Chapter 13

Fast regretted the words the moment they left his mouth. Bloody hell! It had been years—decades—since he’d bungled so badly.

Lorelei, rightfully, looked as if somebody had just tipped a bucket of cold water over her head. She took an unsteady step backward, the sleepily aroused expression of only a second earlier already gone.

“Ah,” Fast said.

She bristled. “What do you mean ah ?”

“You’ve come back to yourself. For a moment I thought—” He broke off and shrugged. “Just ah. ”

“What did you think? That I would go to your house”—her eyes widened— “or perhaps you thought to bring me back to the brothel?”

Fast couldn’t help smiling at her anger. “There, that is more like it.” Strangely enough, he hadn’t liked seeing her flustered and uncertain—especially not when he’d been the one to wrong-foot her.

“Why are you looking at me that way?” she demanded.

“What way?”

“Pityingly.”

He gave an exasperated huff. “Has it ever occurred to you that you might be misreading me?”

“No. I recognize that superior, pitying look. Is that because I won’t leave this ball with you? You think because I’m a woman who works that I’m also a—a—”

“Yes?” he asked, curious to see what she thought he thought she was.

“A female with loose morals. A—a Jezabel.”

He laughed, amused by the antiquated word.

She lifted her hand, as if she might slap him, but then clenched it into a fist and dropped it to her side. “Are you courting Miss Pascoe?”

Yet again, Lorelei had surprised him with a question he wasn’t expecting.

“You are, aren’t you?” she demanded, mistaking the reason for his pause. “You are in pursuit of one woman but believe you have the right to bed another.”

“I am not betrothed to Miss Pascoe.”

She gave him a scornful look. “You think women are put on earth to amuse you—that we are nothing but your playthings. And when the result of your—your raking arrives nine months after you have taken your pleasure you are already long gone, leaving some poor woman to live with the consequences.”

The irony of her accusation was enough to make him laugh. Wisely, he didn’t.

“Why are you smiling, my lord? Do I amuse you?”

“It is not so much you I find amusing as this conversation, Miss Fontenot.”

“I’m so pleased to be a source of mirth. But I am finished entertaining you.” She spun on her heel.

Or at least she would have done if he’d not caught her upper arm, the feel of warm silky skin and cool soft leather teasing the pads of his fingers.

“You should not go—not like this, Lorelei.”

She jerked her elbow away and Fast immediately released her. “Why not?” she demanded, crossing her arms and rubbing the spot where his fingers had just been.

“Because your eyes are throwing sparks, and your lips look freshly kissed, and your cheeks are delightfully flushed. If you enter the ballroom in such a condition everyone will know you’ve just been soundly kissed in the garden.” He smiled. “By me.”

“And that would reflect poorly on you because you are supposed to be pursuing Miss Pascoe, aren’t you?”

“It wouldn’t look good for either of us,” he said, not bothering to deny her accusation. It was better for her if she was suspicious of him. Especially since Fast couldn’t seem to control his thoughts or hands or mouth around her. No, she shouldn’t trust him.

Her jaw flexed and he suspected she was rapidly trying out responses and just as rapidly discarding them, her rattled behavior once again telling him that she was scarcely more than an innocent when it came to sexual dalliance—or even mere flirtation. He felt a sharp pang of regret that there could never be more between them.

She was a stunning woman and not just her looks. Standing near her was like standing beside a lightning bolt; never before had he been so completely aware of another person.

But she was not of his world; she was a newspaperwoman, not a member of his class. No, she was not meant for him. He’d forgotten that fact briefly when he’d held her in her arms. He’d been a bloody fool to ask her to go home with him. He was relieved—if also disappointed—that she’d come to her senses.

This needed to be the last time he allowed himself to linger in her company.

The last.

After tonight, he would avoid the woman like the plague. For her good, as well as his own.

***

“My goodness,” Freddie murmured as she gazed down at the contents of the now familiar pale pink box. “It is—”

“Magnificent,” Lori finished for her.

Freddie looked up from the gown at Lori’s brittle tone and she frowned. “You look angry.”

