Madame Emeraude’s eyebrows nearly disappeared under her stylishly coiffed hair. ‘You, miss?’
‘I will not explain further, Madame, except to assure you my business with this person is not of her usual sort, nor will I bring trouble to her.’ Morgana spoke in a confident tone, one she learned as a young girl of seventeen when she first assumed the management of her father’s household. The appearance of confidence had been necessary to convince servants and tradesmen she knew what she was doing. Perhaps now it would convince Madame Emeraude—as well as Morgana herself.
She gave the madam a steady look. ‘May I remind you I have spent a great deal of money in this shop and I plan to spend a great deal more; however, I suspect the ladies who have flocked to your door would turn their backs upon a woman who referred their maids to a brothel.’ She paused to let her threat sink in. ‘If you provide me with the information I seek and your word you will not speak of it further, I will not speak of it either.’
Madame Emeraude’s eyes looked as if she were calculating sums. ‘She is on Jermyn Street.’
Sloane turned the corner of Jermyn Street on his way to return the curricle and horses to the stable he’d rented. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw two women climb down from a hack. One looked suspiciously like the girl Miss Hart had been rescuing in the park, the one who had worn the red dress. He twisted around, but only the women’s backs were visible as they walked into a glove shop. Calling to his tiger, he pulled the horses to a halt. His tiger hopped off and ran to hold the horses’ heads.
‘Take them, Tommy.’ He handed the ribbons to the tiger and jumped down from his seat. ‘See them stabled. That will be all I require of you at present.’
‘As y’wish, sir,’ his tiger replied.
Sloane, hands resting on his hips, stood on the pavement and directed his gaze at the glove shop door as Tommy drove the curricle away, the horses’ hooves clattering on the cobbles.
He was a damned fool.
It was folly to believe the girl he’d only glimpsed had been Miss Hart’s red-dressed companion. And more folly indeed to think it his responsibility to ensure the girl was not up to more mischief.
He walked slowly to the shop, swinging his swordstick, and slanting his gaze to peek through the window. Through the display of gloves of various lengths and colours, he glimpsed several ladies in the shop. One gestured angrily to the two who had arrived. He could faintly hear her raised voice. He sauntered past the shop and paused by a lamppost pretending to search his pockets.
The subterfuge came naturally to him. Many were the times during the war he’d had to watch and listen without anyone being suspicious of his presence. He used those same skills now and appeared to go unnoticed by the one or two men who walked by.
This was no innocent ladies’ shop, he figured, but one that had rooms abovestairs with pretty mollies willing to entertain. Miss Hart’s girl was up to the same larks, it appeared, though he still did not know why he bothered with the business.
He peered into a nearby wine merchant’s shop, pretending to examine its wares, but keeping an eye on the glove-shop door.
The door opened, and the same two women came out, female screeches from the inside ringing behind them. They glanced around the street as if uncertain what to do.
Sloane approached. ‘Pardon me, miss. Do you require assistance?’
He directed this question to the young woman he’d recognised correctly—Lucy was her name, he recalled. She did not answer him.
From behind a great deal of netting attached to the hat of the other female came a familiar voice.
‘Mr Sloane!’
Chapter Five
‘Miss Hart!’ Sloane’s stick slipped on the pavement, but the lady stood very composed while Lucy hid behind her and peeked about furtively. ‘What the devil are you doing here?’
She lifted her chin. ‘We were on an errand.’
He could barely make out her features through the haze of net. ‘Are you mad? What errand would bring you to this street at this hour of the day? To this place?’ He pointed to the glove shop.
‘It is an errand of a private nature, sir.’ Her tone of voice was excessively dignified. ‘If you truly wish to be of assistance, you might procure a hackney coach for us. I do not see one about.’
He gave her a very stern stare. ‘You would be lucky indeed to find one here. There will be an abundance of them on St James’s, however, but that would require walking down that street past White’s and Brooks’s.’
Any respectable lady put her reputation in jeopardy by walking in this part of town at this hour. What the devil had she been thinking of?
Sloane leaned closer to her and spoke in a smooth, ironic voice. ‘Miss Hart, are you merely buffleheaded or must I consider you a fast woman?’
To her credit, she did not flinch from this query. If she blushed, it was obscured in gauze.
‘Why I am here is, as I have explained, a private matter. If I must walk down St James’s unescorted and unprotected, I will.’ She pointedly shifted her gaze from him to her companion, ‘Come, Lucy. Let us find a hack.’
With head held high, she strode off towards St James’s Street. Sloane hesitated a moment. It was not his responsibility to extricate Morgana Hart from every foolhardy bramble she trod into. Let her suffer the catcalls and whistles of the young dandies lounging on the corners. Let her identity be exposed when one of those young bucks mistook her for a fancy piece and pulled off her hat. He started off in the other direction, but took no more than two steps before he turned around.
Even with his long legs, he nearly had to run to catch up with her. ‘Miss Hart!’
She stopped and whirled around as if to confront an annoying pest.
He reached her side and pulled her by the arm to a doorway of a shop whose curtains were drawn. ‘Wait here, speak to no one, and I will procure the hack.’
‘Thank you, Mr Sloane,’ she said with exaggerated politeness. ‘That is very gentlemanly of you, but I do wish you would not call out my name in the street.’
He winced and looked about, fearing he’d exposed her, the very circumstance he hoped to prevent. Good fortune was with them. There was no one in sight.
‘I will be but a moment.’ He hurried off to where Jermyn Street met St James’s.
Morgana leaned against the locked shop door and moaned as Lucy took a peek out of their hiding place.
Lucy tucked herself back in the doorway. ‘I have caused you more trouble, haven’t I, Miss Hart? You should not have come here.’
Lucy need not blame herself for Morgana’s foolishness. Morgana patted the girl’s arm reassuringly. ‘Mr Sloane has saved us from trouble, hasn’t he? He will find us transport and we shall be home directly.’
Morgana resisted the impulse to lean out of the doorway to watch him striding towards the corner. She ought to be mortified that he had discovered her in this part of town. What must he think of her now? First her skirmish in the park. Now this—this parading where no respectable woman would dare set foot in the afternoon. But frankly, she had been so relieved to see him.
The interview with the madam had not gone well. The woman had the gall to threaten Morgana with violence if she ever darkened her door again. Mrs Rice, as the abbess of the establishment was named, believed Morgana to be setting up a fancy house of her own. How appalling! Mrs Rice, furthermore, went into high dudgeon at the prospect of competition. She also accused Morgana of stealing her newest referral, Lucy. After such a disagreeable interview, Morgana had