In response, the family sent her to an asylum for the insane and asked a judge to charge Delfine with manslaughter for performing an abortion, even though Delfine had only stepped in after the girl had miscarried. The whole thing was an unholy mess. If this man was here looking into their whereabouts and expecting Marena to betray her friend, he would be sorely disappointed.
“I’m sorry, but I can’t help you, Your Grace.”
Your Grace.
Arlo had heard those two particular words directed at the men in his family for a good portion of his life. First, at his father and, in the last year, at himself. He sometimes marveled at how, depending on who was proffering the deference, it could be infused with regard, respect, adulation, and on occasion, even anger or disdain. But he had never heard them uttered as an indictment on his person.
Despite Marena’s obvious unwillingness to cooperate, Arlo did feel marginally better knowing Delfine had people who stood up for her. Formidable people, at that. In the few minutes he’d had with her, he could see this woman was a firebrand. The look the herbalist was levelling at him was not merely defiant; it was menacing. She would do whatever was necessary to protect her friend and her sister.
He’d heard about the Baine sisters, of course. The daughters of a retired foreign officer who’d gone to the West Indies on a short assignment, only to come back from Hispaniola twenty years later with a wife and two daughters. Even before his death, Connor Baine had been a legend in the Exterior Office, a skilled diplomat and respected botanist. He’d opened this apothecary upon his return, and his wife, who had been a root worker back in her homeland, was the one who had mixed the remedies and salves. Now his daughters ran the place—or more like the youngest one, Marena, did.
Despite his feigned ignorance, he’d also been be aware of her tinctures which could supposedly restore any man’s stamina to that of a young buck. What he did not know—what no one had mentioned—was that Marena Baine was the most beautiful woman in London. If he would’ve known, he would’ve prepared for her. For the mass of chocolate brown curls streaked with honey cascading over her shoulders. For those lips, which even twisted in an unhappy expression, were lush and inviting.
The more his eyes took in, the more he wanted to touch and taste. And this…had to stop. This was where his similarities to his father became dangerous. Arlo could get his head turned in a second and forget what he was about. This was not the time, and this was not the woman…no matter how beguiling she was.
With great effort, he lifted his eyes from her lips to brown eyes that were looking at him with a distinctly unfriendly expression. “I’m aware Delfine isn’t here, Miss Baine. I’d like some assistance discovering where she’s gone.” In the years since he’d been at the helm of the Linley estate, he had gained a reputation for his keen eye for investments. He’d become excellent at detecting what others could not. He would not get anything from Marena Baine that she was not willing to give. “And I see that you’re protective of your sister. It’s admirable and I respect it. But I assure you, I mean neither of them any harm.”
“Torres. My full name is Marena Baine-Torres,” she corrected him, her back still pressed to the door. His man had not told him they used their mother’s family name as well. That was the kind of detail that could’ve been useful. Now he had to make amends. This woman wasn’t just a pretty face; she was brazen. Unafraid. She knew her place in the world, and she was not about to let anyone, not even a duke, deny her what she was due.
“Miss Baine-Torres,” he conceded with a nod. “I assure you the business I have with Miss Boncoeur will be of interest to her. To her benefit, even.”
She narrowed those winsome brown eyes at him again before she spoke. “Forgive me for not taking your words at face value.”
With that, she pushed from the door of the shop and walked behind the counter. It wasn’t a big space, so she brushed past him, giving him a whiff of lemon and something spicier he couldn’t quite place. Then she gave him a view that had him wondering if it would have been a better idea to send his grandmother on this particular errand.
The woman’s bottom was…distracting. A perfect peach he desperately wanted to take a bite out of. Her dress was simple—cotton in light yellow and white stripes—but made by someone skilled. The fabric hugged every line and curve, highlighting her lush figure perfectly. No bustle, but still her waist flared out to hips and an arse that beckoned him.
He was tongue-tied. Like a damn schoolboy.
He, Arlo Kenworthy, once the most unflappable man in the House of Lords, struck speechless in the presence of an …herbalist. An herbalist who was beginning to look at him like she was going to chuck him out of her shop if he didn’t “get on with it.” He didn’t blame her for being tight-lipped; he knew why Delfine had left London. The private inquiry officer he’d hired to find his half-sister made short work of uncovering that. What he had not been able to find out for love or money was where she’d gone.
He breathed in and exhaled. This was the first time he would tell a stranger that his late father, the fourth Duke of Linley, had fathered a child with a Haitian woman while on a diplomatic two-year expedition to Hispaniola, and then had left her and the child there. His father, who had spent most of Arlo’s life lecturing him about maintaining a moral compass and who had called him to task hundreds of times for not upholding the respectability of the family name, had seemed to lose his own morality when it came time to face his responsibilities. Now it was up to Arlo to make this right.
“I’m looking for the whereabouts of Delfine Boncoeur because she’s my sister.” Arlo had been taught by his mother about the impact of words. He’d heeded that lesson always, mindful of what he said and how it could make people feel, but he’d rarely ever thought of the impact his own words had on him. His confession to this woman in this small space, redolent with warm fragrances, had his heart galloping in his chest.
“Your sister?” Disbelief tinged Marena’s voice, and he could not begrudge her that. She angled her head to one side, studying him. At least this part, the distrust and the scrutiny, he’d been ready for. That he had anticipated.
“My father named her in his will.” The expected onslaught of anger and confusion coursed through him at the thought of what his father had done. The frustration of never knowing why his father had hidden his sister from him, only to leave him with the responsibility of finding her. Why did he claim in death the child he’d forsaken in life? Arlo would never know. “I’d like to see her get what belongs to her.” He breathed through too much feeling, too much that he did not want to think about, and looked at Marena again. And her face soothed him in a way that would surely bring about another set of problems eventually.
“I’ve known Delfine my whole life and lived with her since I was twelve-years old,” she scoffed incredulously. “I would’ve certainly heard if she were the daughter of a duke.”
“Delfine may not know,” he explained. The private detective could not find out if Delfine was made aware of who her father was. “I only learned of her existence on my father’s death. She has a right to claim what is hers.”