“I am angry.”

“Because Honey said it wasn’t her and you still have no idea who sent this?”

“Yes.”

“And you went back to Madam Thérèse again?”

“Yes.” Lori flung up her hands. “The woman refused to budge an inch. Being in the dark one time was amusing, but this is…”

“Is what?” Freddie asked, her eyes turning back to the gown as if they were on leading-strings.

“It’s annoying. And frustrating. And embarrassing.”

“Embarrassing?”

“I am a newspaperwoman, Freddie. I ferret out the truth for a living and yet I can’t even find out who is sending me gowns. I look like a fool.”

Freddie gave Lori one of her rare smiles. “I can see how that might be awkward for you. But, at the same time, you can hardly expect Madam Thérèse to betray the confidence of one of her clients. Especially one who spends so much money.” She cocked her head. “Weren’t you the one who told me that the people who contribute information to your stories deserve to have their identities protected, if that is what they want?”

“Please stop being so logical!”

Freddie laughed.

“But I haven’t shown you the worst of it yet.” Lori lifted the gown from the box, exposing a beautiful marquetry box.

Freddie reached for the box but then stopped, her eyes darting to Lori.

“Go head and open it,” Lori said.

Freddie flipped up the lid and caught her lower lip with her teeth.

She had already stared at the necklace, bracelet, and earrings for a full half hour before her friend had come home and discovered Lori standing in her room like a slack-jawed yokel.

“Are those what I think they are?” Lori asked.

“Emeralds?” Freddie said, and then picked up an earring and held it to the light. “I’m no expert on gemstones, but they are lovely, whatever they are.”

Lori tossed the gown over the jewels and pressed the heels of her hands against her pounding temples. “Good Lord, Fred! What in the world am I going to do?”

“Wear it. All of it—the dress and the jewels,” Freddie said, without so much as a second’s hesitation.

“But—”

“You don’t know who sent it and that person has obviously gone to a great deal of effort to make sure of that. You can hardly be accused of accepting gifts from someone when you don’t know who that someone is. You have three options: give it away, sell it, or keep it. That necklace alone must cost hundreds of pounds, Lori. You cannot give it away. You could sell it, but you would still be profiting from an anonymous gift, so why not wear it? At least wear it once before selling it,” she amended. “And just think , Lori: selling it all would give you enough of a nest egg to live on for a long, long time. Having pride is all well and good, but we are women of uncertain means, Lori. And right there”—she jabbed a finger at the box— “is one way to remove that uncertainty. You would be a fool to throw away such a windfall. And I know you are not a fool.”

Lori watched in open-mouthed wonder as her friend—often referred to as the Ice Countess behind her back — paced back and forth, her cheeks flushed and her breathing rapid. “I beg your pardon for becoming overly emotional, Lori, but I am angry,” she said, startling Lori with her raised voice. “These gifts are probably from a man but we, as women, are told all our lives that we cannot accept gifts from men who are not our husbands or fathers. And why is that? Because it offends our honor. But does it not offend our honor to need a man’s protection and money to live respectably?” She made a very rude, un-Freddie noise and shook her head. “Why should men be the only ones to make all the rules? Or break them,” she added under her breath.

Lori had never seen such fire in the other woman’s fawn-gray eyes. For years Lori and the other teachers who’d worked at the Stefani Academy had believed Freddie was too calm and controlled. It couldn’t be good for a person to suppress every emotion. And here Freddie was letting her emotions bubble over for the first time that Lori had seen and on the subject of anonymous gifts.

Interesting.

Something told her that if she tried to pry—however gently—Freddie would close up as tightly as a clam.

Instead, she considered her friend’s argument.

If Freddie, who was considered an arbiter of taste, fashion, and manners, not only by Lori and the rest of their friends, but also most of the ton , believed that she should keep and wear the gifts then she would.

“Very well. I shall wear the gown and the jewels.”

“Excellent. It is most propitious the gown arrived today. you can wear it and the jewels tonight.”

“Tonight?” Lori repeated. “I did not think we had any engagements?”

