“Oh, there is Katherine. We must tell her what you have discovered.”
There was a rustle of silk as the two women slowly moved away, their conversation muted but still clear enough for Talia to follow.
“Do you know, I almost have it in my heart to pity poor Miss Dobson.”
Talia grimaced. Despite her words, there was a decided lack of pity in the woman’s tone. In fact, it sounded remarkably akin to gloating.
“Yes,” her companion purred. “One thing is for certain, she dare not show her face in society again.”
“She should never have forced her way among her betters to begin with.” Talia detected a sniff of smug disapproval. “Nothing good ever comes of getting above your station.”
Despite the heat, Talia shivered.
She remained safely cocooned in her odd sense of detachment for the moment, but she wasn’t stupid. Eventually the protective shell surrounding her heart would shatter, and she would be laid bare to the endless disgrace of a woman scorned.
She couldn’t even console herself with the thought that her father would have the decency to allow her to withdraw from society until the scandal had passed.
No. Silas Dobson would never comprehend the notion of a dignified retreat. He would insist that she face her tormentors regardless of the pain and embarrassment it might cause her.
She was brooding on her bleak future when the door was opened, and Hannah crossed the threshold carrying a large silver tray.
“Here we are then,” she said in the overly bright tones that people used in a sickroom. “I have brought a small dish of poached trout in cream sauce and fresh asparagus, as well as a few strawberries.”
“Yes, thank you,” Talia softly interrupted, her stomach rebelling at the smell of fish.
Perhaps sensing Talia’s distress, Hannah moved toward the low cherrywood table near the white marble fireplace.
“I’ll just leave it here, shall I?”
Talia managed a weak smile of gratitude. “Did you locate my father?”
“No. It is…” Hannah broke off her words, gnawing on her bottom lip. “What?”
“I was told that Mr. Dobson has not been seen since he left the church.”
Talia shrugged. Her father was stubborn enough to search for Harry Richardson until hell froze over.
“I see.”
Hannah cleared her throat. “No doubt he will soon be returning.”
“No doubt he will,” a dark, sinfully dangerous voice drawled from the open doorway. “Mr. Dobson is rather like a cockroach that scuttles about the shadows and is impossible to be rid of.”
Talia went rigid with horror, as she easily recognized the voice. How could she not? As much as it might embarrass her to admit, there was no denying that she had used her position among the shadows to spy upon the Earl of Ashcombe like a lovelorn schoolgirl.
He had fascinated her with his golden beauty and predatory grace. He was like a cougar she had seen illustrated in a book. Sleek and elegantly lethal.
And of course, his aloof manner of treating society with barely concealed disdain had pleased her battered pride. He obviously had no more regard for the frivolous fools than Talia did.
Now, however, it was not breathless excitement she felt as she turned to regard the stunningly handsome face and the frigid silver gaze.
Instead it was a chill of foreboding that trickled down her spine.
CHAPTER THREE
GABRIEL, THE SIXTH Earl of Ashcombe, made no apology for being a cynical bastard.
His cynicism had been hard earned.
After inheriting his father’s title at the tender age of eighteen, he had shouldered the burdens of several vast estates, hundreds of servants and a mother who refused to leave her bed for weeks at a time.
And then there was Harry.
Six years younger than Gabriel, his brother had always been outrageously spoiled by Lady Ashcombe. Gabriel had done what he could to mitigate the damage, but he was often away at school, and when he did return to Carrick Park, his ancestral home in Devonshire, he’d been expected to devote his time to his father, learning the complex duties of being an earl.
As a result, Harry had been allowed to indulge his worst impulses. He’d been sent down from school for cheating on his exams, he’d gambled away his generous allowance, and he had fought at least two duels. All before traveling to London.
Since his arrival in the city, his wild excesses had become even worse. Gambling and whoring and risking his neck on every ludicrous dare that might be uttered in his hearing.
Gabriel had tried to impose a few limitations, only to be constantly undermined by his mother. In desperation he’d at last warned the countess that he would have her beloved Harry banished to Carrick Park if the boy didn’t learn to live within his allowance.
Christ. He had suspected that Harry would plead, lie and even cheat if necessary to avoid being forced from London, but it had never occurred to him that he would become engaged to an upstart female who could only bring shame to the family.
His mother, of course, had taken to her bed with the vapors, demanding that Gabriel do something to rescue her darling son from the clutches of the evil Dobson chit. Gabriel, however, had grimly refused to interfere. If his brother wanted to toss away his future by wedding a female who was a social embarrassment—and worse, related to Silas Dobson—then Gabriel washed his hands of him.
A grim smile touched his lips as he stepped into the private salon. He should have known Harry would find a means of saving his own damned hide while leaving Gabriel to clean up his mess.
Shrouded in the icy composure he had honed over the years, he cast a quick glance around the room, absently noting a plump female with brown hair before turning his attention to the female perched on the window seat.
Miss Talia Dobson.
Gabriel was braced for the frustrated rage that clenched his heart. Any man would be ready to commit murder at having been so neatly trapped. But what he did not expect was the odd sense of recognition that stirred in the pit of his stomach. As if during his rare social appearances he had actually taken notice of Miss Dobson’s silky black hair that was forever slipping from its pins and the eyes that shimmered like emeralds in the afternoon sunlight. That he’d contemplated how soft the ivory skin would feel beneath his fingertips and the precise manner her inviting curves would fit against him.
The mere thought only intensified his anger.
The female might have played the timid wallflower to perfection, but the past hour had proved that she was as greedy and conniving as her boorish father.
“Oh…” The unfamiliar female fluttered in the center of the room that was surprisingly decorated with the simple elegance that he preferred. Unlike the public rooms that had been a garish combination of lacquer furnishings covered in a crimson velvet. “My lord.”
He waved a dismissive hand, not bothering to glance in her direction.
“You may leave us.”
“But…”
“I am not in the habit of repeating myself.”
“Yes, my lord.” He heard her faint gasp swiftly followed by the sound of the plump female hurrying to obey his command.
His gaze never shifted from Miss Dobson regarding him with an expression of frozen shock. Rather like a mouse watching a hungry cat suddenly approach.
Did the wench think he would accept being blackmailed?