LITMIR.BIZ

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will not turn you in. You shall stay with us, eh?”

      She could no more allow Mr. Renquist to risk his job, family and reputation than she could have her other friends. “Thank you, Madame, but I cannot. I have just thought of a nice solution,” she lied. She was dismayed by how easy that was becoming.

      “Will you not stay and speak with François?”

      “Tell him I will come day after tomorrow. I am meeting the ladies here in the afternoon. Once I am settled I shall be able to think about how to proceed.”

      Geoff crossed Leicester Square at an angle, heading for Green Street. With dusk settling over the city, traffic was thinning. He would be home in a few minutes. Or, at least, the place he called home. He preferred the moderate home on Salisbury Street just off The Strand to his new mansion on Curzon Street.

      Yes, on Salisbury Street, his footsteps did not echo on marble floors, reminding him how alone he was. Still, even there he was haunted by the memory of Constance Bennington. Constance, the first woman he’d ever loved. Her death weighed on his conscience every day. Every night. He knew he could never put her memory to rest until he found the man responsible for her death.

      Four years ago, when he’d first begun hunting the white slaver, el-Daibul, to put an end to his kidnapping of Englishwomen, he hadn’t realized the price he’d pay—the price she’d pay—for his efforts. Before they’d put an end to el-Daibul’s scheme, more women had died. Women who could have been saved if only…what? He’d been more diligent? Uncovered el-Daibul’s henchmen sooner? But he hadn’t. And now the memory of what might have been was a constant reproach. And the memory of the others who’d died… Oh, God, he couldn’t even think about the others.

      Now he could add Nell Brookes to his growing list of regrets. He should have been more insistent with her when he realized she was sticking her nose into the business of the missing women. Locked her up until the danger was past. If he’d known for certain that she was delving into matters that didn’t concern her…

      He shook off his brooding mood. No profit in that. Only pain and remorse. He picked up his pace across the square and stopped to buy an apple from a cart. He used the moment to look around. In his experience, it was always good to take stock of one’s surroundings frequently. Less chance of being surprised that way.

      Men were bustling home from their work, women hurrying back from the greengrocer with provisions, children skipping as they hurried to keep up with their governesses. And there, on a bench with a valise at her feet, trying her best to look inconspicuous, sat someone who looked very much like Miss Dianthe Lovejoy. Enjoying her last hours of freedom, no doubt.

      He took a bite of the crisp red apple and watched her for a moment. Yes, it was Miss Lovejoy. There could not be two in London like her. God fashioned only one of those a generation—perhaps a millennium. Even Nell had been a pale copy.

      He strolled toward her, wondering if he should speak. When he was near enough, he noted the pinched look between her eyes and the slightly reddened rims of her eyes. Had she been crying?

      “Trouble, Miss Lovejoy?” he asked. Her chin snapped upward, indicating that he’d startled her. For once, it seemed, he had the advantage in their meeting.

      She crumpled her handkerchief and pushed it into the sleeve of her bishop’s-blue spencer. Shrugging, she assumed a haughty mien. “I do not see how that is your concern, Lord Morgan.”

      He grinned, finding her continued dislike of him more amusing than aggravating. He almost liked the chit, for no other reason than her dead reckoning of his character. He lifted his foot and planted one of his boots on the bench beside her yellow skirt. “It isn’t my concern. I was merely curious. You. A valise. Alone. You must admit the circumstances are rife with possibility.”

      She narrowed her eyes and turned away to study the apple cart.

      “Going somewhere?” he persisted.

      “As you know, Lord Morgan, I am in somewhat of a pickle. I do not want my scandal attached to my friends’ names.”

      “Ah, then you’re going home? Back to Bloomsbury Square?”

      She sighed deeply and glanced sideways at him. “It is locked up until the Hawthornes’ return.”

      “That places you in a rather awkward position, does it not? No family, no friends?”

      “Thank you for stating the obvious, my lord.”

      He chuckled. “Where are you going, Miss Lovejoy?”

      “I intended to let a room at a ladies’ hostel.”

      “Were there no vacancies?”

      She hesitated, then murmured, “None, I fear.”

      “So you are going back to the Thayers?”

      “Of course not,” she snapped.

      Although he already knew the answer, Geoff raised an eyebrow. “Are the authorities after you, Miss Lovejoy?”

      “I…I imagine they are.”

      Pity. The girl was in over her head and had no one to help her. His conscience tweaked him and he did his best to ignore it. Miss Lovejoy was just the sort of empty-headed little ingenue he avoided at all costs. “Then what are you doing here in the open? Shouldn’t you be looking for a hiding place?”

      “Did I not tell you that I do not want my friends inconvenienced by my problems?”

      The first uneasy stirrings of guilt prickled the hair on the back of Geoff’s neck. Adam Hawthorne had been one of the few men to give him the benefit of the doubt. For that reason alone, he owed the man. And then Adam had taken a bullet meant for him, which had compounded the debt. Now that Adam had married Dianthe’s Aunt Grace, could he leave Adam’s gently reared cousin alone on a bench at dusk? Not likely. But he avoided involvement in other people’s lives like the plague. Maybe it was a simple matter of money. Yes, he could give her money and be done with her.

      “Vacancies can be found with enough money, Miss Lovejoy. I shall be happy to—”

      “Keep your ill-gotten gains, Lord Morgan. They cannot buy me what I need.”

      How like the high-minded little brat to bite the hand that fed her. “Damn it, Miss Lovejoy, they will buy you a room.”

      “No, my lord, they will not.” She took a deep breath and raised her chin in proud disdain. “No one will rent me a room, because I am alone and unchaperoned.”

      “I shall hire you a chaperone,” he offered.

      She rolled her eyes so comically he nearly laughed. “Your money will not buy you everything.”

      “It buys enough to pass for everything.”

      “No doubt it is why you get away with so much. But your money will not buy me, Lord Morgan, so scoot away, if you please.” She made a sweeping motion with one hand.

      “Even if I don’t please?”

      “Even then,” she confirmed.

      He removed his foot from the bench and crossed his arms over his chest. What was he to do with this prickly little baggage? He could find her a room easily enough, but it wouldn’t be in a part of town suitable for her, or in an establishment even remotely acceptable.

      “Well, go!” she said.

      He turned to do just that. But then Adam Hawthorne’s face, white from loss of blood, rose to his mind, and another idea occurred to him. Miss Lovejoy would be an excellent way for him to repay his debt to Adam. Besides, she would be child’s play to manage.

      “Do you care about my name or reputation, Miss Lovejoy?”

      “Yours are beyond redemption,” she declared.

      True, but he didn’t like hearing it from Dianthe Lovejoy. He took a deep breath and reined in his temper.

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