by Ann Lethbridge
Chapter One
Jaimie, Earl of Sandford, reread the report he’d received from the Home Office on yet another burglary in Mayfair. The fourth in a month. In the words of Mr Robert Peel, the Home Secretary, the ton’s uproar of indignation demanded immediate action.
Strangely, in most instances nothing of any real value had been taken. Rather, the perpetrators committed acts of mischief, tossing papers around or spilling ink on valuable carpets, before they left. In every case, the occupants had been fast asleep in their beds above stairs. All were badly unnerved.
Were these robberies committed by the same individual or individuals? Or was this rise in criminal activity simply coincidental with regard to timing and modes of entry?
Experience had taught Jaimie not to believe in coincidences.
‘And I told you, miss. He won’t see you.’ Growler’s deep rasp permeated his door and Jaimie raised his gaze from the document at the unusual occurrence. Growler’s throat had been ruined by smoke from the chimneys he’d been forced up as a small child. The man rarely raised his voice above a murmur.
Do not let yourself be distracted, my boy, not in matters of importance. His father’s words echoed comfortably in his mind, invoking a vague memory of his five-year-old self trying to master the complications of the letter f. How right Father had been. He again perused the sentence describing the latest robbery.
‘You has to leave, miss.’ Louder this time. Very loud for Growler.
Jaimie cursed as he again lost his place. Never once had he heard the fearsome-looking Growler raise his voice to a woman, whose sex he revered to the point of ridiculousness. And now he was shouting at one?
The woman’s reply, if she made one, did not penetrate the solid oak door.
The knock a moment later brought him to his feet and around from behind his desk. Anyone brave enough to stand up to Growler was worth taking a look at, no matter how important the report.
The door inched open.
‘Yes, Growler?’
The crack widened to half-open, revealing the burly figure of his second in command. The ex-bruiser’s face creased into worry. ‘There’s a lady wanting to see you, me lord. I told her you was busy, but she’s insisting...’
No lady would be visiting him in the suite of offices Jaimie rented in Lincoln’s Inn. ‘Tell her—’
At that moment, a short, veiled female figure draped from head to toe in mourning black strode past Growler as if he wasn’t there. No mean feat, given the man’s size and threatening posture.
‘You may tell me yourself, Lord Sandford.’ She angled her head towards Growler. ‘That will be all, thank you.’
Jaimie bristled. ‘Growler—’
‘Right you are, miss.’ Clearly relieved, Growler made good his escape.
Astonished and amused against his better judgement, Jaimie turned to the woman. ‘I beg your pardon, madam, but—’
‘I require your services to locate a missing person, my lord.’ She spoke as if he hadn’t said a word.
Amusement changed to annoyance. Damn and blast the article The Times had written about his miraculous recovery of a child stolen by a nursemaid. Now every female in London of marriageable age wanted him to find something they had lost. Usually a handkerchief or a puppy, because having forgotten about him for years, they now realised he remained one of the most eligible single gentlemen on the marriage mart, even if he was a widower. His stomach slid away.
The thought of having to find a second wife always made him feel slightly nauseous, though find one he must. Eventually. It was his duty to his title as his cousin, the heir presumptive, reminded him regularly.
He folded his arms across his chest and gave his visitor a hard stare.
‘Well?’ she countered in response to his silence. The veil shifted with her exhale.
The urge to peek beneath it and see if the face matched the clear, cool tones of her beautifully modulated voice took him by surprise. As did the realisation that Growler had been correct in describing her as a lady. Though exactly what sort of lady she might be remained in question.
He certainly wasn’t going to give her the satisfaction of asking for her name.
‘If you are missing a person,’ he said, keeping his voice level and far more pleasant than he felt she deserved, ‘I suggest you return home and request the assistance of your closest male relative. If you don’t have one, I recommend you seek the aid of your footman’
A toe tapped somewhere beneath the stiff, expensive silk of her skirts. ‘I have it on good authority that you are the best person for this particular task.’
There it was again. A voice full of calm matter-of-factness, but with a surprising musicality. A richness—He cut off his wandering thoughts. ‘Madam, I thank you for your confidence in my abilities, however, I regret I do not have time for any new projects at this moment. I am fully engaged and likely to be for some time. Good day to you.’
‘I can pay you.’ Clutched between thumb and forefinger she held out a pearl ring.
