Remy grinned as he leaned over and stage-whispered to Dearborn, “That’s Harry’s blatant attempt to avoid discussing it. Which tells me the chit is maybe worth a second look.” He winked at Harry.
Finishing his ale, Harry stood. “See you later, lads.” He shook his head, smiling before dropping coins on the table and taking himself off.
Selina was worth a second, third, and fourth look. And he’d be damned if he was going to discuss her with Remy and Dearborn. Or with his family. What they shared was special.
It was also tenuous. They’d made no promises, no assurances, and there were no expectations—at least on his part. He’d wager she had none either.
For now, that was perfect. But would it remain that way?
After dinner, Rafe sent a coach to fetch Selina to his new house on Upper Brook Street. An imposing structure with a grand Palladian façade, it was beyond anything Selina could have imagined.
Inside, she followed Rafe’s butler into the ground floor sitting room. The size and grandeur were awe-inspiring. She couldn’t believe this was his.
The sitting room boasted a large fireplace, windows that looked out to the substantial garden behind the house, and two seating areas—one clustered in the center of the room and another near the windows that included a round table. Several paintings stood against the walls, clearly waiting to be hung.
She felt small and strange.
“Lady Gresham, welcome,” Rafe said as he strode into the sitting room.
Selina snorted into a laugh. “This is excessive, isn’t it?”
“Is it?” He surveyed the room, then looked back to her. “Wait until you see the drawing room upstairs—it’s not finished yet. Nothing is, really. But we’re working on it.”
She wanted to know how he could possibly afford all this, but also didn’t want to ask for specifics. Not yet. Maybe they would get to a point where they were open with each other.
Maybe they wouldn’t.
Instead, she focused on the reason for her visit. “I’ve been trying to see you.”
“I know. I got your note. As you can see, I’ve been busy.” He’d finally sent her a message that afternoon, inviting her to come here to his new house.
“Are you going to host a ball?”
He frowned. “Do you think I should?”
Selina threw up her hands. “How should I know? I infiltrated Society for one purpose—to promote Beatrix. Once that is finished, I’ll be done, thank goodness.”
“You don’t like London?” he asked. “Society, I mean. London is far more than just this.” He gestured to the large room.
“Society is rather superficial.”
“Haven’t you met anyone you like?”
She had, actually. The Spitfire Society ladies. Harry’s family.
Harry. Leaving him would be as painful as leaving Rafe had been all those years ago. More, probably.
Selina decided to ignore the question. “You could host a ball for Beatrix since she’s your sister. In fact, you probably should.”
“You raise a valid point. However, I have not been properly introduced. I’ll need to establish some contacts in Society first.”
“You haven’t been invited to the Earl of Aylesbury’s house yet?” Selina had been certain that Rachel would encourage her parents to do so.
“Not as of yet.”
“I’ll see what I can do to make certain that happens.”
“Thank you. I have other…connections I can exploit.”
His choice of words made her flinch inwardly, which was also strange. This was the life they led—they sought opportunity and then made the most of it. If they didn’t, they starved.
Well, Rafe was clearly not in danger of that any longer. But it seemed he had other ambitions. She looked at him intently. “What do you hope to accomplish?”
“Simply to establish a solid footing here in Society.”
There had to be more to it than that, but maybe there wasn’t. As children, they’d dreamed of a comfortable life. Specifically, he’d longed for a library, one of the things he remembered most about their home before their parents had died. And a horse. Unlike Selina, he’d learned to ride before they’d been orphaned.
“Does this house have a library?” she asked.
A slow smile crept across his lips. “You know it does. I’ll show you when it’s finished—I’ve a great many books to buy.” He really was incredibly wealthy. Books were very dear.
Selina pushed those thoughts from her mind to refocus on why she’d come. “I wanted to talk to you about Luther. Could he have started the fire in Saffron Hill?”
Rafe went to the hearth and leaned his elbow on the mantelpiece. “It’s possible. He was there, of course. He knew I planned to kill Partridge.”
Selina walked around the settee towards Rafe. “Maybe he started the fire to cover what you did. He loved you like a brother.”
“Yes, but don’t for a moment believe that Luther won’t look after himself first. You don’t know him as I do,” Rafe said darkly.
“Perhaps you should have told me that when I returned to London instead of pretending you were dead.” She didn’t bother keeping the irritation from her tone. “Instead, you let me rely on him to make my Madame Sybila scheme believable.”
“Has he ruined things?”
“No, but the woman he’s using as his ‘wife’ is drunk most of the time and nearly did.” She decided not to mention Luther’s behavior toward her. She didn’t need Rafe being protective as he’d been in their youth and doing something stupid like wanting to defend her.
Would he feel protective? Their sibling relationship was probably long dead. At least, it seemed that way. A hollow ache cleaved her chest.
Rafe exhaled. “Luther sometimes makes decisions with too much emotion. I’d wager he was trying to help the woman.”
Too much emotion. As opposed to Rafe. And to Selina. “We aren’t weighed down with such sentiment, are we?”
“I’m not.” His eyes bored into her for a moment. “Can you say the same when you are carrying on with Sheffield?”
Selina’s pulse picked up. “Carrying on? What do you mean by that?”
His stare continued. “You’re having an affair. Don’t bother denying it.” He lifted a shoulder. “I don’t particularly care. Do what makes you happy. Lord knows we’ve not had enough of that in this life, have we, Lina?”
She hadn’t. Apparently, he hadn’t either. “Would you please stop watching me?”
“No. I care about you. I’m sorry I lost track of you when you left the school.” His voice lowered to an almost inaudible whisper. “I regret that.” He couldn’t know what had happened to her. Could he?
“Don’t. I managed.” She hoped he didn’t know. And she didn’t ever want him to. He’d blame himself, and it wasn’t his fault. “You did me a great favor sending me away.” She sought to lighten the mood. “Now look at you. Obviously, you’re good at making money.”
“Good enough.” He nearly cracked a smile, but instantly sobered. “You, however, have struggled. I was going to send you a note tonight. It’s come to my attention that Bow Street is investigating a series of robberies in Mayfair. Is that our ‘sister’?”