jacket and trousers were gray. With his black mask, vivid green eyes, and too-long, thick dark hair brushed to a shine, he made her think of a wolf disguised as a nobleman. So he didn’t make a habit of wearing a mask, and she sensed he felt awkward doing so, but he was very choosy of his confidants. She longed to remove it, to see his beautiful features again—the ones etched in a secret place in her heart. Whatever he concealed behind it, she didn’t think it would make the slightest difference to her.
“You’re staring,” he muttered, his gaze fixed ahead.
Uh-oh. “Apologies. It’s just that I haven’t seen you for so long, I…” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “Would you consider removing your mask if I sent Lucy inside the house?”
“No.”
Stifling her disappointment, she reassured herself that that too would come. She had made excellent progress so far. He’d finally invited her to prolong her visit. She was patient as well as resourceful—hadn’t her disarming little niece succeeded in softening his resistance? “If you are concerned about gossip, rest your mind at ease. Lucy never carries tales, and neither do I.”
“You, I trust. Your maid…” He cast a stern look at the compact female settling Danielli on her pink baby-blanket.
Curling her hand around his sleeve, Isabel rose on tiptoe and whispered, “Lucy’s cousin, Mary, lived with her husband in Cheapside, where they ran a tailor shop. Frank took a ball in the war, and Mary was left alone. Two weeks ago, the lease on her shop terminated, and Mary was evicted to the street. She ended up in a workhouse. I brought her to Seven Dover Street and—”
“You ventured into a workhouse? Alone?” He glowered at her.
His tone made her feel like a little girl in short skirts—which she wasn’t any longer. “I’m not a hoyden. I never venture out alone anywhere. I went with Lucy.”
His lips formed a grim line. “To which workhouse did you go?”
“To Bishopsgate. We took the poor girl out of that nasty place and now—”
“Bishopsgate—in Spitalfields?” he growled. “Does Stilgoe know about this?”
“No, he doesn’t,” she hissed, indicating Lucy’s back. “As I was saying, we took Mary out of there, and now she mends our staff’s livery for the time being, but I hope to find her a better position soon. So you see, Lucy would never gossip about me or my friends.”
His gaze softened. “Isabel the lioness, defender of the weak, protector of the unfortunate.” He leaned aside, pulling away the errant curl clinging to her lips. “What’s the second reason?”
Her breath caught. She kept telling herself that all he’d ever felt or would feel for her was fondness, but adhering to her decision to just be fond of him proved to be extremely difficult.
“Lucy minds Danielli, and I…wanted to be free to talk with you, my lord.”
His eyes turned cold. “Was there something in particular you wished to discuss with me? Your charity, perhaps?”
“No, just to chat.” She smiled nervously. She was going to help him feel human again if it killed her—which was a real possibility, considering the risk to her reputation…and to her silly heart. Only this time she was older and wiser. No moonlit kisses, no stupid love confessions. She would offer friendship and expect nothing more than his friendship in return.
“Just to chat?” he repeated, unconvinced. “You have no special requests—some documents for my perusal or some wretched soul I should help you save?”
“No, nothing,” she said in earnest.
“Very well. I’ll mind Danielli. Call off your dragon.”
Isabel watched him saunter to her niece and sit on the grass beside her. Danielli instantly pounced on him. Hector loped over. Ashby introduced him to the girl. They were becoming one big happy family. Fine. If he preferred being alone with her, it would only make her task that much easier. She approached Lucy. Her maid was pretending not to notice their host at all. Blind, deaf, and dumb, Lucy would make a splendid butler. “You may go inside the house now, Lucy. The sun is strong today. You’ll get those terrible headaches again. I’ll look after Danielli.”
Her maid shot her a puzzled look—they were sitting in the mottled shade of a large elm tree—but made herself scarce nonetheless.
Ashby shrugged out of his jacket and laid it out on the grass for Isabel. “Thank you.” She plunked herself down and arranged her skirts over her ankles. She saw Hector sniffing Danielli, who seemed both mesmerized by and afraid of the black retriever. Instinctively Isabel leaned forward, uncertain whether the dog could be trusted with such a young person.
A hand stayed her. “She’s safe. Hector would never hurt her.”
“How can you be sure?” Isabel retorted, annoyed to be held back.
“Because I trained him,” Ashby said. “She isn’t the first toddler he has sniffed. We passed through many villages in Spain.”
Danielli tugged on Hector’s ear. Isabel’s heart stopped, but the dog slumped at Danielli’s feet and let her assault him without so much as a twitch. Isabel let out a sigh. “Be nice to the doggy, pudding.”
“Don’t you trust me?”
His masked face loomed mere inches away. The tiniest tail of a scar on his right cheek escaped the pall of his mask. She curled her hands into fists to keep from tracing it with her finger. “I do trust you, but I am not her mother and therefore must be thrice as vigilant.”
“Because she’s your responsibility…”
“Correct.”
“…along with all the unfortunate strays in the city?” It was a statement, not a question.
“You’re making fun of me.”
“No.” He reached out and looped one of the soft curls floating beside her cheek around his finger. “I still don’t like the idea of you wandering through Spitalfields and its rookeries-infested environs,” he murmured. “Next time, come to me first. I’ll send someone with you.”
“Why not come with me yourself? You’ll find the experience fascinating, I assure you.”
“You think I haven’t seen enough misery in my life? I told you—I’m done with that.”
Who was he fooling? She contemplated his expressive eyes. “Your neighbors are throwing a ball this evening,” she mentioned conversationally.
“I know,” he said dryly. “Believe it or not, I still get my fair share of invitations.”
“You’re a war hero, Ashby. Everyone wants to shake your hand. You should attend. You’ll cause quite a stir. Lady Barrington will be delighted.”
“I’m not Wellington,” he grunted. “I don’t go about with an entourage, hopping from balls to soirees, expecting standing ovations. Nor do I relish shaking the hands of those who couldn’t tear themselves away from their clubs to actually make a difference in the damned war.”
An