Annoyance rose in his gorge. Did she think he wasn’t a gentleman? That his refusal was based on monetary concerns? He forced the feeling down. It was a dangerous emotion when dealing with women, especially one who was clearly distraught despite her carefully calm voice. He did not hide his displeasure. ‘A hundred pounds’ deposit. Cash. Before I will so much as consider the project.’ The ring was clearly worth nowhere near that much.
She gasped, her fingers trembling around the ring, the little puff of air again lifting the veil, but still giving no clue as to her age or state of health. Or her looks.
Her shoulders slumped.
He felt...irritated instead of pleased at her defeat. Without a word he waved her towards the door, shepherding her in that direction with an outstretched arm. Now close enough to inhale a light waft of lavender. A floral statement of serenity, grace and calm, but... He frowned. Primarily, the flower symbolised distrust.
She probably did not understand that last. For what cause would this privileged and probably spoiled young woman have for distrusting anyone? Again, he had the urge to peek beneath her heavy veil and see her face. Something about her called strongly to his curiosity.
He shooed her towards the door through which she had arrived.
Thankfully, she did not resist. Or argue. Or try to flatter him. She left, leaving him feeling somehow guilty, perhaps even that he’d been unkind to ask for such an outrageous sum to find her missing person, when he’d done it purely to put her off.
He closed the door firmly behind her and leaned one shoulder against it, listening to Growler’s low sympathetic rumble, though the actual words were now indistinct. In short order, silence descended in the adjoining antechamber.
Jaimie strolled to the window and watched his visitor make for the hackney carriage waiting at the curb. Discreet, then, this woman. Most of them flaunted their identities in the hopes of attracting his attention. She entered into negotiations with the driver. Finally, the jarvey nodded agreement. Suddenly, he had to know who she was.
Jaimie strode across the room and snatched open the door. ‘Have someone follow that woman, Growler. I want to know whom she has lost.’
Growler’s jaw slackened, then he was on his feet and dashing for the door. ‘Yes, me lord.’ A moment later, he was thundering along the hallway outside the office.
Another glance into the street showed a small lad he did not recognise running hell for leather after the hackney and leaping easily on to the back runner. Not something Jaimie would have encouraged, but hitching a ride on hackney carriages was common practice among the street urchins and unlikely to attract attention.
He sighed and repressed his unease. Why was he even bothering? No doubt, despite the lady’s obvious distress, her supposed quest would turn out to be nothing but a hum. Blast it, he had far more important matters on his mind than the vagaries of a strange female. He fought to recapture the memory of his father’s voice, but all he could hear were those cool, clear tones. I require your services to locate a missing person.
The cheek of it. She hadn’t even done him the courtesy of showing her face. But that voice... Blast it, he would not let the woman ruin his day.
He picked up the report. A ring. She’d offered to pay him with a ring. She must indeed be desperate.
* * *
Tess ignored the butler’s frowning look as he took in her outer raiment. Thank goodness she’d remembered to remove the swathe of crepe she had used as a veil before she arrived home, though she had been glad of its concealment during her interview with Lord Sandford. It had certainly hidden her blushes both then and in the jewellers where she had sold the ring his lordship had so disdainfully rejected. While the ring hadn’t been worth a great deal, she could at least pay someone to make some preliminary enquiries on her behalf.
She mounted the stairs heading for her third-floor chamber, thinking back on her meeting with Lord Sandford. He was nothing like what she had expected. A peer of the realm engaged in solving crimes and disappearances? She’d expected some elderly scholarly sort of chap, one of those eccentrics one heard about, not a noble young man in the prime of life who looked like a Greek statue.
How was it possible that so handsome an exterior hid so arrogant a man? My word, he was shockingly handsome. Just thinking about him had her heart beating faster. She’d had trouble even uttering a word when she’d first entered his office. Tall and lean and stylish was her first impression. Handsome as sin in the manner of fair-haired Englishmen, though his eyes had been a velvety brown rather than a bright blue.
On the other hand, his arrogant lack of curiosity had been dreadfully irritating. Talk to her closest male relative, indeed. Ask a footman! Clearly, he’d thought her problem too trivial for his lofty attention. Not that she had intended to provide him with too many details, apart from the name of the person she wanted to find. She wasn’t stupid enough to trust in a man’s ability to do things right.
