“If he is involved—do you really think anyone will give a damn?” Will asked. “You know how that world works. They’ll protect their own, justice be damned.”
“I fear that may be the case,” Oscar admitted.
“Then the best thing you can do for this girl is to help her make herself a new identity and get her out of London.”
He flinched at the idea of that. Destroying her life to protect it. He didn’t want it to come to that. “Perhaps they might believe her if I could find the right evidence. Or find the right person to tell,” Oscar insisted. “She’s a lady, Will. Or she…she was. She’s the widow of Warren Huxley. He was a member here. Died last year.”
Both Will’s eyebrows went up. “I admit I don’t have the kind of memory you do, where you can remember the details of a person with just one meeting. But I have some faint recognition of the name. How did she fall so far?”
Oscar flinched. “Bad husband. Bad family. The usual ways a lady falls.” He frowned. “I know the guard is useless and that Society chooses what and who it deems important. It always has.”
Will cocked his head. “You disdain them, but you make your money at their feet.”
Oscar shrugged. “We often disdain what gives us advantage, I suppose. I never claimed to be better than anyone else in that regard.”
“What do you need from me?”
He met Will’s eyes. “You would help me even though you disapprove of this obsession.” He shook his head before his friend could speak. “Of course you would. I admit I’ll be…distracted by this for a while.”
“I can be present here,” Will assured him. “Would you like me to look at the records of members like Roddenbury and Huxley?”
“Yes, that would be helpful,” Oscar said. “I doubt there will be anything there to assist, but more information is always good. I’ll be making discreet inquiries, myself. So if you come upon any helpful connections I can seek out, I’ll take those, as well.”
“And what about this young woman, Mrs. Huxley?”
Oscar licked his lips without meaning to do so. There went his mind again, back to the weight of her leg across his own, to the way her back arched as he slid his fingers into her wet heat. To the shuddering pull of her body as she came against him. To the taste of her, sweet and salty as he lewdly licked her away and watched her tremble in response.
“I don’t want to confuse things, like with Louisa,” he said, his voice too rough.
“So you’re interested in her, then?” Will asked gently.
Not gently enough. Oscar glared at him. “Don’t go matchmaker on me,” he warned.
“I wouldn’t dare,” Will said with a chuckle. “You’re a bad catch, aren’t you?”
He teased, for Oscar had said that many a time. Today it hit him in the chest and he nodded slowly. “I always have been. I’m going to gather a few things here, contacts and the like, and speak to Goodworth before I go. But I’ll check in with you in a few days. Call on me or write if you find something in the interim.”
“Of course,” Will stood and extended a hand. They shook, and Oscar grabbed a few items from his desk before he headed for the door. As he reached it, Will called out, “Oh…and you should speak to your mother, you know.”
Oscar pivoted back. Will was looking at him down his nose, a bit of judgment in his stare. “You were right when you said I’ve seen her more recently than you have.”
Oscar rolled his eyes. “I know, I know. I’ll call on her. Goodbye.”
“Goodbye.” Will’s laughter rang in Oscar’s ears as he walked away.
Chapter 8
If Imogen had been confused when Oscar left her at the breakfast table, three days later she was absolutely flummoxed. The man had been almost invisible since their last passionate encounter in her bed.
Oh, she occasionally saw him as he slipped from the house, off to do some vague business, as the servants called it. Once he had passed her down a hallway before bed. She’d thought he might say something then. His dark eyes had tracked her as he said her name. But nothing. He had gone to his chamber and that was that. Certainly, he hadn’t eaten with her. He hadn’t spoken to her beyond a cursory ‘good day’. He hadn’t come back into her room to soothe her if she had nightmares.
It was almost as if he were hiding from her. This man who was so controlled, so commanding of any space he entered…hiding from her.
And what could she do about it? She couldn’t go home. It was far too dangerous. She couldn’t exactly receive callers here to pass the time or distract her from the odd dance she and Oscar had begun and that he had abandoned so abruptly.
Instead, she spent her time exploring the house and garden. Reading the man’s books and examining any notes he’d made in the margins to try to determine who he was at heart. Asking questions of his servants, who were always incredibly kind, but also intensely close-lipped about the man who paid their wages.
“Good evening, Mrs. Huxley.”
She started and turned from the fire where she’d been pondering her situation to find the butler, Donovan, standing in the doorway. “Good evening.”
“I trust your supper was to your satisfaction,” he said, as kind as always.
“Yes,” she said with a smile to reassure him. “Mrs. Lesley is a fine cook and I’ve enjoyed all her wonderful food since my arrival. Tonight’s pheasant was perfection. Please make sure you tell her.”
“I shall, and I know she will be pleased to hear it. She enjoys cooking for a guest,” Donovan said. He shifted as if uncomfortable. “Do you have anything else you require? There’s a nice brandy there on the sideboard if you’d like a drink.”
She pursed her lips. “No, thank you. Do you know if Mr. Fitzhugh will be joining me this evening?”
She blushed as she asked the question. One that revealed far too much. Donovan didn’t react, though. Too well trained, she supposed, though she wondered what in the world the servants said about her below stairs.
“I’m afraid not,” he said gently.
She folded her arms as frustration rose up in her chest. Dratted man. She fought to maintain at least an image of control as she asked, “Do you know why?”
“Why?” Donovan repeated, as if he didn’t understand the question. She wasn’t certain if he was being purposefully obtuse or if he truly wasn’t accustomed to anyone questioning Oscar.
She pursed her lips. “Yes, why. I saw him arrive before supper and I don’t believe he’s left the house since then. Does he take his food in his chamber or his study to avoid me? Has he expressed displeasure in having me here, intruding upon his life?”
The butler’s gaze flitted away a fraction, and that was her answer. So she wasn’t imagining things. Oscar was avoiding her. And it shouldn’t have mattered. After all, she hardly knew the man. Their wildly inappropriate night in her bed aside, she had no attachment to him. He was helping her and that was all there was to it.
No, it shouldn’t have bothered her, but she was bothered nonetheless. But that wasn’t the poor butler’s fault. He certainly didn’t have the answers she required, not truly. Only Oscar himself could speak to his own mind.