asking to be robbed.”
She laughed. She did not seem remotely offended. “Good advice,” she said. She leaned closer. Tom could feel the heat of her skin. “All my jewelry is paste,” she whispered. “I sold the proper stuff years ago.”
A counterfeit lady in more ways than one, Tom thought. He took a step back and tried to concentrate.
“How may I help you, ma’am?” he asked.
She liked the courtesy. A small smile played about her lips. “I hear you’re the best,” she said.
Tom smiled back. “That depends on what you want.”
Her gaze swept over him comprehensively, making her needs quite explicit. “I’ve yet to meet a man who did not claim to be the best at everything,” she murmured.
“I’d rather be an expert in one thing than master of none,” Tom said. He held the chair for her then slid behind his desk. “I don’t believe you introduced yourself,” he added.
Her eyes gleamed. “I prefer not to do so.”
Tom shrugged. He had her measure now. She was a spoiled little rich, and possibly titled, girl, who had been indulged—or neglected—when younger and as a result had run wild. She was used to getting her own way and she was probably nowhere near as sophisticated as she pretended. He wondered what her parents or guardians were thinking to give her so much freedom to get into trouble. But then, she was not so young that she should not know better and the moral guidance of gently bred young women was not his affair.
“So how may I help you?” he repeated.
She gave him a sideways glance from slanting cat’s eyes. “I … need you to find someone for me.”
“Man or woman?” Tom said.
She bit her lip. “It’s a child.”
“Yours?” Tom asked.
Her look poured scorn. “Please! I’m not so careless.”
Tom was not sure he believed her. He could quite easily see her falling from grace as a young girl and being parceled off to give birth secretly. The baby would be given away, the matter hushed up. It was a story he came across often enough, secrets and lies, his bread and butter.
“Very well then,” he said. “If not yours, whose?”
“The Duke of Farne’s.”
Tom almost snapped his quill in half. “I beg your pardon?”
She frowned at him. “I want you to find Garrick Farne’s child.”
“Garrick Farne doesn’t have any children,” Tom said.
“Precisely.” She put her head on one side, looked at him. “I thought you were supposed to be good at this?”
“All right,” Tom said. “You’re alleging that Garrick Farne has an illegitimate child whose existence he has suppressed—for whatever reason—and you want to find out who the child is and where he or she is?”
She inclined her head. “That is correct.”
“Why?” Tom asked.
She fidgeted. “I did not think I was required to explain my reasons to you. I thought I only needed to ask. And to pay.”
Strictly speaking she was correct, Tom thought. He took plenty of jobs for the money and asked no questions, but in this case he was curious.
“Humor me,” he said.
She looked at him, sighed. “Look, my name is Harriet Knight and I am—I was—the late Duke of Farne’s ward.”
So this, Tom thought, was the woman Merryn said Garrick Farne had thrown out of his bedroom. He looked at the clinging silk gown, the straining breasts and the knowing glint in her eyes. Perhaps the rumors about Farne were true, Tom thought, that he had buried his heart with his wife, that he had renounced the reckless libertinism of his youth and that he lived like a monk. A man would have to be made of stone not to have some sort of physical response to Harriet Knight.
“Why do you want to find Farne’s by-blow?” he asked bluntly.
She looked at him out of the corner of her eye. “To care for him or her?”
Now it was Tom’s turn. “Please!” he said. “Do I look as though I would fall for that?”
She gave him a long, slow smile. “All right. The truth is …” She paused. “I’m curious. I heard things—about an affair, about a child. When Garrick’s wife died I was only young, but I was inquisitive. I used to listen at doors. And I heard the Duke, my guardian, talking about a baby, finding a place for it with a respectable family, paying them an income … Even though I was only in my teens I knew that Garrick was a terrible rake.” Her eyes sparkled. “Truth to tell, it made him most frightfully attractive to me.” The sparkle died. She sounded sulky. “So I thought I would like to know what happened to it, one way or the other.” She sat back and looked expectantly at him.
“Why now?” Tom said. “Why wait so long to ask questions?”
Harriet shrugged. “Well, I want to know because …” She fidgeted with the clasp of her reticule, avoiding his eyes.
“You want to know because it will give you a hold of some sort over Farne,” Tom said. “You want to embarrass him for some reason.”
Harriet looked pained. “That’s very frank.” Her eyelashes fluttered. For a second she was the perfect facsimile of the delicate society debutante. “I wanted to marry Garrick,” she said. “He turned me down and sent me away. He thinks I am on my way to Sussex now to stay with his mother.” Her lip curled. “Do I look the sort of girl who wishes to rot in the countryside with a dowager aunt?”
“Not at all,” Tom said dryly. “How unappreciative of Farne to reject you.” Harriet Knight, he thought, must have wanted Garrick Farne for a very long time, probably since those teenage days when she had had a tendre for him. No wonder she nursed such resentment. He stood up and came round to the front of the desk. “Take my advice, Miss Knight—”
“Lady Harriet,” she corrected.
Tom grinned. “Take my advice, Lady Harriet. Seeking to get back at Garrick Farne through broadcasting information about his bastard child will not give you the satisfaction you crave, nor will it persuade him to marry you.”
Harriet pouted. “It would make me feel better,” she said. “I like revenge.”
“You’ll have to stand in line,” Tom muttered.
Harriet’s big green eyes opened wide. “I beg your pardon?”
“Nothing,” Tom said. He sighed. “Surely the best revenge would be to show Farne what he was missing? Make a spectacular marriage, run off with someone else instead of hankering after him—”
“He wouldn’t care,” Harriet said sulkily. “He cares for nothing. I want