Take Father. He couldn’t even manage to leave his affairs in proper order. Even though his sudden death had happened more than a year ago, she continued to have trouble believing he had taken his own life without making proper provision for his children. And yet, it was typical of the way the man had lived his life. He’d preferred to gamble on something turning up, rather than setting to and putting time and effort into the land his family had occupied for centuries. She’d done her best to make up for his lackadaisical ways, but each time she thought they were making progress, he’d taken what little bit of money she had managed to save and gambled it on a horse or the turn of a dice in the hopes of doubling his money. Hopeless. No, if she wanted to find her half-brother Grey, she needed to take charge of the search. Yet the pittance she had received for the sale of her ring would not take her very far at all.
Her maid, Mims, looked up from her folding as Tess entered. ‘There you are, my lady. Her ladyship is looking for you. I told her you had stepped out for a breath of air, like you said. You are to go to her drawing room the moment you return.’
Tess nodded. ‘Thank you, Mims. Help me change.’
In short order, Mims had her out of the blacks she’d worn after her father died and into a sprig-muslin morning gown, ready to present herself to Wilhelmina, Lady Rowan, wife of Tess’s cousin Phineas, who had inherited her father’s title, his debts and, as the new head of the household, Tess’s upkeep. The latter they both wished to be rid of as soon as possible.
She took a deep breath, calmed her turmoil and entered the drawing room where Lady Rowan, a faded blonde, reclined on the daybed idly flicking the pages of a copy of La Belle Assemblée. She looked up with a frown. ‘Tess, your maid said you went out?’
‘I needed to return a book to Hatchard’s.’
Wilhelmina’s nose seemed to twitch. ‘If you had told me you were going, I would have asked you to pick up a book for me. You would think after all we do for you...’ She sighed. ‘Never mind, I will ask Carver to release one of the footmen from his duties.’
Tess forced a conciliatory smile. ‘My apologies. I did ask at Hatchard’s if they had anything for you, Cousin. They said they had not.’
Wilhelmina waved a dismissive hand as if she wasn’t the one who had just accused Tess of being thoughtless. She frowned. ‘Do sit down. You are making my neck ache.’
Of course, had she sat down without an invitation, her cousin’s wife wouldn’t have said anything, but a look of annoyance would have crossed her face and left Tess feeling off balance. She took the chair at right angles to the chaise. ‘Mims said you wanted to see me.’
‘Our plans for this evening have changed. Rowan has an important dinner at his club. We will go on ahead and he will meet us later at the Petershams’.’
Good news. Phineas’s false jocularity always put her on edge. She put his odd manner down to his discomfort at being around a woman who was his equal and who didn’t fawn over him the way his wife did. They had conversed about her supposed intractability more than once. No wonder he could not wait to marry her off.
At first the idea had appealed. However, none of the suitors to whom he had given his approval were men with whom she could envisage spending the rest of her life. Indeed, it was his most recent suggestion that had sent her hot-footed to see Sandford. Alas, to no avail.
‘Are we leaving home at ten as previously agreed?’ Tess asked. Another of Wilhelmina’s delightful little habits was to impart only part of the information one needed and then give one a look of irritation or even a scolding when one arrived too early or too late or was found to be waiting for something that had been cancelled. A habit that niggled.
‘Yes. Ten. It is a costume ball with masks. I am going as Good Queen Bess.’
Thankfully, that she did know. She had managed to sneak a peek at the invitation. Wilhelmina always went to costume balls as Queen Elizabeth, whereas Tess loved dressing up as something different each time. ‘I am going as Artemis.’
Wilhelmina’s brow wrinkled as she clearly tried to recall the Greek goddess. ‘Nothing risqué, Tess. You don’t want to give Mr Stedman a distaste for you.’ Wilhelmina’s vague expression sharpened. ‘Definitely no trousers this time or you really will end up in Yorkshire with Tante Marie. Rowan is at the end of his patience.’
The usual threat to send her north to live with an embittered ageing relative made its appearance each time she showed a morsel of spirit. They would do it, too. Look how they’d tossed Greydon, her illegitimate half-brother, out on his ear without a shilling to his name. She’d been horrified to come home and find him gone.
Poor Grey. It had been so unfair. But she hadn’t heard from him in all this time. He must know she would worry about him. Especially since he had taken with him the only piece of property of any value that she owned. Her diamond bracelet. If Cousin Phineas ever discovered the loss, things would go hard for Grey. Not to mention that she needed it back if she was to avoid marriage to the unpleasant Mr Stedman.
She certainly understood why Grey did not visit, but at the very least, he should have written. Explained his actions. Her stomach dipped. Surely Phineas wouldn’t intercept his letters? That she would not believe. Far more likely was that Grey had forgotten all about her in his new life. Another man who had failed her badly. They were a wholly unreliable lot. She would certainly take him to task when she found him.
