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mixed with the camphor and he could almost count the freckles across the bridge of her nose.
“You know, my dear,” he said, keeping his voice low, “if you have trouble meeting the obligation, I am sure we could find some mutually satisfying way of settling accounts.”
There was that wide-eyed stare of muddled incomprehension. Miss Lattimore hadn’t the faintest idea of what he was shamefully suggesting. So he showed her. Tenderly, he placed his lips on hers and softly kissed her.
Oddly enough, Sydney was not frightened. It was all of a piece for this incredible afternoon. In fact, it was quite enjoyable, being held in a man’s arms and sweetly kissed. All the other men of her acquaintance—not many, to be sure, and more boys than men—smelled of bay rum or talc, soap or sandalwood. This one smelled of ... sweat. And the smell was as wild as the man, disturbing and exciting and—a cad! Sydney struggled and he released her immediately. Smiling.
“You . . . you,” she sputtered. “You were right. Moneylenders are vermin.” And she slapped him.
Sydney was horrified. She’d never struck a man before. Then again, she’d never been kissed before, nor been offered a slip on the shoulder. She knew she was partially to blame for being where no lady should be. Of course a gentleman would not have taken advantage of a lady no matter what the circumstances, but Mr. Mayne, or whoever he was, was not a gentleman. She should not have expected him to act like one, nor reacted so violently when he did not. Sydney was prepared to apologize, when the door burst open.
Willy shoved his way in, ready to do battle after the noises he’d heard. He saw his mistress looking irresolute, saw the five-fingered calling card she’d left on the handsome devil’s grinning face. He shook his head. “I told you and told you, Missy, not with your open hand.” He smashed his fist right in the viscount’s eye with enough force to ensure a spectacular shiner.
Forrest raised his hands in submission. He knew he was wrong to steal the kiss, but it was well worth it. He smiled, remembering,
“And if that don’t work,” Willy continued, “we taught you what to do.” He kneed the viscount in the groin.
Miss Lattimore stepped over his lordship daintily, swearing to have the money back and wishing him good day.
Forrest groaned. Women.
Chapter 7
Fils et Frères
The Lattimore sisters were in funds and the Mainwaring brothers were nearly identical again.
Before leaving the Fleet Street premises, Viscount Mayne staggered to the doorway of the adjacent room and told the occupants: “Listen up, you bounders. I just made a donation to a worthy cause on your behalf. A thousand pounds of charity ought to buy you a better seat on the boat to hell. Unless you want that lucky day to come soon, you bastards best remember everything I said, and forget everything you heard.”
Then he gathered his coat—London would just have to see the immaculate viscount in his shirt-tails for once—and his misused cravat. He picked up the carpetbag of weaponry and Miss Lattimore’s basket. On reflection he decided he was going to look enough like a bobbingblock without a little wicker handle slung over his arm. Removing the mound of hair, he carefully wrapped it in that vastly utilitarian item, his soiled neckcloth.
Forrest entered Mainwaring House through the rear door. One of the scullery maids dropped a bowl of beans, the turnspit dog growled, and Cook threw her apron over her head, wailing.
The viscount slunk on to the study, where he penned out notes to accompany the canceled IOUs. This matter has been attended to, he wrote. Best wishes for your future, Yrs., etc. Vct. Mayne. He did not feel he owed the flats any further explanation, nor did he think they would pay attention to any advice he might give about the folly of dipping too deep. He placed the notes with a footman, then finally placed himself in the hands of his father’s
“You know, my dear,” he said, keeping his voice low, “if you have trouble meeting the obligation, I am sure we could find some mutually satisfying way of settling accounts.”
There was that wide-eyed stare of muddled incomprehension. Miss Lattimore hadn’t the faintest idea of what he was shamefully suggesting. So he showed her. Tenderly, he placed his lips on hers and softly kissed her.
Oddly enough, Sydney was not frightened. It was all of a piece for this incredible afternoon. In fact, it was quite enjoyable, being held in a man’s arms and sweetly kissed. All the other men of her acquaintance—not many, to be sure, and more boys than men—smelled of bay rum or talc, soap or sandalwood. This one smelled of ... sweat. And the smell was as wild as the man, disturbing and exciting and—a cad! Sydney struggled and he released her immediately. Smiling.
“You . . . you,” she sputtered. “You were right. Moneylenders are vermin.” And she slapped him.
Sydney was horrified. She’d never struck a man before. Then again, she’d never been kissed before, nor been offered a slip on the shoulder. She knew she was partially to blame for being where no lady should be. Of course a gentleman would not have taken advantage of a lady no matter what the circumstances, but Mr. Mayne, or whoever he was, was not a gentleman. She should not have expected him to act like one, nor reacted so violently when he did not. Sydney was prepared to apologize, when the door burst open.
Willy shoved his way in, ready to do battle after the noises he’d heard. He saw his mistress looking irresolute, saw the five-fingered calling card she’d left on the handsome devil’s grinning face. He shook his head. “I told you and told you, Missy, not with your open hand.” He smashed his fist right in the viscount’s eye with enough force to ensure a spectacular shiner.
Forrest raised his hands in submission. He knew he was wrong to steal the kiss, but it was well worth it. He smiled, remembering,
“And if that don’t work,” Willy continued, “we taught you what to do.” He kneed the viscount in the groin.
Miss Lattimore stepped over his lordship daintily, swearing to have the money back and wishing him good day.
Forrest groaned. Women.
Chapter 7
Fils et Frères
The Lattimore sisters were in funds and the Mainwaring brothers were nearly identical again.
Before leaving the Fleet Street premises, Viscount Mayne staggered to the doorway of the adjacent room and told the occupants: “Listen up, you bounders. I just made a donation to a worthy cause on your behalf. A thousand pounds of charity ought to buy you a better seat on the boat to hell. Unless you want that lucky day to come soon, you bastards best remember everything I said, and forget everything you heard.”
Then he gathered his coat—London would just have to see the immaculate viscount in his shirt-tails for once—and his misused cravat. He picked up the carpetbag of weaponry and Miss Lattimore’s basket. On reflection he decided he was going to look enough like a bobbingblock without a little wicker handle slung over his arm. Removing the mound of hair, he carefully wrapped it in that vastly utilitarian item, his soiled neckcloth.
Forrest entered Mainwaring House through the rear door. One of the scullery maids dropped a bowl of beans, the turnspit dog growled, and Cook threw her apron over her head, wailing.
The viscount slunk on to the study, where he penned out notes to accompany the canceled IOUs. This matter has been attended to, he wrote. Best wishes for your future, Yrs., etc. Vct. Mayne. He did not feel he owed the flats any further explanation, nor did he think they would pay attention to any advice he might give about the folly of dipping too deep. He placed the notes with a footman, then finally placed himself in the hands of his father’s
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