Elliott turned on the charm beginning with the lady. “Good afternoon, Mrs. Dove-Lyons. I must say you are looking quite fine in this light. Your skin is like porcelain.” What he could see of it, which was very little. The lady’s face was veiled beneath a fine black netting, and only her mouth and chin were touched by the sun’s rays. Then he turned to Mr. Gold. “An excellent day to you, sir. I have recommended your shop to a few of my intimates.” Absolute truth. “I told them to drop my name and that you would assist them in finding exactly the kind of baubles they need. Though two of them had already heard of you. Your reputation is growing, Mr. Gold.”
Meanwhile, he sniffed the air. “Is that a special blend of tea, Mrs. Dove-Lyon? I believe I scented it yesterday, and it has haunted my thoughts ever since.” A bald-faced lie, but a harmless one. His thoughts, when they had wandered, went directly to the mysterious Miss Thisbe Gold and what she looked like beneath her plain scarf. Speaking of which, he looked around in confusion. “I don’t see Miss Gold anywhere. I do hope she’s not taken ill.”
“Not ill,” Mrs. Dove-Lyon said firmly. “Just waiting for the right moment to appear.”
“Of course,” he said. Mrs. Dove-Lyon did have a sense of the dramatic. “That’s every woman’s right, isn’t it? To make us men burn with anticipation.”
Mrs. Dove-Lyon didn’t respond as he expected. In fact, she pursed her lips and said not a word. But her message was clear as one by one, very large men stepped out from the back of the room. He recognized them as the bouncers used in the Lyon’s Den. Military men by the looks of them, all of them injured in some fashion but no less threatening.
And once a half dozen men had crowded into the back of the shop, Mr. Gold spoke. “My daughter is my greatest treasure,” he said quietly. “And we all protect her.”
“Of course—” he started to say, but Mrs. Dove-Lyon interrupted.
“I support your cause, Lord Byrn. Our veterans have been treated shabbily, and we wish the government took better care of them.” She paused to see if he would interrupt, but he’d learned from the cradle that one did not interrupt a woman when she was delivering a message. It took a bit, but eventually, she continued to speak. “However, even broken, hurt, and ignored by the Crown, we take care of our own, and Miss Gold is definitely one of our greatest gems. I would hate to find out that your passions overran your good sense.”
In other words, don’t take advantage of Miss Gold. “I am counted a man of great sense, Mrs. Dove-Lyon.” That was the absolute truth. Then he looked at Mr. Gold. “Your daughter is safe in my care. I stake my life on it.”
“Yes, my lord,” Mr. Gold said. “You do.” And every man there nodded in agreement.
Well, that was chilling, and not the reception he was used to getting from the lower crust. But he was a man capable of listening, so he nodded. Such a show of brute support was rare for any woman—titled or not—and he was anxious to get to know the subject of such devotion.
Then—almost like magic—Miss Gold appeared. She stepped out from a hidden alcove behind the smallest display case. And when the light hit her face, he couldn’t contain his gasp of surprise.
She was not beautiful; neither was she maimed in some way. Stupidly, he’d thought that she wore a scarf in the den to hide either exceptional beauty or a deformity of some kind. His best guess was an ethereal beauty given the amount of devotion of the men around her and the smooth, delicate way she moved. But there was none of that. Her face was average, her expression bland, and her clothing modest. And yet he couldn’t stop looking at her.
She was arresting, and he couldn’t figure out why. At least not until she stepped out from behind the counter, extended her hand to him, and smiled as if she were the Queen of England. “Good afternoon, Lord Byrn. Such a pleasure to see you again.”
Poise. That was the word for it. Poise that stemmed from the confidence of knowing who you are and where you fit in the world. Never had he seen such assurance in a commoner, much less one so young and female. It drew his breath straight back into his heart, which squeezed tight. He found himself bowing over her hand and pressing her palm as a way of maintaining her touch. It was inappropriate given the number of hostile men staring at him. He released her hand reluctantly before mentally putting himself in order. He needed to be respectful, damn it, not gape at her like a boy at his first ball.
“The pleasure is all mine,” he said, his tongue thick and unmanageable. “You look divine.”
“I look respectable, unimportant, and uninteresting,” she returned, “but that is the point, is it not? I’m a cousin from the Continent come to see a Joseph Wright portrait.”
“Er, yes, but I meant what I said. You look divine.” Because she did. Only a goddess could catch his attention so completely. He held out his arm, and she reached for it only to stop short. Stupid of him to have his forearm tense in reaction to her absence. She hadn’t even touched him once, and yet he tightened in anticipation and grew impatient the longer she delayed.
“My sketchbook,” she said, and one of the men handed over a well-worn book. She took it with a smile and a sweet, “Thank you.” The man—six foot and with a missing ear—blushed down to the roots of his hair.
“Be safe, Miss.”
“I’m sure I will be,” she said with a warm smile, then she turned her face to the outside. Finally, she touched her fingers to Elliott’s forearm, and he escorted her to the phaeton as if she were the queen. He certainly felt like his back was being peppered with angry glares from a legion of soldiers.
He helped her onto the bench, then took the reins. His boy servant, called a tiger, leaped into the vehicle from where he’d been holding the horses’ heads, and they started off at a smart pace. Elliott wanted to get away from her corner of London and more into his own. He believed that would quiet his unusual reaction to Miss Gold.
It worked, a little. As soon as he had the horses under his command and the scenery moving past at a smart rate, his body relaxed, and he began to enjoy the afternoon. Which led him to the one thing he always did when happiness warmed his belly—he started asking questions.
“I’m afraid I don’t know much about your family. Have you always lived in London?”
“We came when I was very young, just the four of us.”
He counted the people he’d met. Father, grandfather, and her. “Your mother as well?”
“Yes. She died a few years ago.”
“I’m so sorry. Do you remember your home country at all? Does your family miss it?”
She had been looking out at the passing street, but now turned to stare at him. “No and yes. Grandfather speaks of it every day. Why all the questions?”
He arched a brow. “I am curious about you. Are you offended?”
“No,” she said slowly. “I just don’t understand why. Given my father’s display…” She rolled her eyes at that. “I doubt you intend seduction. I am a means to an end for you, a way to replace a brooch and thereby get a vote. So why the conversation? It is a beautiful day. I am happy to look at an area of London I so rarely get to see.”
“You think I am only interested in seduction or a vote?”