She bowed her head to hide her frustration. ‘Nothing risqué, Cousin. I promise.’ Though the idea of giving the narrow-minded, moralistic Mr Stedman a distaste for marriage to her appealed mightily. And she might have to behave very badly, if she could not locate Grey. Although the thought of being banished to Yorkshire sent a shiver down her back.
‘Would you like me to ring for tea, Cousin?’ she asked.
Somehow she would find Grey before Stedman made his offer. Unfortunately, she wasn’t sure how much longer she could hold him off.
* * *
Jaimie tied on his mask and left the carriage around the corner from the Petershams’ town house. There was no point in wearing a disguising costume if one was going to waltz up to the front door in a lozenged coach. He adjusted the folds of his black cloak and pulled up the cowl. Costume balls were generally not his idea of a good time, but dressing as Death had appealed to his macabre sense of humour. After all, he’d been responsible for more than his fair share. It would also prevent anyone from guessing his identity and allow him to move around without exciting any interest. A useful advantage for tonight’s endeavour.
He handed over his invitation to the footman at the door and strode up the stairs to the first-floor ballroom behind a couple in the guises of Pan and a shepherdess. The man’s large backside stretched his tights to the limit in a most unsettling way and the lady kept dropping her lamb, requiring her escort to bend over to retrieve it. Jaimie averted his gaze. Finally, they made it to the top and Jaimie eased his way through the crowd of masked and colourfully clothed guests, many of whom were sweating profusely in their heavy costumes and the sweltering room.
Those costumes ranged from angels to gladiators and most took one look at him and either moved aside or peered into the cowl, trying to make out his features only to discover it useless because of his mask.
He scanned the room for his objective. Artemis, according to Growler’s information.
An interesting choice. A goddess who protected young women. Artemis was also known as Diana the huntress to the Romans. Should he read anything into her choice?
It had taken Growler and his team little effort to learn about Jaimie’s morning visitor. An unremarkable daughter of a deceased earl who had been placed under the protection of the new title holder. She was now in her second Season on the marriage mart. The question of whom she might be seeking remained unknown. Not his concern. Something else entirely had brought him here this evening.
And...there she was: Artemis, standing among a group of costumed ladies and gentlemen, watching the dancing. The lushness of her figure took his breath away. The expression on her round pretty face was one of complete innocence, despite the wanton tumble of chestnut locks falling down her back to her waist. If her costume had not been described to him in intricate detail, he would never have recognised her as the dumpy female who had stood toe to toe with Growler’s menacing presence earlier in the day.
This morning, he had thought her short and a little squat in her enveloping black carriage dress. The funereal clothing she’d worn had hidden every one of her charms. Apart from her voice. And her scent. Tonight, the artfully draped, white Greek robe arranged to leave one creamy dimpled shoulder bare also revealed a gloriously curvaceous figure in perfect proportion for her diminutive size. The bow and quiver slung diagonally across her body divided her breasts in a most mouthwatering fashion.
While her mask obscured the top half of her face, her lips were lush and full, and beneath them her chin came to an obstinate jut. At his approach, her gaze wandered over him for a brief second and came back, her eyes widening, not in recognition but in shock.
He sprang the trap.
‘I didn’t think you would recognise me, my lady.’ He kept his voice to a low whisper.
‘I do not,’ she said, turning that delicious shoulder to exactly the right angle for discouragement. ‘Have we been introduced?’
‘Sadly, no.’ At their meeting she had known his name, but he had not known hers. Now he took delight at putting her at the same disadvantage. She glanced at him again, clearly trying to see into the shadows of his hood.
‘Would you care to dance, my lady?’
Beside her, Lady Rowan eyed him up and down. ‘Lady Rowan,’ he murmured. ‘How regal you look tonight as Queen Elizabeth. Might you give your permission? I promise I will bring the Lady Theresa back to you safe and sound.’
The older woman relaxed at his polite tone and clear knowledge of who they were. ‘Certainly, sir. One set only, mind, Theresa.’
A tiny pursing of the Lady Theresa’s lips was the only sign of irritation at the admonition. He admired her forbearance. It must be galling for such an independent lady to be treated like a child.
‘Who are you?’ she asked with laughter in her voice as he led her into a set. ‘I didn’t think I knew you at all, but the way you bamboozled my cousin...’ She shook her head. ‘You must be an acquaintance to know she loves that costume.’
