‘There is no need to indulge in more jibes at my expense,’ Serena said icily. ‘I am here to meet Mr Nicholas Lytton on a matter of some import.’
‘As I said, I am Nicholas Lytton.’
‘But—you can’t be! No, no, that’s ridiculous. The man I have business with is an old friend of my father’s.’
‘Ah. I expect you refer to my father.’
‘Yes, that must be it. Of course, your father,’ Serena said with enormous relief. ‘May I speak with him?’
She leaned forwards eagerly. Her flushed cheeks blushed bright against the creamy smoothness of her skin. With her guinea-gold hair and cornflower-blue eyes framed by startlingly long dark lashes, she looked quite breathtakingly beautiful. Nicholas drank in the vision of loveliness she presented, regretfully shaking his head. ‘I’m sorry, I’m afraid that will be quite impossible. He’s dead these last ten years.’
‘Dead!’ Many times in the past few months she had pictured this scene, but this particular twist had never occurred to her. Serena sank back dejectedly in her chair. ‘Dead. I did not expect—that is, I’m sorry, but it’s rather a shock.’
What on earth was she to do now? Trying desperately to rally her thoughts, she took covert stock of the man opposite. She knew nothing of him save that he could box well and that he took outrageous liberties. Exactly the sort of man Papa would have taken great care to keep well away from his daughter. Perhaps because their life was somewhat unconventional, her father had always been very protective, almost overly so. Naturally, she was banned from the gaming salons. Since their somewhat ambiguous position in society made it impossible for her to socialise in more respectable circles, however, the opportunities to meet men—eligible or otherwise—were few and far between. In fact, Nicholas Lytton was the first man to have kissed her, though she wasn’t about to tell him that. He was insufferably arrogant enough as it was. Serena grappled for a solution to what appeared to be an insoluble problem. She was to trust no one save Nick Lytton. Yet Nick Lytton was dead. There seemed to be no way to avoid confiding in his son if she were not to leave empty-handed.
Still, instinct that had nothing at all to do with Papa’s urge to secrecy and everything to do with Nicholas Lytton himself made her reticent. That fight. That kiss. The unexpected effect the man himself was having on her. The watchfulness that lurked there, despite the nonchalant way he sat in the chair. Recalling the scene in the stable yard, a heat swept through her, which had naught to do with embarrassment. Shocking though it was to admit it, she had enjoyed the sight of Nicholas Lytton semi-naked, his muscles rippling. When he kissed her, her first instinct had not been to draw back as propriety demanded, but to pull him close, to feel for herself the warm skin, the crisply curling hair, the cord-like muscles and sinew. She had never had such lustful thoughts before. Now was certainly not the time to have them again. Looking up, she became aware of his close scrutiny.
Giving herself a mental shake, Serena sat up straight and licked her lips nervously. A raised brow encouraged her to speak. ‘Your father’s death makes my errand more problematic, but it does not make it any the less urgent. I believe I must enlist your help.’
‘Must? I sense a reluctance to confide, Miss Cachet. Don’t you trust me?’
He was toying with her. ‘Why? Would I be unwise to do so?’
‘That you must decide for yourself, when you are better acquainted with me.’
‘Sadly, I do not intend to spend long enough in your company to become so,’ Serena replied tartly. ‘I am come to reclaim some papers, which my papa entrusted to yours. They are personal documents that he did not want to risk losing on the Continent. You must know that we led a—well, an itinerant life there.’
‘You’ve just recently arrived in England then?’
‘Yes, from France. This is my first visit.’
‘Allow me to compliment you on your command of our language.’
‘I am, in fact, English, Mr Lytton,’ Serena said stiffly. ‘My father was English, we always spoke that language at home. I can understand your being suspicious—my turning up here unannounced must give a strange appearance—but I assure you I am no fraud. Nor am I a French spy, if that is what you are worried about.’
‘Touché, mademoiselle. I’m afraid you’re doomed to disappointment, though, as I know nothing about your papers. I’ve been through all my father’s effects long since. If they were here, I think they’d have turned up by now.’
‘But they must be here! Are you sure he said nothing before he died—could he have perhaps lodged them with his lawyer?’
Nicholas frowned, puzzled by the earnest note in her voice. ‘No, I would have been informed if he had.’
‘You must remember something. Surely your father mentioned Papa’s name at some point?’
Her desperation aroused Nicholas’s curiosity. Whatever her tale, she had quite obviously not told him the whole of it. Her lovely face was fixed on him with such a look of entreaty as would melt all but the hardest of hearts. He could not but wonder what effect gratitude would have on her. ‘Perhaps if you could tell me a little more, it may prompt my memory.’
‘They are private papers, of no value to anyone else. My father’s name is on them.’
Her very reluctance to expand was intriguing. ‘Cachet?’
Serena bit her lip, more aware than ever of his toopenetrating grey eyes. Though he maintained his relaxed posture, she was under no illusions. Nicholas Lytton distrusted her, and she could not really blame him. ‘Not Cachet, Stamppe.’
‘Stamppe? Then Cachet is your married name? My apologies, I must have misread your card, madame.’
‘I’m not married. My name is also Stamppe.’
‘Yet your card says Cachet.’
‘Yes, because—oh dear, this is most awkward.’ Serena risked a fleeting glance up, caught her host’s sardonic expression, and looked quickly down again. Nicholas Lytton was smiling sceptically. In her lap, her fingers twined and intertwined, weaving a complex pattern of their own devising, which all too clearly betrayed her discomfort. She clasped them together and forced herself to meet Nicholas’s gaze properly. ‘Cachet means seal. My real name is Stamppe, though I did not find that out until my father informed me of it on his deathbed. He had a whimsical sense of humour.’
At this, Nicholas gave a twisted smile. ‘Amazing what facing mortality will do to a parent.’
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘I sympathise, mademoiselle, that is all, having had a similar experience. It must have come as a surprise.’
‘A shock. Papa died very suddenly; he was the victim of a violent robbery. I find it difficult—I still find it hard to accept.’ She paused to dab her eyes with a handkerchief plucked from her reticule.
‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to upset you,’ Nicholas said more sympathetically. ‘Do you have other family?’
‘No. No one. At least—no. Maman died when I was ten, and since then it has always been just me and Papa. Now it is just me.’
‘I find it hard to believe that someone so very lovely as you is wholly unencumbered. Are Frenchmen quite blind?’
‘Perhaps it is just that I am quite choosy, Mr Lytton. We seem to have strayed some way from the point.’
‘Ah, yes, the point. Your papers, which have lain unclaimed with my father for—how long?’
‘Over twenty years.’
‘And you have known about them all this time?’
Serena