‘He’s that man from the park, that’s who he is. Isn’t he, miss?’
‘Yes, are we not lucky he has rescued us a second time?’
Lucy nodded in agreement. If the maid wondered why Morgana knew his name, she did not let on.
Sloane did not keep them waiting long. A black hackney pulled up in front of them, and he hopped down to assist them inside.
When they were seated on the hack’s cracked leather seats, Sloane rapped on the roof and the coach lurched into motion.
He faced Morgana, Lucy seated at her side.
‘I thank you again for coming to our assistance,’ Morgana said, sounding more genuine in her gratitude this time.
He peered at her from beneath the rim of his beaver hat. ‘It is becoming a habit of mine.’
She could not help but smile, but quickly wiped it off her face when his expression remained grim.
He leaned forward. ‘Do you have any idea what risk you took for your mysterious errand?’ His gaze shifted momentarily to Lucy, who shrank to the corner of the vehicle.
‘I protected my identity,’ Morgana protested.
He lifted the netting away from her face. ‘See how easy it is to expose you?’
She pulled it back in place and pretended to gaze out of the window at the passing parade of street hawkers and carriages.
She felt him shift position. ‘If you are into some havey-cavey business, Miss Hart, I wish to know of it.’ He gave a pause. ‘Since we are to be neighbours.’
Her gaze flew back to him. Even Lucy straightened in her seat. ‘Neighbours?’
He gave her the slow, lazy grin that made her heart do a flip. ‘I have purchased the property next to yours.’
Morgana stifled a gasp. So it was true. Seeing Sloane’s secretary two days in a row had raised her concerns—or was that her hopes?—that Sloane would move next door.
His eyes glittered with anger. ‘I will be taking residence within a day or two.’
So soon? Could he not wait for renovations or something equally time-consuming? No, he probably was in a rush to have a house to show off to a prospective young bride. Perhaps he would promise Hannah the pleasure of redecorating to her own tastes. Morgana closed her eyes and saw a horror of patterns, fringe and frills that no doubt her cousin would insist was all the rage.
She opened her eyes and gave a stiff smile. ‘How splendid for you.’
He laughed—not the pleasant, open laugh of the opera, but a mysterious one. He leaned forward so there was no more than an inch between their faces. His voice turned very low. ‘Does the prospect so displease you?’
Morgana’s heart accelerated. ‘I am certain you will make a tolerable neighbour.’ She meant it as a jest, but the words came out stiff and prim. Why could she not possess her cousin’s natural ability to bat eyes and to utter flirtatious nonsense?
His eyes became slits as he leaned back again. ‘I will refrain from orgies and other rakish activities—will that prove tolerable enough?’
She opened her mouth to respond, but he continued, ‘I merely ask the same of you. I would not much relish being blamed for whatever mischief you are planning in the future.’
Lucy gave a pained squeak.
‘You be blamed?’ Morgana cried. ‘I assure you my affairs do not involve you.’
One of his eyebrows rose. ‘Indeed? And is this not the second time I have pulled you out of a scrape?’
Morgana felt her face grow hot. At least he could not see her blush through the netting.
He gave her a level stare. ‘When there is trouble around me, I am usually blamed for it. I would not much relish being blamed for whatever wild scheme you are hatching at the moment.’
Morgana resented his low opinion of her, even as she conceded the truth in it. She gave him her frostiest glare, although he would be unable to see it through the netting of her hat. ‘I shall endeavour to please you, sir.’
That lazy smile slowly reappeared, and her heart lurched in spite of herself. ‘See that you do please me, Miss Hart,’ he murmured, his voice so low she felt it more than heard it.
She glanced towards Lucy, who was eyeing them both with a shocked expression. Morgana did not trouble herself to speak with him further, but she was aware of each breath he took, each move of his muscles.
When the hack pulled up to her town house, he jumped out to assist them from the vehicle. Lucy descended, mumbled, ‘Thank you, sir’, and hurried to the servants’ entrance below, leaving Morgana momentarily alone with Sloane.
He gave his hand, still as strong and firm as before. He gripped her fingers, but let go as soon as her feet touched the pavement, stepping back as he did so.
Morgana took a quick breath and composed her disordered emotions. No matter what he might think of her, he had been her rescuer once again.
She looked up at him, his face shaded by his hat and the waning light. ‘Thank you again, Mr Sloane,’ she said softly. ‘I am truly grateful for your assistance.’
He gave her a quizzical look, but eventually touched his hand to the brim of his hat and climbed back in the hackney coach.
Two days later Sloane stood at the door of the grey brick house, its exterior looking identical to those on either side. By God, he’d better not arrive home too addled from drink. He was liable to enter the wrong house. It would not help the awkward situation of living next to Morgana Hart if he barged into her home drunk as an emperor.
He glanced at her front door and pursed his lips, imagining stumbling up her stairway and flopping into her bed by mistake. No chance of that. He had long mastered control of vices such as gambling, womanising and drink. He might get foxed, but it would be in the privacy of his own home.
His own home. Now that made him feel like dancing a jig.
He wondered if the Earl had been informed that his scapegrace son had moved into Mayfair, his neighbourhood. Sloane wished he could have seen the Earl’s face when told of it. Perhaps David had given his grandfather the information. Sloane hoped the boy would not be so foolish.
The more Sloane saw of his nephew, the more he liked him. He and David had engaged in a pleasant conversation the previous night at Lady Beltingham’s rout, where Lady Hannah and her parents had also been in attendance. And Miss Hart.
He and Miss Hart had been civil to each other. She appeared to have conversed comfortably with other gentlemen. What might those men think if they knew she’d been parading near St James’s Street?
She took too many risks. And she was brushing against elements of the underworld that could turn even nastier than they had already. The company of pimps and Paphians could become violent. And if she were on a quest of reformation, even merely the reformation of her maid, she was not likely to succeed. Once the underworld took hold, it was near impossible to escape. He ought to know.
He started towards his door, when her front door opened and she appeared. On Miss Hart’s arm was an ancient-looking woman, all wrinkles and bones.
Miss Hart saw him immediately. ‘Good morning to you, Mr Sloane.’
She looked as bright as the day’s sunshine in a yellow dress and with a smile on her face.
He lifted his hat and bowed. ‘Good morning.’
She continued in this friendly manner. ‘Allow me to make you known to my grandmother.’
The frail lady looked as if she would crumble like some antiquarian