‘I admit I have seen it before.’
They moved up the set and the figures of the dance did not allow for conversation until they were standing out, waiting to join the neighbouring couples when the round of steps were complete.
‘I give up,’ she said. ‘You are going to have to tell me your name.’
‘The Grim Reaper.’
She raised her brows. ‘Very well, keep your identity hidden. It matters not to me.’
There was more than a little defiance in the declaration. For a moment, Jaimie considered revealing his identity. But that did not suit him at all. Not yet, at least. Having seen her, he now wanted to discover the reason this young lady had risked her reputation so precipitously by seeking him out. Perhaps her heart had been stolen away and it was the thief she was seeking?
Something he would not encourage.
‘Is not the whole idea of a masked ball to be someone else for an hour or two?’ he murmured in teasing tones.
‘Death?’ She made a scoffing sound. ‘Is that not a strange choice? Most men like to play some sort of heroic figure. You prefer to remind us of something unpleasant, yet something we must all face at some future time. I wonder what that says about you as a person?’
Her light clear voice held amusement and her brown eyes twinkled gold. She released his hand and moved into the next figure of the dance.
What did his choice of costume say about him? He pushed the thought aside. It was a disguise, that was all. A way of remaining anonymous. Of ensuring no tongues would start wagging about his first appearance at a ball in years, or his invitation to her to dance.
He found himself wishing it was a waltz he’d secured rather than a country dance. Only because it would have afforded more opportunity for conversation, not because he wanted that lovely, lithe, deliciously curved body floating along beside his and responding to his touch.
‘Am I to understand you dislike masquerades?’ he asked as he walked her down the set. ‘That you find them beneath you, perhaps?’
The fulminating look she gave him took him by surprise. ‘Masquerades are very well in their way. It is—’
‘It is?’
Another glance came his way. This one puzzled. Then she smiled and he felt as if something had struck him behind the ribs. ‘I think if one could attend under the right circumstances, it might be fun. If one could really do as one wished for once.’ She glanced over to where her cousin stood chatting and fanning her face. ‘One cannot have everything one wishes, can one?’
‘One cannot,’ he agreed.
Instinct told him that, despite her calm demeanour, there was an underlying worry behind the light words. The anxiety he’d sensed in his office seemed to have increased.
He’d deliberately led her into a set with an uneven number of couples and when once more they were standing out, he bowed. ‘It is uncommonly hot in here, my lady, may I offer you some refreshment before I return you to Queen Elizabeth’s side?’
‘As long as you don’t suggest we go bag a rabbit or two in the garden, I would like that.’
He laughed. Couldn’t help it. ‘Really? That was the best one of your swains could do?’
‘I should have known better than to have explained my costume to him or to have expected him to behave like anything but a fool.’
Startled by her vehemence, he led her out of the set.
‘A gentleman you know, I presume?’ he enquired.
‘Indeed. He thought he was being amusing. He actually suggested that the costume would serve me better without the bow. Fat lot he knows about Artemis,’ she muttered.
Jaimie took two glasses of the non-alcoholic punch which he knew without a doubt would be horrible. While the champagne would have been more fun, self-defence prevented him from being the cause of anything untoward. It is a gentleman’s duty to protect a lady, his father’s voice reminded. On that occasion, he had guided his mother around a puddle. Sort of. Only a little bit of her hem had trailed through it. It was one of the few mental images he had of his parents.
He guided Lady Tess towards the French doors. ‘Let us avail ourselves of the terrace. There are tables out there and waiters.’
For a moment he thought she might baulk. Again, she glanced over at her cousin, who was not looking their way. ‘We can ask her permission,’ he suggested. He was after all a wolf in sheep’s clothing and seeking permission was what a sheep would do.
She squared her shoulders. ‘No. I was out there once already. My cousin did not object.’
Her voice sounded grim. Who was the idiot who had annoyed her? Whoever he was, Jaimie could only thank him for sparking her spirit.
He ushered her to one of the tables on the terrace, seating her where the light from the nearby lantern would fall on her face while leaving him in shadow. He set her drink in front of her before sitting down.
‘Warm enough?’
‘Yes, thank you.’
Too bad. He’d had a notion to put his cape around her shoulders and let it absorb some of her perfume. The scent of lavender had lingered in his office all day. Serenity, grace and calmness in the language of flowers, along with that disturbing underlying meaning of distrust. All but the last seemed too milk and water for this spirited lady, though she had certainly shown calmness when she visited his office. Dianthus, for boldness, would suit her better. Though she had been veiled, so perhaps lemon flowers should be in the mix... His mother had made a great study of the language of flowers and her notes were one of the few items he treasured.
