Chapter Twelve
Jaimie, Earl of Sandford, reread the report he’d received from the Home Office on yet another burglary in Mayfair. The fourth in a month. In the words of Mr Robert Peel, the Home Secretary, the ton’s uproar of indignation demanded immediate action.
Strangely, in most instances nothing of any real value had been taken. Rather, the perpetrators committed acts of mischief, tossing papers around or spilling ink on valuable carpets, before they left. In every case, the occupants had been fast asleep in their beds above stairs. All were badly unnerved.
Were these robberies committed by the same individual or individuals? Or was this rise in criminal activity simply coincidental with regard to timing and modes of entry?
Experience had taught Jaimie not to believe in coincidences.
‘And I told you, miss. He won’t see you.’ Growler’s deep rasp permeated his door and Jaimie raised his gaze from the document at the unusual occurrence. Growler’s throat had been ruined by smoke from the chimneys he’d been forced up as a small child. The man rarely raised his voice above a murmur.
Do not let yourself be distracted, my boy, not in matters of importance. His father’s words echoed comfortably in his mind, invoking a vague memory of his five-year-old self trying to master the complications of the letter f. How right Father had been. He again perused the sentence describing the latest robbery.
‘You has to leave, miss.’ Louder this time. Very loud for Growler.
Jaimie cursed as he again lost his place. Never once had he heard the fearsome-looking Growler raise his voice to a woman, whose sex he revered to the point of ridiculousness. And now he was shouting at one?
The woman’s reply, if she made one, did not penetrate the solid oak door.
The knock a moment later brought him to his feet and around from behind his desk. Anyone brave enough to stand up to Growler was worth taking a look at, no matter how important the report.
The door inched open.
‘Yes, Growler?’
The crack widened to half-open, revealing the burly figure of his second in command. The ex-bruiser’s face creased into worry. ‘There’s a lady wanting to see you, me lord. I told her you was busy, but she’s insisting...’
No lady would be visiting him in the suite of offices Jaimie rented in Lincoln’s Inn. ‘Tell her—’
At that moment, a short, veiled female figure draped from head to toe in mourning black strode past Growler as if he wasn’t there. No mean feat, given the man’s size and threatening posture.
‘You may tell me yourself, Lord Sandford.’ She angled her head towards Growler. ‘That will be all, thank you.’
Jaimie bristled. ‘Growler—’
‘Right you are, miss.’ Clearly relieved, Growler made good his escape.
Astonished and amused against his better judgement, Jaimie turned to the woman. ‘I beg your pardon, madam, but—’
‘I require your services to locate a missing person, my lord.’ She spoke as if he hadn’t said a word.
Amusement changed to annoyance. Damn and blast the article The Times had written about his miraculous recovery of a child stolen by a nursemaid. Now every female in London of marriageable age wanted him to find something they had lost. Usually a handkerchief or a puppy, because having forgotten about him for years, they now realised he remained one of the most eligible single gentlemen on the marriage mart, even if he was a widower. His stomach slid away.
The thought of having to find a second wife always made him feel slightly nauseous, though find one he must. Eventually. It was his duty to his title as his cousin, the heir presumptive, reminded him regularly.
He folded his arms across his chest and gave his visitor a hard stare.
‘Well?’ she countered in response to his silence. The veil shifted with her exhale.
The urge to peek beneath it and see if the face matched the clear, cool tones of her beautifully modulated voice took him by surprise. As did the realisation that Growler had been correct in describing her as a lady. Though exactly what sort of lady she might be remained in question.
He certainly wasn’t going to give her the satisfaction of asking for her name.
‘If you are missing a person,’ he said, keeping his voice level and far more pleasant than he felt she deserved, ‘I suggest you return home and request the assistance of your closest male relative. If you don’t have one, I recommend you seek the aid of your footman’
A toe tapped somewhere beneath the stiff, expensive silk of her skirts. ‘I have it on good authority that you are the best person for this particular task.’
There it was again. A voice full of calm matter-of-factness, but with a surprising musicality. A richness—He cut off his wandering thoughts. ‘Madam, I thank you for your confidence in my abilities, however, I regret I do not have time for any new projects at this moment. I am fully engaged and likely to be for some time. Good day to you.’
‘I can pay you.’ Clutched between thumb and forefinger she held out a pearl ring.
Annoyance rose in his gorge. Did she think he wasn’t a gentleman? That his refusal was based on monetary concerns? He forced the feeling down. It was a dangerous emotion when dealing with women, especially one who was clearly distraught despite her carefully calm voice. He did not hide his displeasure. ‘A hundred pounds’ deposit. Cash. Before I will so much as consider the project.’ The ring was clearly worth nowhere near that much.
She gasped, her fingers trembling around the ring, the little puff of air again lifting the veil, but still giving no clue as to her age or state of health. Or her looks.
Her shoulders slumped.
He felt...irritated instead of pleased at her defeat. Without a word he waved her towards the door, shepherding her in that direction with an outstretched arm. Now close enough to inhale a light waft of lavender. A floral statement of serenity, grace and calm, but... He frowned. Primarily, the flower symbolised distrust.
She probably did not understand that last. For what cause would this privileged and probably spoiled
