interested in her answer. She shifted, apparently made uncomfortable by his nearness, but she did not look at him.
She named a price, Sara automatically clicked her tongue in rejection, ready to negotiate. He leaned closer and felt the Frenchwoman stiffen like a wary animal. She had brown hair, from what he could see of the little wisps escaping from that ghastly cap. They created an enticing veil over the vulnerable, biteable, nape of her neck.
‘I would want the chain included for that,’ Sara said.
He inhaled deeply. Warm, tense woman and… ‘Jasmine,’ Ashe murmured, close to the vendeuse’s ear. She went very still. Oh, yes, this was just like hunting and he had found game. ‘You get around, madame.’
‘My varied stock, you mean, monsieur?’ She spoke firmly, without a tremor. Her nerves must be excellent. ‘Indeed, it comes from all over the world. And, yes, the pendant suits your wife so well that I can include the chain in that price.’
‘But—’ Sara began.
‘You want it, my dear?’ Ashe interrupted her. ‘Then we will take it.’ Interesting, and subtly insulting, that his acquaintance from the quayside assumed he was married. Perversely he saw no reason to enlighten her immediately, and certainly not to pursue this further with Sara sitting there.
What sort of man did she think he was, to kiss and flirt with chance-met women if he had a wife at home? Ashe knew himself to be no saint, but he had been brought up with the example of marital fidelity before him daily and he had no time for men who were unfaithful to their wives.
Which was why he intended to choose with extreme care. This was England, not India, and flouting society’s rules would not be excused here. The family were different enough as it was, with their mixed blood, his maternal grandfather’s links to trade and his paternal grandfather’s reputation for dissipation.
Ashe had a duty to marry, to provide the next heir, to enrich the family name and title with the right connections and the estate with lands and money. He glanced down at his sister, reminded yet again that her own hopes of a suitable, good marriage depended on respectability. But he would be tied to the woman who brought those connections and that dowry with her. There had to be mutual respect or it would be intolerable. Love he did not expect.
‘This is your own shop?’ he asked as he peeled off his gloves in order to take banknotes from the roll Perrott had provided. He calculated currency conversions in his head, valuing the stock he could see. Even at Indian prices there was a considerable investment represented on the shelves around him.
‘Yes, monsieur.’ She was doggedly sticking to her French pretence. Used to negotiating with hostile Frenchmen in India, he could admire her accent.
‘Impressive. I was surprised that the name is the Cabinet of Curiosity, not Curiosities.’ Without the conflicting stinks of the river and the alleyway the subtle odour of jasmine on her warm skin was filling his senses. His body began to send him unmistakable signals of interest.
‘My intention is to provide stimulation to the intellect,’ she said, returning him his change. Her bare fingers touched the palm of his hand and he curled his fist closed, trapping her.
‘As well as of the senses?’ he suggested. She went very still. Her fingers were warm, slender. Under his thumb he felt her pulse hammering. He was not alone in this reaction. Stimulation to the senses, indeed.
‘To find the treasures here one needs curiosity,’ she finished, her voice suddenly breathless. Her accent had slipped a trifle.
‘You may be sure you have stimulated mine,’ Ashe murmured. ‘All of them. I will return, with or without my… sister.’
Her hand tensed in his and as suddenly relaxed. Oh, yes, she was as aware of him as he was of her and the news that he was unmarried had struck home.
‘I must wrap the pendant, monsieur.’ She gave a little tug and he released her. There was no wedding ring on those long slender fingers with their neat oval nails. The hunting instinct stirred again and with it certain parts of his body that were better kept under control when he was supposed to be escorting his sister on a blameless shopping expedition.
Ashe slipped the flat box into his breast pocket, resumed his gloves and waited for Sara to gather up her reticule and parasol. ‘You open your shop every day?’
‘Non. I open as the whim takes me, monsieur,’ the lady of curiosities said, a little tart now and very French again. He had flustered her and she did not forgive that easily, it seemed. ‘I am often away buying stock.’
‘Down by the Pool of London, perhaps?’
She shrugged, an elegant gesture that made him wonder if she was, indeed, French. But her accent when they first met had been completely English, he recalled and she had slipped up just now. ‘Anywhere that I can find treasures for my clients, monsieur. Good day, monsieur, mademoiselle.’
‘Au revoir,’ Ashe returned and was amused to see her purse her lips. She suspected, quite correctly, that he was teasing her.
Phyllida shot the bolt on the door and retreated into the back room. Him. Here. As though she had not had enough trouble trying, and failing, to get him out of her head. She spread out her right hand, the one he had captured in his own big brown fist. She had felt overpowered, an unexpected sensation. What was most unsettling was that it was not unwelcome. A strong, decisive man after Gregory’s lazy indecision was… stimulating. And dangerous. She reminded herself that for all the charm he was a man and one who probably had no hesitation in seizing what he wanted if charm alone did not work. Men had no hesitation in using their superior strength to take advantage of a woman.
He had been without his devil-bird, but with a charming sister who was, it seemed, as bright as she was pretty. The wretch, after that kiss, to let her think he was with his wife! It did not mean he did not have one at home, of course. Not that she cared in the slightest.
But who was he? He had paid in cash, which must mean he was not one of the ton. If he had been, he would have simply handed her his card and expected her to send him an account. Besides, she had never seen him before yesterday and she knew everyone who was anyone, by sight at least. Whoever he was, he was wealthy. His clothes were, again, superb, with that hint of foreign styling. His sister, too, was dressed impeccably and the simple pearls at her neck and ears were of high quality.
A wealthy trader? If he was with the East India Company it might explain his presence at the docks. A ship owner, perhaps.
Phyllida realised she was twisting the chain of her chatelaine into a knot and released it with an impatient flick of her wrist. He was the first person who had connected any of the elements of her complicated life. But provided he was not in a position to link Mrs Drummond, the dealer who scoured the East End and the docks for treasures for the stock of Madame Deaucourt, owner of the Cabinet of Curiosity, with Phyllida Hurst, the somewhat shady sister of the Earl of Fransham, he was no danger, surely?
Except for your foolish fantasies, she scolded herself. She had never enjoyed being kissed before and that caress by the Customs House had been skilled, casually delivered as it had been. The man was a flirt of the worst kind, Phyllida told herself as she jammed the tinted spectacles back on her nose and went to open up the shop again.
And he must flirt with everything and anything in skirts, she decided, catching sight of herself in a mirror. He could
