Thea glanced back at him questioningly.
‘Yes. You are,’ said Richard blandly. ‘You will have to wait about three seconds for your sister.’ He shot Thea a grin. ‘It will take her about that long to mop up my king.’
Thea chuckled, an unshadowed ripple of delight that sent streamers of pleasure curling through him. A sudden movement caught his attention. About to seat himself on the sofa, David Winslow’s head had jerked up, his gaze fixed on his sister, as though he had only just seen her. Startled grey eyes flickered to Richard, and then back to Thea in wonder and speculation.
‘Don’t let me disturb you,’ he said with an odd smile.
As Richard had predicted, his king fell in short order.
‘Ah, well,’ he said. ‘That will teach me not to underestimate you again. I’ll take my revenge on another occasion, Thea.’ He rose and turned to Winslow. ‘I’ll bid you good day and leave you with your sister.’
Winslow stood. ‘As to that, Blakehurst …’ He hesitated, seeming to consider something and coming to a swift decision. ‘I was hoping for a word with you later.’
Richard held his gaze. ‘Were you, indeed?’ A challenge? A warning?
Winslow looked very slightly embarrassed. Probably not a challenge, then. ‘Er, yes. Perhaps you might care to dine with me this evening at my lodgings? I’m in Jermyn Street.’ He took his case out of his pocket and handed a card to Richard.
Definitely not a challenge.
Richard took the card. ‘Very well, Winslow. What time?’
‘Will eight suit you?’
‘Of course. I shall look forward to it.’ He smiled at Thea. ‘Save me a dance this evening, won’t you? Or even two.’
‘A dance?’
‘Yes, a dance.’ He grinned at her look of confusion. ‘You know what a dance is—something you do with your legs.’
The door closed behind him and Thea strangled the urge to scream in frustration. Curse him! She knew what a dance was—what she really wanted to know was if he envisioned dancing with her or still preferred to sit out because of his leg. Although … something you do with your legs … that did rather suggest that he intended to dance …
Banishing speculation, she turned to David. ‘Why do you wish to speak to Richard?’
He didn’t answer immediately. Just stared thoughtfully at the chess set.
‘I’d forgotten how fond of you he was, Thea,’ he said at last. ‘I understand he stepped in for you with Dunhaven last night—’ he frowned ‘—even if he did take you off somewhere alone.’
She saw where that was going immediately.
‘No!’ she said furiously, banishing the memory of the earlier look in Richard’s eyes that had for a moment spoken of more than friendship. ‘I mean, yes, he did—but don’t read anything into it beyond his good nature! He wished to warn me about Dunhaven. Just as you did!’
Not kiss her. And even if he had, any curiosity she might have felt on what it might have been like had been well and truly extinguished years ago. She knew what a man’s kisses were like.
‘Thea—’
‘No!’ She ignored the odd little voice that whispered that she wished it could have been different, that she could share the peaceful life Richard was creating for himself. And that she was being illogical in lumping all men and their kisses in the one pile. Richard’s kisses might be as different as the man himself.
There was no rule forcing fear to be logical.
Forcing that out of her mind as well, she said, ‘You are perfectly right; Richard is fond of me. He considers me a friend. Leave it, David. I don’t have so many friends that I can afford to lose one.’
‘Are you so sure that you would lose a friend?’
She laughed at that. A sound without a vestige of humour. ‘Ask yourself how you might react in a similar situation.’
David sighed. ‘Very well. Why don’t you put on a bonnet and pelisse? I’ll take you to Gunther’s for an ice.’
She stared. ‘An ice?’
He smiled. ‘Why not? You like them. Or you certainly used to. And I’m prepared to wager you haven’t had one in eight years!’
Richard found Myles in the butler’s pantry. This was one of those moments when action was vital. Apart from the need to do something about the letters, he needed something to occupy his mind. Something other than the queer longing that stirred in him at the memory of Thea saying he had found exactly what he needed in life. In one sense she was perfectly correct, but he had a niggling idea that something was still missing. Or if not missing, perhaps unrecognised. Some final colour or shape to complete the picture. One thread to knit the whole.
‘Who sent the note, Mr Richard?’ Myles looked puzzled. ‘Why, I’m sure I couldn’t say. Edmund must have answered the door, I believe, since he was on duty in the entrance hall. He came to me with the note, asking where Miss Winslow might be. I took it up to her.’
Richard nodded. ‘Very well. Send Edmund to me in my room, please.’
Ten minutes later, Richard swore as his bedchamber door closed behind Edmund. The footman had not seen whoever had delivered the note. It had been pushed under the front door and the bell rung. He’d had a brief glimpse of a boy running off. A dead end. But perhaps he could learn something from the notes themselves.
Frowning, he found the note from last night, pulled Thea’s note out of his pocket and spread the pair of them out flat on the dressing table. He’d looked at enough old documents in his life. Surely he could tell something from these?
Not much. Each had been written on the same ordinary, good-quality paper. The watermark wouldn’t help. It was common enough. What about the handwriting? A contrived-looking scrawl of capitals, which he suspected was nothing like the writer’s ordinary hand. A faint fragrance teased him … feminine, flowery. Frowning, he sniffed at the note. The odour seemed to cling to it … as though the writer had perhaps been wearing perfume—on her wrists, at the pulse points. It wasn’t much, but it was something. He was looking for a woman.
He also had the answer he hadn’t wanted the night before; the gilded whore referred to in his note was Thea herself. Something else from the previous evening came back to him; a woman’s voice, dripping with malicious gossip about Thea—I had the most interesting letter, my dear … Such a simple way to start gossip if you didn’t wish to be identified.
Deep inside he was conscious of fury burning with a cold intensity. When he found the culprit …
Common sense spoke up; unless the sender was foolish enough to send any more notes here to Arnsworth House, it was going to be devilishly hard to find out who she was. His jaw hardened. Difficult, perhaps, but not impossible. And there was something else; with a grim sense of resignation, Richard acknowledged that whatever the wisdom of seeking lodgings all
