to meet their men of business and pore over contracts and unintelligible papers. A lone female loitering about was likely to incite curiosity. Emily knew that her own papa often had assignments on this street with his attorney. Fervently she prayed that he had not arranged a meeting with Mr Pritchard today.
‘Emily? Emily Beaumont?’
That cultured voice, once so well known to her, made Emily freeze, then pivot slowly about.
Viscount Devlin had been about to get into a crested carriage, but now he hesitated and sauntered, with much use of his ebony cane, along the pavement towards her.
Emily had wondered how she would feel if ever she and this man were to meet, alone. Of course, since the end of their betrothal many years ago, they had met socially. But that had been in polite company when they both were mindful of etiquette and speculative stares.
Notwithstanding the fact that Emily knew the love of her life was now a husband and prospective father—for she had heard that his wife was increasing before Augusta mentioned it—she wondered if the Viscount’s roguish charm would still impress her. The closer he came, the more she feared the potency of his attraction. He was still youthfully good looking and could have passed for a man half a decade younger than his thirty-one years. His fair hair was artfully dishevelled and his hazel eyes warm as they settled on her face.
‘Are you waiting for your father?’ he asked, surprise leavening his tone, as he took a glance along the street. Emily imagined he expected to spy Mr Beaumont emerging from a nearby portal.
‘No…I’m not,’ Emily answered too quickly and truthfully. She sought for an excuse for her odd presence on Whiting Street. But she need not have worried over any further interrogation from the Viscount—he now seemed distracted by her small tongue as it trailed moisture over her full pink lips.
Emily felt her heart begin to race beneath his languid appraisal. The heat smouldering in his eyes brought instantly to mind images of things they had done together that she thought she had buried deep in her past. A burst of knowledge brought with it a guilty exhilaration: Viscount Devlin still desired her.
‘When was it that last we met?’ the Viscount asked huskily, his tawny eyes moving to her body. ‘It must have been a year ago. I swear that every time I see you, Emily, you have grown more lovely.’
Emily sensed her heart increase tempo, but flashed him a cool look from silver eyes. ‘And I swear, sir, that I think you must be still recovering from a night of roistering to say such a thing to me.’
‘Can I not compliment you?’ he asked gravely. ‘Why are you so prickly, Emily? Has the hurt not yet healed?’
Emily blinked. Part of her wanted to laugh scornfully at his terribly inappropriate remarks, but there was also a shameful part of her that would rather listen to more of his flattery. Mentally she shook herself and took a step away. He might tell her she was lovely, and look at her as though he wanted to kiss her, but her memory was not so short. A few years ago, after Tarquin had thrashed him, there had been nothing but disgust and anger in his eyes when he saw any Beaumont, including her.
‘What you are referring to belongs to the past, sir,’ she said stiltedly, ‘and there is certainly nothing more to be said about it.’ She bobbed and made to whip past him, but a hand shot out, arresting her.
‘Don’t fly away, Emily,’ he softly pleaded. ‘I have long thought that there is more to be said. I have wanted to see you alone; have hoped we might meet by chance like this. I think of you often. I think of what might have been…’
Emily twisted her wrist from his restraint and took two crisp backward steps. She darted a look here and there to see if they were under observation and was annoyed to notice that they were. The bruiser who had summoned her to this dratted neighbourhood in the first place had now spotted her! Emily frowned and sighed softly. The situation had become farcical. She was not now likely to discover Tarquin’s whereabouts.
‘Do you know him?’ Viscount Devlin asked.
‘Who?’ Emily blurted and her eyes darted quickly to the Viscount’s face.
‘The fellow across the road who appears to be staring at you.’
Emily spontaneously shook her head. It was not a lie; she did not yet know him, but she was certain she had been within a few minutes of remedying that when Nicholas Devlin had turned up. In a way it was fortunate that the Viscount had come along when he did. A moment or two later and doubtless he would have seen her talking to the fellow and that would certainly have given rise to awkward questions.
Emily was aware that her brother and her erstwhile betrothed still shunned one another. Whereas Nicholas might show her a little sympathy and kindness, Tarquin would receive no such consideration. If her brother was again in bad trouble, she was certain that Nicholas would revel in knowing it.
Viscount Devlin shot a thoughtful look at Mickey Riley, for he knew the identity of the fellow, and how he made a living. In the past he had made use of his services for he had under his wing some extraordinarily pretty young women. Nicholas also knew that where Riley went, trouble usually followed. But he didn’t fear him; in fact, he knew that Riley was cunning enough to keep a respectful distance between himself and his superiors. A smile twitched Nicholas’s lips as he noticed that his steady regard was making Riley nervous. A moment later the man swaggered off along the street.
Emily watched the fellow departing too, realising quite miserably that her efforts to get here on time had been squandered. Her rendezvous was to come to nothing. She also realised, with a start of alarm, that Nicholas’s expression had turned shrewd. She guessed that he was about to interrogate her properly as to her reasons for being here, unaccompanied, on Whiting Street.
Quickly Emily shifted her gaze to an imposing pillared doorway some yards to her right. She could just decipher what was written on a bright brass plaque: Woodgate and Wilson, Attorneys at Law. The door was ajar and a sombre hallway could be spotted within.
‘I must be going or I shall be late for my appointment.’ She gave Nicholas a brief nod.
‘You have a meeting to keep?’
‘Yes…with Mr Woodgate. It is a private matter. Good day to you, sir.’
Emily turned and, with her skirts clutched in her quivering fists, confidently went up the steps and through the door that led, she imagined, to the offices of Mr Woodgate and Mr Wilson. What she would say to either of those gentlemen when they begged leave to know why she was trespassing, she had yet to decide. But at least she had put some distance between herself and the very disturbing presence of Viscount Devlin.
Nicholas watched Emily disappear, a smile thinning his lips. Mickey Riley had been interested in Emily Beaumont and she had been aware of him, Nicholas was sure of it. In addition, Emily had been lying about having an appointment with Mr Woodgate. The practice dealt almost exclusively in marine law and insurance; besides, unless the lawyer had been disinterred for the occasion, she would not find Woodgate within that building. The man had been dead for some few months now. With a look of intense concentration drawing together his brows, the Viscount strolled back to his carriage and got in.
Sinking back into the hide squabs, he wondered what the devil was going on and decided his curiosity had been roused enough for him to make some investigations and try to find out.
Emily crept the musty corridor and ducked back from a doorway on glimpsing a young clerk scribbling in a ledger. His bony profile
