“If I can help you in any way, I hope you’ll tell me.” He seemed earnest, but Selina didn’t need his help. She had things well in hand.
“Is it all right if Mrs. Kinnon and Luther know I’m aware you’re not really dead?”
“Yes. I really was just trying to protect you, Lina. When I heard you were back, and I saw how lovely and refined you’d grown up to be…” He smiled, but there was sadness behind it. Maybe regret. Selina felt both those emotions too. “I thought it best if I remained dead to you.”
“And yet, if you become respectable, we could be what we always dreamed. We’d both be secure. No more begging or scraping or hating our lot in life.” That sensation was still so familiar, even after years of being “safe.” Was that because she actually still hated her lot?
Rafe reached across the table for her hand. She placed her palm in his. “I’d like that more than anything. I’ll let you know what I find out about the fire.”
“I can’t tell Sheffield what you learn—we’ll have to find another way to convey the information.”
“Of course.” He gave her a wolfish grin. “I already have a plan.”
Chapter 8
On Thursday evening, Harry walked up the short flight of steps to his parents’ house on Mount Street. The butler opened the door before Harry reached the stoop and welcomed him inside.
“Your father would like to see you in his study.” The butler, Tallent, was somewhat new to the position as their longtime butler had retired last year. Tallent had been promoted from footman and by all accounts was doing an excellent job. Harry particularly liked him because he’d helped him and Jeremy out of a few scrapes in their younger years.
Harry handed him his hat and gloves. “Thank you, Tallent. How is his mood this evening?”
“Let us hope you have good news for him, sir.” Tallent pressed his lips together and gave his head a light shake.
Exhaling, Harry made his way through a sitting room to the study. His father was seated in a wingback chair in front of the hearth where a few coals burned.
“’Evening, Father,” Harry said. “Do you need a refill of brandy?”
The earl glanced toward the glass in his hand. “Not at the moment, thank you.”
Harry went to the sideboard and poured himself a glass, then took the other chair situated in front of the fire. After sitting and sipping his brandy, he leaned back in the chair and awaited his father’s interrogation.
“What news?” Father asked.
“I assume you’re asking about the fortune-teller, or are you perchance interested in me?”
His father snorted softly. “I am always interested in you. However, everything you discuss involves work. Your investigation into the fortune-teller serves both of us.”
“I suppose that’s true.” Harry took another drink of his brandy. “I regret to inform you that it appears Madame Sybila’s charity—the Home for Wayward Children—is, in fact, a legitimate operation.
Father thumped his palm—the one that wasn’t holding his brandy—on the arm of the chair. “Damn and blast! How can that be?” He speared Harry with a dark, angry stare.
“I went to the home, and everything seemed as it should. I’ll return next week, but I can’t say I expect to find anything different. That doesn’t mean Madame Sybila isn’t executing some other fraud.” There was still the matter of the tonics. Harry meant to obtain her offerings to determine if they were anything other than water or something equally innocuous.
Scowling, Father lifted his glass and polished off the contents. He rose from the chair and took the empty vessel to the sideboard. Turning back to Harry, he exhaled. “I appreciate you looking into this. I just can’t see why your mother believes in such nonsense.”
“It could be that Madame Sybila simply comforts her. Would that be so bad?” Harry didn’t mean it as a defense of the fortune-teller, but of his mother. Even so, he realized how it sounded to his father, who despised the fact that his wife was seeking the counsel of what he perceived to be a charlatan.
“Of course it is!” Father frowned. “You aren’t giving up, are you?”
Harry rose from the chair. “No. I’ll continue to supervise the fortune-teller’s activities. I won’t let her take advantage of Mother.”
“Good.” Father straightened his coat. “We should join the others in the library.”
“After you.” Harry gestured to the door.
His father departed the study, and Harry followed behind. They entered the library a few minutes later, where everyone was gathered with the exception of Jeremy. Harry wondered if his twin would come—he didn’t attend every week. In fact, he attended less often than Harry, who always strove to be present unless his work interfered, which happened on occasion.
Rachel strolled toward him, an auburn brow arched saucily. “You’re here.”
“You doubted it?”
She shrugged. “Your presence isn’t guaranteed. But tonight of all nights, I was really hoping you would be here.”
Instantly, Harry’s neck pricked. He looked from one sister to the other. Every single one had an anticipatory sheen to their expression—that and an irritating smugness. What the hell was going on? He shot a look toward his mother. She had that same sense of anticipation about her, along with something else: giddiness.
Bloody hell, what were they planning?
“Lady Gresham and Miss Whitford,” Tallent announced, drawing Harry to turn.
Standing just over the threshold was Lady Gresham and her sister. Probably her sister—because Tallent had said so. Harry couldn’t confirm her presence because he couldn’t tear his gaze from Lady Gresham.
But he did. Because he knew what this was: an unabashed attempt at matchmaking. How the hell had they—his sisters and mother—correctly determined that Lady Gresham was special? That he was, perhaps, interested in her?
Because they weren’t stupid, apparently.
Harry cast a narrow-eyed glare at Rachel. She barely lifted a shoulder in response as her lips almost curved into a smile. Almost. The wretch.
Except was he upset that Lady Gresham was here? Not at all. And maybe that disturbed him more than his family’s machinations.
Harry took in the ivory gown with its red and dark orange embroidery that perfectly draped Lady Gresham’s tall, elegant form. She looked like she belonged in London’s best drawing rooms, which, he supposed, she was—the Earl of Aylesbury’s library was as fashionable as any in the upper crust. He suddenly felt a great divide between them. She was a woman at home in this environment, while he was more comfortable working.
Except she’d seemed quite well adapted to assisting him with and accompanying him on investigations. He ought to be careful not to make assumptions about her. Perhaps that was why he found himself so attracted to her—she did not fit any particular mold.
Miss Whitford curtsied to the room at large. “Good evening.”
Lady Gresham also dipped a brief curtsey, her gaze going to Harry’s father. “Good evening, my lord. Thank you so much for your kind invitation to dinner this evening.”