Woodley was wealthy and had good cause to believe in Mr. Cassidy’s tenacity, because he’d witnessed it firsthand. “Like a damned bull,” his brother had half groused, half enthused, about Hugh, once upon a time.
His brother was dead, killed in the war. Hugh had shouldered his responsibilities back home. Woodley’s reward money would be the beginning of... everything. Perhaps in more ways than one.
He would post the letter to Mr. Woodley this afternoon. And then he was off to Dover. Walking away from Helga’s cooking for even a day seemed a veritable cruelty. And while Hugh’s common sense and sense of honor kept him from dalliances in a place he didn’t intend to put down roots, Mrs. Locksley’s limpid blue eyes were undeniably more pleasant to look into than Delacorte’s.
He sighed, sprinkled sand, and sealed his letter.
And then he bolted down the stairs, savoring the feel of that wood banister sliding beneath his palm. He stopped short in the foyer beneath the huge chandelier. In the reception room Mrs. Hardy and Mrs. Durand were speaking with what appeared to be a veritable crowd of people.
He brightened. Things wereneverdull around here.
“Dot,” he whispered, as she came up the kitchen stairs with the tea. “Who are the new guests?”
“They’re for the Annex!” Dot bit her lip with excitement. “It’s Lord Vaughn and his family.”
“Ohhh, another lord. This should be good.”
He and Dot exchanged grins and he went out the front door.
But the mention of the Annex made him stop.
He veered, on impulse, toward it.
Delacorte had shown him and Bolt the tunnel entrance that connected The Grand Palace on the Thames to the livery stables. Hugh was positive—though it wasn’t much more than a hunch, just something about the feel of the place—that some sort of tunnel connected the Annex to The Grand Palace on the Thames. Given its history, and all. He thought he’d have another look before he posted his letter, and circled around back to where the scullery had been laid open and the walls were being repaired.
He went still when he smelled smoke.
Cheroot smoke. And not the sort of usual foul nonsense the average fellow would roll up and light.Goodtobacco.
There ought not be anyone in there at this time of day.
Wary now, he crossed the new boards toward the scullery, and slipped around the tarp hung there.
And in the dusty half-light, leaning against the half-repaired wall, was the most beautiful girl he’d ever seen.
Her hair was a shining mahogany; it was heaped up onto her head in some sort of artful pile that probably only a fine lady’s maid could achieve. Little spirals of it traced her straight jaw, turned three quarters away from him. A long, pale throat rose from a silk dress the shade of old roses.
She was smoking a cheroot.
She noticed him.
If she gave a start, she disguised it well.
She turned her head in a leisurely fashion and fixed him with bright eyes, silvery, almost like Captain Hardy’s. She’d a nose straight as a blade and a mouth wide and soft like a pillow, the precise color of cherry blossoms.
Her gaze traveled over him. Taking in his clothes, his build, his face. Drawing the kind of conclusion people the world over did about class and money and so forth.
Her expression settled into faintly amused, perhaps even a little contemptuous, lines. But he’d seen her pupils flare. He was very aware of that fixed regard. It was the sort of thing that could not be helped. Hugh Cassidy might be from one of the poorer families in New York, but he knew very well his own appeal. He’d been making female pupils flare since he was a teen.
“You might as well stare. They all do.” Her voice was low, a surprising husky velvet. Cynical.
He somehow couldn’t quite speak yet.
“I’m Lady Lillias Vaughn,” she added. She said it as though he ought to know what that meant.
“My father is an earl,” she prompted as though he were slow.
“Ah. I see. I’m Mr. Hugh Cassidy.”