Sandrine must have noted Warburton saying that he’d see him at the prizefight. He couldn’t think of any other reason why she and the Pink Ladies would be here today. They’d put her up to some sort of campaign to provoke him into granting that petition of hers.
And it was working.
Even though it would mean a loss of swift and sure income and be worse for Squalton in the long run, he almost wanted to sign the damned house over to Sandrine so she would leave London and he could be sure of her safety.
He mustn’t be seen with her. He couldn’t evenglance at her in public. The men who were attempting to blackmail and control him were here today. He wasn’t worried about his friends from the Thunderbolt Club: they could take care of themselves. But he damned well wouldn’t expose Sandrine to a threat he still didn’t know enough about.
“Miss Oliver, would you care to take a brief promenade with me to the refreshment stands? We could fetch lemonades for your friends,” Baron Chisholme said, offering her his arm.
Sandrine wanted to refuse because she was heartily sick of Baron Chisholme already, but Francesca gave her a stern look.
“I’d be delighted, Baron Chisholme.” She took his arm, and they set off.
She risked another brief glance in Lord Dane’s direction only to find that he wasn’t there any longer. She searched the crowd and couldn’t see him. Why was she strolling with Baron Chisholme, who was the dullest conversationalist she’d ever had the misfortune to be subjected to, if Lord Dane wasn’t even observing her?
“Oh, I feel a little faint,” she said.
“My dear Miss Oliver, you mustn’t faint. Rest here, in the shade of this tree, while I fetch the lemonades. Don’t move, for there are thieves and unsavory characters about.”
“I won’t move, I promise. I’ll be right here in your view the entire time.”
She rested her back against the large oak tree,pleased that she’d successfully dodged a few minutes of Baron Chisholme’s banalities.
And that’s when it happened. A hand shot out, grabbed her arm, and yanked her behind the tree, while another hand closed over her mouth, preventing her from screaming.
Chapter Thirteen
Be wary of rakes who seek to lure you into secluded trysts.
—Mrs. Oliver’s Rules for Young Ladies
Sandrine bit down on her captor’s hand and stomped on his foot.
“Bollocks, that hurt!” The man released her mouth, and she gathered air into her lungs to scream.
“Don’t scream! Sandrine, it’s me.” Large hands spun her to face him.
“Lord Dane? You frightened me half to death.”
“I’m sorry. I wanted to speak with you in private.”
“You could have had a note delivered.”
“Why are you here?” He was still holding her tightly, pressed against his chest and the tree. “Are you following me?”
“Good day to you too. And I don’t believe I have to consult you on every detail of my schedule. Miss Hodwell is a boxing enthusiast.”
“Admit it. You overheard Warburton speak of the match, and you decided to come and plague me.”
“I’ll admit no such thing.”
“Your plan is working. I’m seriously provoked by your presence.”
“Excellent.”
“But you don’t have to play these games. You’re the most enticing woman I’ve ever met, but that doesn’t mean that I’ll sign over the manor house to you. I must start making sound financial decisions since my brother has made a mess of the estate.”
“You’re the one playing games, pulling me behind trees and warning me to be a good, meek, silent young lady.”