“Bless you, Jeremy.” Imogen stepped around the chair and sank into it, letting the fine velvet envelop her in comfort and warmth.
“Ain’t nothing, Your Ladyship.” Jeremy gave her an endearing wink before placing his hat back on his head. “Though what that old cripple wants with you is a bleeding mystery, if you’ll pardon my saying so.”
“You don’t have to call me Your Ladyship,” Imogen reminded gently. “You were a friend before…” It wasn’t that she didn’t want to answer Jeremy’s not-so-subtle question, it was only that she didn’t want to ponder the reasons why Trenwyth would be looking for Ginny after all these years.
“I haven’t heard a word from Devina, Heather, or any of the others,” he said encouragingly. “They shouldn’t be a danger to you.” The women that had worked the Bare Kitten with her had been offered an entire year’s salary to relocate, no questions asked, and they’d all taken it gladly.
“There’s only … Barton,” Jeremy reminded her soberly. “And no one’s seen him since that night. No one, that is, but Flora.”
Imogen had never forgiven herself for what became of Flora Latimer.
Apparently the night Imogen fought off Barton, Jeremy had chased after her until he’d lost her in the mist some blocks away from St. James’s Street. Upon his return, he’d found Mr. Barton had vanished. In Imogen’s frenzy, it seemed that she’d not injured him as gravely as she’d initially thought. Poor Flora Latimer, the sweet blond harlot, had had her throat slit in the cursed alley. She’d been discovered bound, sodomized, and facedown in a pool of her own blood.
Imogen wished she’d have killed Barton after all, and then he’d not have taken his rage at her out on poor Flora. He’d disappeared, of course, but he was always there, a pinprick of worry in the canvas of Imogen’s new life, threatening to reappear at any moment from the shadows to ruin the entire tableau.
“Your Ladyship?”
Imogen blinked at him, startled for a moment that he still sat watching her with a particular alertness. “I’m sorry, Jeremy, what were you saying?”
“I know it’s not my business, and if you don’t mind my asking, but why is it you’re so afraid of this Trenwyth? Is he threatening you? Is there something I can do? Because you say the word and we’ll—”
“No,” she answered more quickly than she’d meant to. “No. It’s simply that when I married the earl and became a countess, it became imperative that I leave that part of my life in the past.” She tried to keep her answer as diplomatic as possible, so as not to offend him.
“I can understand that, my lady. You know what they say, these toffs are more hypocritical and pitiless than a whorehouse full of vicars on a Saturday night.”
“Just so.” Imogen laughed, in spite of herself. She’d never heard anyone say such a thing, and she hadn’t any idea who these they were that Jeremy always quoted. But she often found herself in agreement with them.
“But not you, though.” His soft brown eyes reminded her of some guileless woodland creature, and for a moment, her heart melted and everything ceased to be so perilous.
“You’re utterly kind to say so, Jeremy.” She stood and went to him, planting a chaste kiss on his cheek that left a fierce blush in its wake. “Through everything, you’ve been such a true friend.”
“And always will be, Ginny.” He forgot himself, seeming unable to peel his gaze from the floor.
“Call me Imogen,” she offered. “It’s my real name.”
He looked at her as though she’d handed him a costly gift, and he had nothing to give her in return.
Embarrassed and flattered by his youthful veneration, she turned away and put some appropriate space between them. “Is there aught else I can do for you? Things at the establishment are going well?” She didn’t want to offend him by offering him money, but wanted to give him the opportunity to ask should he be in need.
He seemed to want to say something, to linger, but then changed his mind. “Naw, I’ve interrupted a right proper to-do, din’nt I? I should let you get back to your guests.”
“Well…” She was terrible at this part. Never knowing just what to say, how to leave things with an old acquaintance she never chanced to meet anymore. “You can’t know how much I appreciate your coming here. I’m going to have Cheever give you a box of the Turkish delight to take with you. Please do call again.”
“Maybe will do.” He flashed her that gold-flecked smile, and sauntered toward the door. “Maybe will do.”
It seemed as though the moment he left the room, the din of her guests filled the space he’d emptied. She needed to return to them.
She needed to think.
About Cole.
She’d not seen much of him since she’d left St. Margaret’s, though Jeremy had alerted her that he’d come by the Bare Kitten looking for her before he’d left for America.
Now he had returned. And still hadn’t forgotten her. She didn’t know whether to be terrified or pleased.
In her secret self, she could admit to a bit of both.
The kindest reason for him to come looking would be that he remembered their time together with fondness. Perhaps he wanted to again pay to share her bed. Even offer to make her his mistress. Imogen had to admit that, had her circumstances remained what they were, she would have seriously considered such an offer. She’d enjoyed his illicit attentions, and even the parts that caused her pain were still worth the stability and opportunity such a position would have afforded her.
But she didn’t need to reflect on options like that now. Edward had generously taken care of all such concerns, not only bribing del Toro with a small fortune, and buying the establishment for Jeremy, but going so far as to set up a six-month investment stipend for the boy. Man, Imogen firmly reminded herself. Baby-faced as he was, Jeremy had to be at least twenty-and-one now, only a handful of years younger than herself.
Which brought her to the most terrifying reason the Duke of Trenwyth might be looking for her …
What if he suspected who she really was and, instead of wanting her as his mistress, he planned to reveal her scandalous and dangerous past to those who would revel in her downfall?
Perhaps a year ago, that wouldn’t have mattered, but now … now that she’d begun to build something, to champion a cause, it was more and more imperative that her past remain where it was.
Hidden.
The last time she’d seen Trenwyth had been at Edward’s funeral in Belgravia Chapel. She’d been both heartsick and relieved as his last weeks had been miserable, and it hurt her unspeakably to watch him suffer.
Cole had glared at her the entire time. Pale and wan from his own recovery, he’d regarded her with such contempt that it had filled her with angst. At the funeral, she’d been frightened of his recognition, remaining swathed in black and heavily veiled. Lord Anstruther’s peers, his military subordinates, and his friends offered her little in the way of comfort, and he’d been no different. The rebuffs had been expected, but she hadn’t thought they would sting as much as they had.
Most especially his.
Though, she supposed, it was better that she avoid him. Should he truly recognize her, the life she’d built for her mother and sister would be in peril.