She sipped at the punch and made a face.
‘Terrible as usual?’ he asked, amused.
‘Awful.’ A smile curved those full lush lips. ‘It is all right at first and then...’ She gave a little shudder.
The movement did something to his blood. Made it run faster. Hotter. Not something he wanted in regard to this particular female. He forced himself to focus on the task at hand. Putting her at her ease so he could extract the information he wanted.
‘How are you enjoying the Season?’ A safe topic when it came to young ladies on the town. He sat back and waited to hear about all her conquests and gowns.
‘It is as bad as the previous one,’ she said with a small laugh.
How devastatingly honest. The hairs on his nape stood up. It was the same feeling he got when he started to get close to a criminal he was chasing. A sense of anticipation. It didn’t make any sense that he should feel it now, with her. ‘Why is that?’
‘I beg your pardon. You will think I am an ungrateful wretch after my cousin’s kindness in giving me this opportunity.’
‘Speaking the truth is not always a bad thing.’
She chuckled, a small rather painful sound. ‘It is if you are seeking a husband. Men expect a woman to be biddable and modest and not speak out of turn.’
‘I see.’
She twisted the stem of her glass, gazing down into the liquid. ‘My father encouraged me to offer my opinion, but to some I am ill-schooled.’ She pursed her lips thoughtfully and he experienced an urgent need to see if they tasted as exotic as they looked. ‘And here I am doing it again. If I’m not careful I’ll find myself packed off to Yorkshire.’
‘Why Yorkshire?’
‘My cousin has an aunt who lives there. She’s a—’ She stopped and leaned back in her chair with a sigh. ‘Why on earth am I telling you this?’
‘Because I’m a good listener? She is a...?’
‘She is an unhappy elderly lady who has already worked three companions into the ground.’
She had modified what she intended to say, but the meaning was clear. ‘You see yourself as number four.’
‘I will be if—’
He waited in silence. She would either tell him or she would not. For some strange reason, he really hoped she would.
The notion of hoping anything in regard to this forward young woman took him aback. Her worries were nothing to him. He was here for quite another purpose. The sooner he remembered that the better.
She glanced up at his face briefly, or at least into the darkness of his hood, yet somehow he sensed that she could see him when logic said she could not. Finally she dropped her gaze, staring down at her gloved hands. ‘This Season is my last chance to oblige my family.’
Was it not every well-bred girl’s duty to oblige her family? And yet she sounded so weary, so defeated, his skin tightened with the urge to rush to her defence. As infuriating as she had been at his office, this hopelessness was far worse.
Really? What nonsense. He didn’t know what he was thinking. He sipped at his drink and almost gagged when it hit the back of his throat. ‘Why so?’
She put her glass down with a little click. ‘It is not something I should be discussing with a stranger or anyone else for that matter.’ There was a forlorn note to her voice, though she tried to hide it with a smile.
‘Is there no one in whom you can confide?’ Now why had he asked that question? Of course, he knew why. He knew how alone he had felt growing up without his family. With only servants for company and a gruff guardian who came once a month to check on his progress. A surprising and unwanted flash of memory recalled a cousin who would now be around this young woman’s age, were she alive. Had she survived, she also would have been alone growing up. Because of him.
A pang squeezed the breath from his lungs. Regret for what might have been. For the loss. He forced it back where it belonged. Nothing could be gained by such maudlin thoughts. The cases were not at all similar. This girl clearly had a caring family who gave her everything she could possibly need. Young women loved their drama. It was likely all a storm in a teacup.
She shook her head. ‘There was someone,’ she said, with a small sad smile. ‘Not any more. He—’
He? A twinge of something unpleasant tightened his gut. Interesting. He would never have imagined feeling anything that hinted of jealousy. He waited. And waited. Would she say more? Reveal her innermost dreams and wishes. God, he hoped not. And yet clearly she had aroused his curiosity.
‘A...a childhood friend I haven’t seen for quite some time.’
A friend. The relief was out of all proportion to the information imparted. ‘What happened to him?’
‘He went away.’ She waved vaguely into the dark.
Why the hell did he have the feeling there was a great deal more to the story? Was this the person she’d wanted him to find?
Copyright © 2018 by Michèle Ann Young
Keep reading for an excerpt from by Julia London.