A Lady Never Surrenders Part 4

That roused his suspicions. "And why is that?"

Her expression grew guarded. "In case this doesn't turn out how I want."

Under his pointed stare, she flushed. d.a.m.n if it didn't make her look even prettier.

She dropped her gaze to the jewel-encrusted bracelet she kept twisting about her slender wrist. "They think me incapable of gaining a husband, and I mean to prove them wrong. But I don't want them knowing I've stooped to such devious tactics to accomplish it. It's embarra.s.sing." She glanced up at him. "Do you understand?"

He nodded. Pride was a powerful motivator. Sometimes the urge to prove people wrong was the only thing that kept a man-or a woman-moving forward.

"This conversation will stay between us," he said tightly. "You may depend upon that."

Relief shone in her lovely face. "All the same, I wish to pay you for whatever work isn't covered by your arrangement with Oliver."

He was not taking money from her for this. "I tell you what. a.s.suming that all goes well and you gain one of these gentlemen as a husband, you may cover my fee from the money you inherit from your grandmother."

"But what if it doesn't go well? You still deserve compensation for your efforts. Gran gives me an allowance. Just tell me what you want."

What he wanted was her, naked in his bed, gazing up at him with a smile as she opened her arms and drew him down to kiss that thoroughly enchanting mouth.

But that was impossible for more reasons than he could count.

"My clients only pay me if they get results," he lied. "So until you achieve your goal, there's no fee."

She eyed him skeptically. "Surely you require at least a pledge of some kind." She unclasped her bracelet and held it out to him. "Take this. It's worth a few pounds, I'll warrant."

More like a few hundred pounds. Leave it to a fine lady like her to act as if it were some bauble.

When he merely stared at it, she added softly, "I insist. I don't want to be obligated to you in case this doesn't work out. You could always sell it or give it to your sweetheart. Or perhaps your mother."

He tensed. "I don't have a sweetheart, and my mother is dead."

Her face fell. "I'm sorry, I forgot that your mother ... That is..." She drew back the bracelet. "How awful of me to remind you of it."

The gentle regret in her voice clutched at his gut. He'd never seen this side of her. "It's fine. She died a long time ago."

Her eyes searched his face. "Some wounds even time doesn't heal, no matter what people say."

They shared a glance borne of their mutual loss, both their mothers vilified in death as they'd been wronged in life.

"You live with your aunt," she said hesitantly. "Is that right?"

He cleared his throat. "Actually, she lives with me. My uncle willed their house in Cheapside to me when he died last year, with the condition that she be allowed to live there until her death. I'd planned to remain in my regular lodgings, but she's been so lonely of late..." Realizing he was revealing more than he wanted, he said, "Anyway, I moved in last week."

She held out the bracelet again. "Then keep this as a surety and give it to her if our agreement doesn't prove fruitful."

"She could never wear that," he countered. It was too expensive for even the widow of a lauded magistrate to sport at church or in the shops.

A flush filled her cheeks. "Oh, of course. I see."

He hadn't expected her to take his meaning, but her mortification showed that she had. He'd never thought Lady Celia was so perceptive. Or sensitive.

"My aunt's wrists aren't as delicate as yours," he added hastily. "It wouldn't fit her." When relief showed in her eyes, he was glad he'd lied. "Still, I'll accept it as a gesture of good faith on your part, though I fully expect to return it in a few weeks." He took the bracelet from her.

"Of course." Her bright smile warmed him. "So, what do you think of the idea of inviting the gentlemen to the house party? It will give me more chances to get to know them, and Halstead Hall is certainly large enough to accommodate a few more guests."

What an understatement. The marquess's seat was called a "calendar house" because it had three hundred and sixty-five rooms, seven courtyards, fifty-two staircases, and twelve towers. Henry VIII had given it to the first marquess.

"And if you attend, too," she went on, "you can investigate the gentlemen more easily."

d.a.m.n. Attending a house party would mean vails to pay the servants and fine clothes for him, a definite strain on his funds. Especially now that he was trying to do improvements on the house he'd inherited.

But if her idiot suitors were staying at Halstead Hall with her, then by thunder, he'd be here, too. They wouldn't take advantage of her on his watch. "We're agreed that you won't do any of that foolish nonsense you mentioned, like spying on them, right?"

"Of course not. That's what I have you for."

Her private lackey to jump at her commands. He was already regretting this.

"Surely the gentlemen will accept the invitation," she went on, blithely ignoring his disgruntlement. "It's hunting season, and the estate has some excellent coveys."

"I wouldn't know."

She cast him an easy smile. "Because you generally hunt men, not grouse. And apparently you do it very well."

A compliment? From her? "No need to flatter me, my lady," he said dryly. "I've already agreed to your scheme."

Her smile vanished. "Really, Mr. Pinter, sometimes you can be so..."

"Honest?" he prodded.

"Irritating." She tipped up her chin. "It will be easier to work together if you're not always so p.r.i.c.kly."

He felt more than p.r.i.c.kly, and for the most foolish reasons imaginable. Because he didn't like her trawling for suitors. Or using him to do it. And because he hated her "lady of the manor" role. It reminded him too forcibly of the difference in their stations.

"I am who I am, madam," he bit out, as much a reminder for himself as for her. "You knew what you were purchasing when you set out to do this."

She frowned. "Must you make it sound so sordid?"

He stepped as close as he dared. "You want me to gather information you can use in playing a false role to catch a husband. I am not the one making it sordid."

"Tell me, sir, will I have to endure your moralizing at every turn?" she said in a voice dripping with sugar. "Because I'd happily pay extra to have you keep your opinions to yourself."

"There isn't enough money in all the world for that."