“I accepted two invitations for this evening. On both our behalf.”

“Two? But I hadn’t—” she broke off at Freddie’s narrow look. “Er, what are we attending tonight?”

“Lady Russell’s ball first, and then we shall stop in at the Countess of Rutland’s.”

“I can come to the first one, Freddie, but there really is something I need to do later.”

“There is something you need to do at midnight?” Freddie repeated.

“Er, yes.”

“Something dangerous?”

“Of course not,” she lied.

“Am I going to read about whatever you are doing in tomorrow’s newspaper, Lori?”

“It’s nothing like that, Freddie.” At least she certainly hoped not, although Lori knew that David would, without compunction—indeed, quite eagerly—publish a story that reported the arrest of the Countess of Sedgewick’s housemate at one of the most salacious and dangerous wharf front taverns in London.

“I will only be gone a few hours, Freddie. And it is completely harmless.”

Freddie stared for a long moment before nodding. “I hope so.”

So did Lori.

***

Miss Fontenot’s green eyes sparkled up at Fast, the glitter in them putting the emeralds around her neck to shame. “You look perturbed, Lord Severn. Should I not have asked you to dance tonight?”

Fast was angry—and disgusted—but at himself rather than Miss Fontenot.

First, for buying her the damned gown and jewels that he was currently imagining tearing from her body.

Second, for coming to this ball in the hope that she would be here.

Third, for saying yes to her cheeky request for a waltz.

It was time to face the truth: where Miss Fontenot was concerned, Fast was weakness itself.

He’d lied to himself and said that he needed to come tonight if he was to continue irritating Moreland by courting Miss Pascoe.

He’d told himself that Miss Fontenot would still be so angry with him about the last time they’d spoken that he would get to watch her from afar without risking another exchange between them.

He was an idiot.

“My lord?”

“Hmm?” he murmured, deftly guiding her around a pair of dancers whose enthusiasm for the waltz was greater than their skill.

“Are you perturbed that I asked you to dance?”

When he looked down, he saw a glint of something that looked like concern in her eyes.

“I wanted to dance with you,” he said.

“Then why do you look so grim?”

Because you should stay as far away from me as possible, and I should help you by avoiding you at all costs.

He immediately ignored that advice and said, “Tell me, what do you do when you are not working, Lorelei?”

“I don’t recall giving you permission to use my Christian name.”

“You didn’t.”

She snorted softly and then said, “Nobody calls me that.”

“Oh? What do they call you?”

“Miss Fontenot.”

“I meant what do your friends call you?”

“But we are not friends, my lord.”

“Are you still angry about the last time?”

Her eyes flickered and she glanced away, but then quickly dragged her gaze back to him. “Oh that. I’d already forgotten.”

They both heard the lie in her voice.

Fast left that dangerous subject behind and said, “You look lovely tonight. Another new frock?”

“Yes,” she said shortly.

“You look annoyed.”

She pursed her lips.

“What is amiss?” he persisted. “Why do you look like such a squeeze crab?”

“ Squeeze crab ?”

Fast smirked at her amused outrage. “If the shoe fits.”

“Don’t worry, my lord. For once, it’s not you.”

“What a relief. Then what is it?”

She paused for so long that he thought she’d ignore his prodding. “It is this dress,” she eventually admitted.

“What is wrong with it?” he asked with altogether too much heat.

Fortunately, she did not notice his strange reaction. “Nothing is wrong with it.”

She was right about that; she looked bloody gorgeous.

“Somebody gave it to me.”

“Oh? Is that bad?” he asked carefully.

She shook her head, her cheeks turning that dark rose shade he’d grown to love. “Never mind.”

“You can’t just dangle an interesting tidbit like that in front of me and then say never mind .”

“Says who?”

“Says me.”

She stared at his chin for a moment before lifting her eyes to his. “Somebody has been sending me gifts.”

“Like the gown?”

“Yes. This gown, the one I wore last time, and other… things.”

Fast inwardly smiled at her dismissive use of other things for the fortune in emeralds currently festooning her delicious person. “A secret admirer, then?”

