Read Online Written on Your Skin by Meredith Duran - Free Book Online

Claridge’s, that she put him in mind of his granddaughters, and that he would not wish harm to a single hair on her head. But his solicitude had not been nearly as convincing as this tyrannical turn. “I cannot imagine why you’re so angry, sir.” She sank into her chair as if faint. “Won’t you take a seat? I promise I don’t mean to distress you.”
    As he stared at her, she had the impression that he was rethinking his strategy. “I have explained to you,” he said more calmly, “how very critical it is that Gerard Collins be recovered. The Fenians have bombed Scotland Yard; do you doubt that your stepfather had a hand in it? He attempted to fund a war against this country, and every moment he remains free, we must anticipate a new disaster. If you still doubt it—”
    “Oh, no, certainly not.” Men always claimed to have very good reasons for caging a woman in a cell. Routinely, all across the world, they convinced themselves of the necessity. “I have a clear view of Mr. Collins, I assure you.” He was a rabid mutt who wanted his bone back. Mama was nothing but a thing to him; her very independence challenged his manly authority, and therefore could not be tolerated. “But when I come to my own role in these events, my vision grows murkier.” She paused to bat her lashes. “Dr. Morris tells me I could benefit from spectacles, but I feel certain they would detract from the general effect of my eyes. What think you?”
    He came forward to toss the balled-up letter into the butter dish. “I think you are funning me.”
    He should not sound so smug. It had taken him four days to figure this out. “Do tell,” Mina said, feigning astonishment.
    He spoke through his teeth. “Yes, Miss Masters, I will do. Despite your best efforts to act the flibbertigibbet, I think you could not run a company with so much success if your head were as empty as you pretend it to be.”
    “How kind,” she said softly. Of course, he had it wrong; her feebleminded act had won over businessmen who never would have lent money to a woman who dared address them as equals. “I must admit, I have a great deal of help with my company.” Social climbers in particular had been glad to patronize a society beauty’s little project. “And it is a very small business, you know. Only hair tonics. And the occasional cream. Oh, also a few lotions—we are expanding our offerings this season—”
    His hand slammed onto the table. A fork clattered from the platter to the table; the eggs quivered in anticipation of calamity. “Enough. You have managed to rile me. Victory is yours. But now you will tell me whether that letter”—he pointed toward the butter dish—“was a stunt, or whether you do in fact have information that interests me.”
    She was still caught on his preposterous statement. “Victory is mine?” She ran a meditative finger around the rim of her cup. “No, Mr. Ridland, that does not ring true. So long as you keep me imprisoned here—”
    “I like this no better than you,” he said harshly. “Oh, I promise you, Miss Masters, I very much dislike the role I’m charged to play. If there were another way—”
    “But there is.” She tapped the rim of the cup twice, a decisive little conclusion to her featherheaded routine. “I will cooperate with the government gladly. I will take daily strolls through the park with a bull’s-eye painted on my parasol. But it would be so much a comfort if I were allowed to choose my captor. Why, I think my attitude would quite transform.”
    Ridland rolled his eyes. “Mademoiselle, surely you do not expect us to simply leave you with one of your friends and trust that you will stay put.”
    “Of course not,” she said in surprise. He really did think her an idiot, didn’t he? “In fact, there’s a man who I believe is in your employ who would suit the role very well.” Her teeth itched. She wanted to bite her knuckle. Ridland did not seem the sort of man who would look