more about him than he had cared to share while revealing nothing at all about the shops she had frequented or the things she’d sold to them.
Then, there was Miss Hope Strickland, who was currently sitting beside him in a rented carriage on their way to a pawnshop. She was simmering like a soup kettle with the desire to finish her part in the search as quickly as possible so she might never lay eyes on him again.
And a very pretty kettle of soup she was. Chestnut hair, large brown eyes and a pert nose accented the sort of soft, curvy body a man longed to hold. But the set of her beautiful shoulders and the straight line of her eminently kissable lips had assured him of the unlikelihood that anything would happen between them. She was the granddaughter of an earl and had heard the common ‘Mister’ before his name and dismissed him out of hand.
Likewise, he had noted her grandfather’s rank before even meeting her and had come to the same conclusion. He was not the sort of fellow who dallied with female clients, especially when there were titles involved. When one was a living example of what might happen when such niceties were ignored, one did not take them lightly.
At the moment, Miss Hope sat beside him silent, cloaked and veiled, as if his very presence brought a risk of contagion. Her desire for anonymity made perfect sense. But there was something annoying in the way she had demanded it, as if she had not trusted him to protect her unless ordered to do so. It left him with the urge to strip off one of her gloves and touch her bare hand, just to see if she melted from upper-class perfection to a wailing puddle of mediocrity. Or at least tug on the curl that had been bouncing at the side of her face yesterday. This morning, it had been held in place by not just one but two hair pins, as if she was punishing it for being unruly.
Hope Strickland was the sort of woman who liked both people and things to be orderly, proper and predictable. He would likely be a great disappointment to her. Hopefully, they could manage to put their differences aside while working together. Until the matter of the entail was settled, they would be near to inseparable.
He glanced towards her and away again, hoping she had not noticed his interest. It felt as if, somewhere deep inside his head, an alarm bell was ringing. They should not be alone together. It was dangerous to her reputation and to his...
Something.
He wasn’t sure exactly why, but he knew in his bones that he shouldn’t be alone with her and it had nothing to do with society’s expectations of virtuous young ladies. He had no worries about self-control, either hers or his own. But the silence in the cab was wearing on his nerves. It made him want to converse, even though she had made it quite clear she did not want to speak to him.
He should never have requested her help. It was not as if he had to find the exact items again. He merely needed a good approximation. The American Stricklands had not spent the long years away pining for the candlesticks they meant to retrieve today. One set would be much like another to the new Earl, as long as he did not note an absence of light in the dining room.
But what the devil did the Dowager mean by an ‘oddment’? It was the only word he had deciphered in the line of scribbling near the bottom of the list. And how was he to decide which ‘blue painting’ was the correct one? Only a member of the family could guide him through the inadequate descriptions provided to him and Miss Hope Strickland was the only one willing to help.
But since she had done so begrudgingly, he had a perverse desire to see her discommoded. That was why he had chosen the worst shop on the list as their first stop. There would be almost no chance at success for it traded in the saddest of merchandise, not the sort of things likely to be found in one of England’s greatest houses. While he knew that there were better hunting grounds ahead, she would leave the shop coated in the miasma of despair that seemed to hang about the financial misfortune of others.
The carriage stopped in front of a plain door in St Giles, marked with the traditional three balls that indicated its business. He exited, offering a hand to Miss Strickland to help her to the street, while keeping a wary eye out for the cutpurses and beggars that would appear to harass the gentry.
To his surprise, she did not shrink back in terror at the riff-raff that surrounded them. But neither did she offer thanks for his assistance. Instead, she sailed imperiously past him to stand expectantly at the door, waiting for him to open it.
It was only common courtesy that he do so, but for some reason, it rankled. All the same, he opened and she passed through. And at last he was rewarded with the response he’d expected, the utter confusion of a gently bred lady who had never before shopped for someone else’s cast-offs.
She paused in the entryway as if afraid to go further. He could tell by the subtle shifting of her bonnet that her eyes were darting around the room, stunned to immobility by the cases of brass buttons and mismatched earbobs, and racks upon racks of shabby coats and fashionless gowns.
He shut the door and stepped past her. A quick scan of the room proved that none of the finer items would be found here, but he had no intention of leaving without making an enquiry, lest Miss Strickland realise he’d only come here to torture her. He rang the bell on the counter to summon the proprietor.
The man who stepped out from behind the curtained back room was every bit as fearsome as he’d hoped, a gaunt scarecrow of a fellow with one eye that did not seem to want to follow the other. It gave the impression that he could watch both his customers at the same time. At the sight of him, the girl who had been so quick to treat Gregory as her lackey now faded one step behind him, trying to disappear into his shadow.
It made him smile more broadly than he might have as he greeted the pawnbroker. ‘Good morning, my fine fellow. I am seeking candlesticks. Not just any candlesticks, mind you. I want the sort the posh types pawn when they can’t pay their gambling debts.’
The man answered with a nod and a toothless grin, then pointed wordlessly into the corner at a small display of plate.
Gregory glanced at it for only a moment, before choosing the gaudiest pair and walking back towards the counter. He felt a sharp tug on his sleeve and looked back at Miss Strickland.
‘Those are not ours,’ she whispered.
‘I thought you could not describe what we were looking for,’ he countered.
‘I cannot. But I am sure that I have never seen those in my life.’
‘Neither has Miles Strickland. He has never seen England, much less these candlesticks.’
‘That does not make them right,’ she countered. ‘Ignorance is no substitute for truth.’
Perhaps not. But in Gregory’s opinion, it made for a pretty fine excuse and had worked well in the past. ‘It is not as if we will be lying to him. He will expect to find candlesticks and we are leaving him some. He will never know the difference.’
‘But I will,’ she said.
Hadn’t Leggett said something about the sisters being the daughters of a vicar? If so, their ingrained morality was proving deeply inconvenient. ‘Your sister’s husband is not paying me enough to turn the town upside down for things that are likely lost for ever.’
‘If all that was needed was to grab the first things that came to hand, I could have done it myself.’ Noting the wary way she had watched the proprietor, he doubted that was the case. But she had no trouble standing up to Gregory, for he saw a faint flash of irritation in the brown eyes glittering behind her veil. ‘I do not know what he is paying you, but I am sure Mr Leggett did not hire you
