She shook the dancer at him. “Mr. Blackstone will hear about your wicked behavior.”
His lips quirked. “Without doubt. Miss Jones, why don’t you take a seat”—he gestured at her skirt hem—“you appear to have done yourself some damage.”
He had no business thinking of or alluding to any one part of her anatomy, but of course, he had to add insult to injury by mentioning her twisted ankle. He was also watching her with deepening annoyance, like a predator wondering why he was being ordered around by his prey.
Pain throbbed in her left foot as she inched toward the door, sideways like a crab, because she was not letting him out of her sight. Her heart thumped with relief when she burst into the corridor: the disgruntled painter and a slim young gentleman with a respectable blond mustache were hovering just a few paces away in the hallway, their expressions alert.
“Thank goodness.” She hobbled toward them. “I require your assistance. There is a man”—she pointed over her shoulder with her thumb—“and I’m afraid he is not acting like a gentleman.”
The men exchanged a wary glance. It occurred to her then that they must have heard her scream—why else were they here in front of the door? And yet neither had come to investigate. Her stomach fell, and she felt dizzy, as if taking ill. Of course. She looked a fright. She was here without a guardian. Her incognito cloak was a theater prop from the old trunk in the nursery playroom. Right now, she was not Hattie Greenfield; she was not even a properly chaperoned young woman. The absence of her father’s name slapped with cold force, as though an invisible shield had been taken from her, as though she had suddenly been stripped bare in front of a crowd. Right now, she was … no one.
She turned to the blond one, who, though timid, still looked vastly more likely to help a damsel in distress than the painter. “Please, good sir, I might need an arm to lean on …”
The men’s attention shifted to something beyond her shoulder, and she knew the barbarian was in the hallway. She could feel the dark energy swirling around him.
“And if you could hail a cab for me, that would be awfully kind,” she added quickly.
“Not so hasty,” came the mean voice.
“You also must inform Mr. Blackstone that he has a ruffian in his employ who accosts the female guests under his roof.”
The blond man’s eyes widened with alarm. “Erm,” he said, his throat moving convulsively. “Miss …”
A pathetic gasp burst out of her as realization struck. She closed her eyes. “He is standing right behind me, is he not?” she said. “Mr. Blackstone.”
“He is, yes,” the young man replied, his tone apologetic.
She really was silly sometimes. The Scotsman’s identity should have been plain to her the moment he had stalked across the reception room as though he owned it; at the very latest, when he had tried to ravish her next to a Han vase as a matter of course. Everything horrible she had heard about him was evidently true.
A tug on the figurine reminded her she was still holding on to the thing.
It was of no use now, anyway.
Mr. Blackstone’s brutish countenance was right in front of her, his regard intent. In his right hand was the dancer, his broad fist nearly swallowing the dainty woman. Beelzebub. One of the wealthiest, most ruthless, ill-reputed businessmen in England, and if rumor could be trusted, he had driven several peers into financial ruin. He looked the part, from his eyes, which seemed to know no joy, to his broken nose, to his bull-like build, which made her think he enjoyed throwing anvils for sport. Few people knew what he looked like; he was as elusive as a phantom. And she had kissed him. Heat crept up her neck. Her father was going to send her to a convent.
Recognition passed behind Mr. Blackstone’s eyes then, and the furrow between his dark brows eased. He took a step back and inclined his head. “Blackstone, at your service. My assistant, Mr. Richard Matthews.” He thrust the figurine at the blond man while keeping his eyes on her. He didn’t introduce the disgruntled painter.
“Miss Jones,” she replied stiffly.
“So you said.”
His Celtic lilt had vanished, but his sarcasm was loud and clear. She had made his acquaintance mere minutes ago and she already knew that he was one of the least refined people to have ever crossed her path. And he knew that she was lying. She had to leave before he came to the bottom of her identity, because then her ill-advised excursion would definitely reach her father’s ears.
“Now,” he said. “What’s this tour you claim you’ve come for, Miss Jones?”
She shook her head. “I just wish to take my leave.”
His gaze narrowed.
“I’d rather trouble you no longer,” she tried. If it weren’t for her ankle, and her narrow skirts and damaged shoes, she’d make a dash for it.
Mr. Richard Matthews made a faint sound of dismay. “I’m afraid the tour you are referring to was canceled.”
Blackstone’s head had swung around toward his assistant as if he were surprised, and Mr. Matthews was squirming on the spot, but her chest lightened with sudden relief. “So there was a tour? I had begun to think it was a figment of my imagination.”
Matthews was avoiding his employer’s eyes. “There was. I had all the cancellation notices sent out yesterday. The continuous rain has caused a leak in the main gallery roof and some of the artwork exhibited there was affected.”
“Not the Ophelia, I hope?”
All three men were looking at her blankly.
“I came to see the Pre-Raphaelites,” she told Mr. Matthews. “The Ophelia in particular.”
“No, the Ophelia is in perfect condition,” he was quick to reassure her.
Damaged artwork might explain the painter who lingered behind Mr. Blackstone with a bored expression—he was probably the restorer. It did not explain why she had been mauled. The only way to explain that was if they had all taken her for one of Mr. Blackstone’s fancy women …. She felt herself pale.
Mr. Matthews tugged at the knot of his cravat. “My profound apologies, Miss Jones. Perhaps there was a confusion at the post office.”
“Please, don’t trouble yourself.” She forced a smile to put him at ease. The Royal Mail service was in perfect working order for all she knew. But her cancellation letter would have gone to her collaborator in Cambridge, and for some reason, Miss Jones hadn’t notified her of the change in schedule on time. Also, she, Hattie, had failed to stop by her pigeonhole at Oxford to collect her mail this morning, preoccupied with mentally practicing the steps for her escape from Mr. Graves in Oxford’s University Galleries.
“Matthews,” Mr. Blackstone said abruptly. “Tell Nicolas to take Miss Jones home.”
She took a step back. “Thank you, but that is hardly necessary.”
He cut her a dark look. “It is.”
Mr. Matthews was already hurrying down the hallway on lanky legs.
“How kind of you to insist,” she said to Mr. Blackstone. “But I merely require assistance with hailing a cab.”
“My coach is faster, more comfortable, and is waiting out the back.”
She shook her head, her heart pounding unpleasantly fast again. “I don’t wish to inconvenience you, sir.”