As she approached the carriage, the driver hopped down from his seat. “Miss,” he said, opening the door and lowering the step.
Fearful that she would lose her nerve, she quickly stepped inside and sat on the bench. The driver shut the door.
She leaned against the luxuriously padded leather squabs. She’d made it this far. She had the remaining journey to gather her courage and—
“Good evening.”
She let out a shriek and whirled. Dressed entirely in black, Ian Swift sat in the corner of the carriage, his long legs stretched before him. A shaft of moonlight from the window illuminated his hessians.
She pressed a hand to her chest. “My goodness! You could have made your presence known.”
He flashed a mischievous grin. “I didn’t hide. I thought it best not to light a carriage lamp just in case someone was looking out the window. I had your reputation in mind.”
Her gaze narrowed. She didn’t think he had anyone’s interest in mind other than his own. “I didn’t believe you would come with the carriage.”
“What better way to ensure your safety?”
She wanted to point out that she’d be far safer were she not ensconced with him in a conveyance. Everything about him was large, and she was all too aware of the breadth of his shoulders, his distinctive shaving soap, and his long legs. The interior of the spacious carriage suddenly seemed very small.
“Did anyone see you leave?” he asked.
“No. My younger brother is asleep. So is his nursemaid. Father left an hour after dinner. I suspect he’s at the Raven Club as we speak.”
“Not tonight. I gave orders to my man, Brooks. If the baron appears tonight, his favorite faro table will be closed. That way he won’t think he is being denied entrance.”
Her voice rose in surprise. “Truly?”
“Gamblers take it as a sign of bad luck if their table is closed.”
“I’m surprised you instructed your man to—”
“Aiding your father was also part of our arrangement, remember?”
She did, but for some reason she didn’t think he would honor it so quickly. For a brief moment, she wondered if her father would come to his senses after learning his favorite table was closed and return home. Her heart lightened.
“He’ll go elsewhere,” Ian said.
His statement, simple and direct, served to effectively destroy her wishful thoughts. “How can you be certain? Maybe Father will lose his interest in gaming, at least for tonight, knowing he can’t frequent his favorite place.”
“Do you believe that?”
No. She didn’t. It was heart-wrenching to admit it.
The carriage came to a stop. She glanced outside the window to see the back of a large home.
“Even though it’s dark out, we’ll go in the servants’ entrance to ensure no one will see you.” Ian opened the door and hopped down. Not waiting for the driver, he lowered the step himself and held out his hand.
In her nervousness to leave her home, she’d forgotten her gloves. Nor was Ian wearing any. He grasped her hand, and the touch of skin upon skin momentarily shocked her. Strong fingers curled around hers. His hand was calloused, and a jagged scar ran the length of his thumb to his wrist. He certainly didn’t have a lord’s hands, but a fighter’s, and she wondered how he’d sustained the injury.
Was it from prizefighting or had he gotten it some other way?
She stole a glance at him as he helped her down the step and guided her to the servants’ entrance. His profile was rugged and boldly masculine. Her heart pounded an erratic rhythm.
The door opened and a butler stood in the back entrance. “My lord.” The servant’s gaze traveled to her face. He noted her hooded cloak, and she stiffened. No doubt, the man thought she was Ian Swift’s ladybird for the night. A shiver of dread traveled down her spine. She wasn’t expecting the butler to answer the back door.
Heavens, had all her discreet preparations been for naught? What if the servant whispered word of her presence here tonight? She had no chaperone, no possible reason to be alone with the master of the house at such a late hour. Was all lost before it began?
She stood frozen, her eyes wide, as icy fear filled her veins.
Ian Swift must have finally noticed her demeanor.
“That will be all, Jenkins,” Ian said.
The butler nodded and departed, and Ian guided her inside. She vaguely realized they were in the kitchens. Large pots and utensils hung from hooks above a rough-hewn work table, and the dark shape of a stove filled a corner. The scent of lamb lingered in the space.
Ian touched her sleeve. “What’s wrong?”
She frowned up at him. “Your butler. Why in heaven’s name did you bother to escort me to the servant’s entrance if you knew he would answer the door?”
“What does it matter?”
He couldn’t be serious. “Servants talk. What if he whispers of my presence here tonight?”
“Jenkins won’t say a word. No one in my employ gossips.”
He spoke with such forceful confidence that Grace almost believed him.
“Trust me in this,” he said.
Trust him? He was far from trustworthy, but she didn’t have much choice.
“Shall we continue?” he asked.
A part of her wanted to flee back to her home and hide in her bedchamber until the sun rose. But she was no longer a child. She was a grown woman who knew her problems wouldn’t cease to exist in the morning, and she must face them head on. Teaching Ian Swift manners was the best solution to both of their dilemmas.
She nodded once.
He led her through the hallway and past a drawing room. She stopped at the doorway to glimpse a well-appointed room with flocked papered walls, an Oriental carpet, and quality furnishings.
She hadn’t known what to expect.
An unkempt home? A boxing ring in the middle of the parlor? But it appeared to be a proper bachelor’s residence complete with a butler.
She waited for him to motion for her to enter the drawing room, but he continued past it. Frowning, she rushed to keep pace with his long strides. “Where shall our lessons commence?”
“Upstairs.” He stopped long enough to pick up a lit lamp resting on an end table at the bottom of the winding staircase.
Her brow furrowed. Perhaps the second floor contained his study. Many gentlemen spent hours in their studies going over ledgers or answering correspondence. Many gentlemen, that is, other than her father.
The baron preferred his clubs and left her with the running of the household.
Bitterness rose in her chest, and she pushed the disturbing thought of her irresponsible sire aside. She refused to wallow in self-pity; rather, she needed all her wits about her tonight.
They reached the staircase, and she gripped the winding balustrade as she walked up to the second floor and followed him down the carpeted hall. Lamplight illuminated artwork on the walls—George Stubbs, Thomas Gainsborough, Thomas Rowlandson. She stole a sideways glance at him. What kind of man owned priceless artwork and dressed as coarsely as he did?
Ian stopped outside a door and turned the knob. Seconds later, it swung open and Grace glanced inside. The butler must have left another lantern here, for the room was cast in a warm glow, which revealed masculine furnishings and blue silk drapes. But it was an enormously large four-poster that drew Grace’s attention.