The glass was to his lips now, but he resisted and pulled his face away. “There’s something you’re not telling me.”
“Plying you with drink isn’t going to work, I take it?”
She gave a little mock pout he’d never seen before. The type of expression made by a petulant mistress rather than a well-mannered vicar’s daughter.
He didn’t like it.
“I think you know me better than that.”
“Very well.” Lottie lowered her hands and freed his glass. “She’s the daughter of the Earl of Westix.”
Charles lifted the Scotch to his lips once more. Of his own volition. And drank.
The Earl of Westix.
The Adventure Club would never have disbanded had it not been for the Earl. Charles’s father would still have all the journals and would have been able to find the Coeur de Feu on his own had it not been for the Earl. Charles would never have been such a disappointment in failing to fulfill that one final wish.
And Lottie knew all of this. She knew, and yet she still asked for Charles to aid one of Westix’s whelps.
“Oh, dear,” Lottie said with a frown. “You’re turning quite red about the face.”
“Why would you presume I would be willing to help any offspring of that devil?”
“The lady has had quite the time of it.” Lottie lifted her forefinger. “First her father died, some years ago, then her brother vanished, and now the man who had been courting her has proposed to another.”
She held out her three extended fingers, as if the physical demonstration might alter his wits. Her pinky came up, bringing the total count to four.
“And because every woman deserves a second chance.”
The latter was expressed so solemnly Charles knew Lottie was not only referring to Westix’s daughter but to herself. No doubt she was aware that the best way to win his acquiescence was through staggering guilt.
She knew him too damn well.
“Just imagine it, Charles.” She sat upright. “If there is one countess willing to pay for her daughter’s education—the kind that cannot be obtained at any reputable institution—there will be more. Every mother wants her daughter to be desirable and to wed. Who better to teach such subtle seductions than a courtesan? I could even educate married women on the pleasures to be had in the bedroom—”
“Enough,” Charles ground out. “For the love of every sacred saint, please cease this talk of intimacy.”
He set his glass down and paced about the room, all too aware of Lottie’s anxious stare. Helping her would be a betrayal of his father’s trust, and hadn’t he already failed him enough?
Charles’s head snapped up as an idea struck him. But if he aided this Westix chit, perhaps she might be so grateful for his assistance she would assist him in locating the lost journals.
From her watchful perch, Lottie straightened in anticipation.
“I’ll assist you,” Charles said at last. “However, I’ll do so on one condition.”
She tilted her head in silent inquiry.
“You put on a shawl.”
She rolled her eyes playfully. “Very well.” She peered out the window and beamed victoriously up at him. “And your timing is perfect. She’s just arrived.”
Eleanor awaited her fate alone. She had been divested of her domino, wig and mask—all taken by the footman. Without the shield of those items she was left feeling exposed in her precarious surroundings, and far too vulnerable.
The double doors of the drawing room were closed and oil lamps cast a flickering golden light. A harp sat in the corner, its shadow stretching over the thick Brussels weave carpet like a great beast stretching for her. Childish fear nipped at her and left her with the urgent desire to lift her feet from the floor, lest it make a grab at her.
A glass of sherry sat in open invitation on an elegantly carved table beside the chair. If it hadn’t been for the bust of a woman with her breasts thrust out that was set behind it, Eleanor might have accepted the proffered indulgence.
But, while she appreciated the consideration, she was quite certain she could manage her nerves well enough on her own without the aid of alcohol. In fact, she knew she could. Murrays, after all, were strong.
The double doors parted and a woman with tumbling curls of dark hair appeared. A crimson gown hugged her trim figure and a black lace shawl lay over the swell of her generous bust, lending her a far more decent appearance than Eleanor had expected.
“I am Lottie.”
Her voice was as smooth and sensual as her face—the kind which left other women with a disquieted sense of inadequacy. Was it any wonder men paid for her time?
Eleanor hid the discomfiting thought behind a tight nod and had opened her mouth to speak when a tall man entered the room.
The low lamplight gleamed off his dark hair and shadowed his sharp jaw. His skin appeared golden beside the porcelain fairness of Lottie’s, as if he’d spent much time in the sun. The brilliant blue of his eyes practically glowed against his gilded skin.
He was, by anyone’s estimation, an extraordinarily handsome man.
Eleanor stiffened. “I was not told that a man would take part in my lessons.”
Lottie smiled easily. “Darling, how would you learn to properly converse with a man if you hadn’t anyone to practice on? Your mother knew it was a possibility and she trusts me.” She regarded the man. “And I trust him.”
He returned Eleanor’s curious stare with a nonchalance so casual she felt foolish for voicing her fears.
“What is his name?” She spoke with equal indifference, as though she was entirely unfeeling. Except that she wasn’t. Her insides trembled like set jelly and her bones ached from the rigidity of her muscles. “We haven’t been introduced.”
“I will allow my introduction when you permit yours.”
The man’s voice was deep and smooth. Eleanor lifted her chin a notch, uncertain if his response was meant in flirtation or insolence. Regardless, she wouldn’t deign to reply. She had not come here to be mocked.
“This is a prime example of why I’ve employed his assistance.”
Lottie threaded her hand through the crook of the man’s elbow and drew him closer. He appeared to hesitate before Lottie gave him a firm tug.
“One can never anticipate what another will say.” She gazed up at him pointedly. “He’ll add a level of spontaneity to our lessons. And, I assure you, flirting with me for practice will be nowhere near as exciting as with him.”
“Ladies don’t flirt.”
Eleanor’s gaze flicked to the man as he was led closer. He was tall, his chest broad and his waist and hips narrow where his breeches encased his strong thighs. Heat touched Eleanor’s cheeks, and something deep inside bade her to stand and raise herself to her full height, to meet whatever challenge his presence had thrown at her feet.
“Oh, but they do,” Lottie said in a softly chiding tone. “It’s slight, mind you. A subtle play of words slipping between two people as if it were a language only they knew.”
Lottie was right, of course. Both about flirtation and about the subtlety of it, like a carefully memorized dance. Eleanor had done it with Hugh. Twice. Both times had been immediately followed by a rush of heady excitement.
And