut the driver off.

“I will escort her in. You do not need to climb down,” Patrick said, halting the driver. He hadn’t missed the man’s stutter. It was almost as if he’d wanted to call her Sophie. Surely not? Looking at him, he noted his face was creased with worry, his eyes on the woman at his side.

“Everything is fine, Robbie,” she said and followed it up with a smile. Not one of those fake ones she used on him, this one was genuine, and it made Patrick’s stomach clench.

Opening the carriage door, he held out his hand. She hesitated and then placed her small fingers in his, and he helped her inside.

“I hope the rest of your day goes a great deal better than your recent encounter with Dutton, Countess.”

“Thank you. I am sure it will,” she said.

Patrick helped her maid inside and then stepped back to watch the carriage roll away, wondering what the hell had just happened. One thing he did know was that he needed a plate of cakes to work through the encounter.