“I don’t know that the person admires me.”

“What other reason could he have for sending you gifts?”

“Why would you say he ?”

“It was just a figure of speech.”

She grunted.

“Don’t you like the gifts?”

“Of course I like them. They are beautiful—and perfect! That isn’t the issue.”

Perfect.

Fast allowed himself a tiny, smug smile at her admission. He liked seeing his gifts on her body very well indeed, but it was nice to hear that she liked them, too.

“So, what is the issue then?” he asked.

“I don’t know,” she admitted.

She looked so disgruntled that Fast wanted to laugh. But he suspected that he would gain more information with silence than mockery.

And his patience was rewarded when she said, “I’m supposed to be a newspaperwoman adept at digging up information and I haven’t been able to discover a thing about the gift giver’s identity.”

Fast made a mental note to give Thérèse a bit extra when he settled the next bill.

“Surely you must suspect somebody?”

“I”—she bit her lip and then vigorously shook her head. “No.”

“You were going to say somebody—whom?”

She gave him the irritable scowl he treasured almost as much as her blushing. “I’ve already said too much.”

It irked Fast almost beyond bearing that there was somebody else in her life she suspected of giving her such gifts. And the fact that he was irked was even more… irksome. Naturally, she must be combing through her acquaintances and looking for a probable suspect. And just as naturally Fast would not be among that number. She’d said it herself: they weren’t even friends. Indeed, she viewed him as nothing more than source material for a newspaper story.

It was Fast who’d given in to a flight of fancy and developed not just lustful imaginings, but romantic ones.

Bloody. Damn. Hell.

He needed to do something to keep the shocking state of his thoughts in check because Gregg was already beginning to suspect there was something amiss. He hated to think what his long-time business partner and friend would say if he ever guessed that Fast had been brought to his knees by a woman whose only interest in him was exposing his family’s darkest secrets in his enemy’s newspaper.

And he never wanted Gregg or anyone else to guess how arousing he was finding it to clothe this woman. Even Fast thought himself more than a bit unhinged to be deriving such pleasure in choosing garments for her—or even just thinking about her wearing garments next to her skin that he’d selected for—

“At first I thought it might be Mr. Parker— ow !” Miss Fontenot glared up at Fast when his fingers tightened around her waist.

“I beg your pardon,” he muttered. “It’s just difficult to believe you’d think that tasteless money-grubbing cad would select such a lovely garment.

She cut him an irritable look. “You’re the one who asked me who I thought it was. Don’t ask me questions if you’re going to become so huffy about my answers.”

“Huffy?”

“Yes, huffy. Besides, you hardly know anything about the man, so you’re not in the best position to judge.”

He was too angry to trust himself to speak, so he resorted to his characteristic grunt. She suspected Parker? Unbelievable!

“And don’t think that you can force me to talk more by making those bestial grunts or maintaining a mysterious silence.”

Fast grinned. “You’ve got me all sorted out, haven’t you?”

An expression flickered across her face, but he’d be damned if he knew what it meant.

Before he could tease an answer out of her, what must have been the shortest waltz in history drew to a close.

“Do you have the supper dance available?” Fast asked, inwardly cursing his mouth.

“Lady Sedgewick wishes to leave before supper.”

“Ah, the life of a social butterfly.”

She smiled but didn’t disabuse him.

Fast was disappointed but told himself it was for the best. He would have stayed for supper if she’d been free, but the truth was that he needed to get down to the wharf and help Gregg interrogate Garcia—their main suspect for whoever was selling information to Parker. The man had evidently been spotted by one of Gregg’s many informants and Gregg was to set a trap for him later tonight.

While he regretted that he’d not get to spend more time with Miss Fontenot, he could not deny that he was very interested to question Mr. Garcia and discover if he was the man they’d been searching for. If Garcia was the one who’d blown the gaff about Jensen, then Fast would make excellent use of him before dishing up his just deserts.

Fast grinned at the prospect of feeding Parker some misinformation of his own devising. Christ but he’d like to get a few steps in front of despicable newspaperman for a change!