Her eyes blazed up at him. Good. He much preferred her in a temper. At least then she was herself, not putting on some show.

She seemed to catch herself, pasting an utterly false smile to her lips. "I see. Well then, can you manage to be civil for the house party? It does me no good to bring suitors here if you'll be skulking about, making them uncomfortable."

He tamped down the urge to provoke her further. If he did, she'd strike off on her own, and that would be disastrous. "I shall try to keep my 'skulking' to a minimum."

"Thank you." She thrust out her hand. "Shall we shake on it?"

The minute his fingers closed about hers, he wished he'd refused. Because having her soft hand in his roused everything he'd been trying to suppress during this interview.

He couldn't seem to let go. For such a small-boned female, she had a surprisingly firm grip. Her hand was like her-fragility and strength all wrapped in beauty. He had a mad impulse to lift it to his lips and press a kiss to her creamy skin.

But he was no Lancelot to her Guinevere. Only in legend did lowly knights dare to court queens.

Releasing her hand before he could do something stupid, he sketched a bow. "Good day, my lady. I'll begin my investigation at once and report to you as soon as I learn something."

He left her standing there, a G.o.ddess surrounded by the aging glories of an aristocrat's mansion. G.o.d save him-this had to be the worst mission he'd ever undertaken, one he was sure to regret.

I prefer not to marry a fortune hunter.

With a scowl, he tucked her bracelet into his coat pocket. No, she only preferred fools and lechers and sons of madmen. As long as they were rich and t.i.tled, she was content, because then she knew they weren't after her money.

Yet he couldn't even despise her for that. Traveling between two worlds made him all the more aware of how hard it would be to live in the one he hadn't been born to.

Still ...

I know what you think of me.

If he wasn't careful, one day he'd show her exactly what he thought of her. But if that day came, he'd better be prepared for the consequences.

Chapter Four.

Hetty was finis.h.i.+ng up a conversation with Gabe's wife, Virginia, when she saw Mr. Pinter leave the blue parlor, looking agitated.

Had he been in there with Celia all this time? Alone?

That could not be good. The others thought he and Celia hated each other, but Hetty was not so sure, at least on his part. The man watched the girl when he thought no one was looking.

What Hetty wanted to know was why. Did Celia actually interest him? Or was the Runner hoping to further his ambitions by marrying a rich wife? It would not be the first time a man of low degree had levered his position as an employee of a great family into a more direct connection.

Either way, he should not be having private conversations with Celia.

Virginia walked off, leaving Hetty to block Mr. Pinter's path as he approached. "I take it that my granddaughter has been giving you the rough side of her tongue again."

He halted, an inscrutable expression on his face. "Not at all," he said smoothly. "We had a perfectly cordial conversation."

"And may I ask what it concerned?"

"No, you may not."

She frowned. "How very unaccommodating of you, Mr. Pinter. Have you forgotten that you are in my grandson's employ?"

"I have obligations to others in your family also, which means I owe them my discretion. So if that's all-"

"What obligations could you possibly have to my granddaughter?" Hetty demanded as she saw Celia leave the parlor and catch sight of them.

Celia hurried up. "Leave him be, Gran. He's doing what Oliver hired him to do-investigating my suitors. We were consulting on that."

"Oh." Hetty glanced at Mr. Pinter. The man could be so d.a.m.ned hard to read sometimes. "Why didn't you say so, Mr. Pinter?"

"Because I'm in something of a hurry, madam. So if you'll both excuse me, I'll bid you good day."

With a cursory bow, he strode off. Hetty noticed that Celia watched him go with the same sort of veiled interest that he sometimes had in watching her.

Her eyes narrowed. There had to be more to this than they were saying. They had been in that parlor an awfully long time. And Mr. Pinter's responses had bordered on rudeness. The man was direct and frank, but never rude.

Her granddaughter, on the other hand ... "He seemed in an awful rush to get away. What did you say to him in there, anyway?"

Two spots of color appeared on Celia's cheeks, another alarming sign that something was afoot. "I merely laid out everything he needed to know to gain the full background on my suitors."

"And which suitors are these? The last time I asked, you said you had none."

"Things are progressing well with Lord Devonmont, the Duke of Lyons, and the Visconde de Basto. That's why I need more information."

Ah. Well, that wasn't so bad. Devonmont and Lyons were eminently eligible. Devonmont was a bit wild, but that never worried her. Her late husband had been wild until he married. Her grandsons, too. Marriage had settled them right down.

It did not settle your son-in-law.

Hetty grimaced. All right, so that had been her one failure. She should never have encouraged Lewis Sharpe to marry her daughter-although then she would not have five delightful grandchildren, with two great-grandchildren on the way.

With any luck, Celia would bring her more. "Basto," Hetty mused aloud. "I do not recall that one."

"Oh, we met at the ball where Gabe and Virginia first danced together a few months ago. Since then we've seen each other often enough, but rarely at the affairs you attend. He hates leaving his ailing sister alone in the evening. But he's very nice and seems to dote on me when I do see him. He's Portuguese, I believe."

"Foreign, eh?" Hetty frowned. "Then I am glad Mr. Pinter is looking into his background. You have to be careful with foreigners."

"Right. I wouldn't want to rush into marriage with a stranger," Celia said tartly. "Oh, wait, yes, I would. My grandmother has dictated that I must."

Hetty stifled a smile. "Sarcasm does not become you, dear girl."

"Draconian ultimatums don't become you, Gran."

"Complain if you must, but I still mean to see you married by year's end."

Firm treatment was the only way to handle her grandchildren. Celia in particular had been too much indulged; it was time to nudge her out of the nest.

Celia glared at her. "Fine. Then I'll need your help."