Saving Persephone (The Haberdashers Book 4) (2 page)

Any accomplished flirt would avoid him until he sought her out, feigning disinterest until it was clear he had been hooked like a fish on a line. Typically that would be her approach, but she found she had no patience for it. Sensed no need for it with him. She wanted to talk to him, hear his voice, and watch his gaze roam over her. Rather than be coy, she walked directly to him. As the widow Ludridge was still talking, he merely nodded in greeting and shifted slightly to include her in the conversation circle.

After a moment the widow said, “Good evening, Miss Grant. It is so good to see you. Have you met our Mr. Bittlesworth yet?”

Imogen could see that the widow's aura was dark. Given her druthers, Imogen would be nowhere near the wretch. It was a wonder the poor woman could choke out words in such a polite tone, consumed as she was by avarice. Rather than address the widow directly, Imogen looked up at Robert through her lashes. “I'm so delighted to see that you could come.”

“How could I disappoint you, when pleasing you was as easy as my coming?”

The intimacy of their tone seemed to make the widow realize that retreat was the better part of valor, and she murmured excuses before removing herself across the room.

“May I get you a drink, Miss Grant?”

She smiled at him. “You could share yours with me.”

He looked at it, as though surprised to see that it was in his hand. “That's hardly seemly.”

Wrapping her fingers around his on the glass, she said, “I love being shocking.” He released the glass willingly enough into her grasp and she sipped at the bracing liquor. “Scotch. A fine choice.”

He smiled at her. “A connoisseur of liquors, are you?”

“There are some things I insist on having the finest of. Liquor is one. Men are another.”

She basked in the desire she saw flare in his eyes. If she had just a trifle less decorum, and only a trifle, mind you, she would lead him off to a secluded room of the house so they could explore this attraction. Yes, cousin Violetta would be quite traumatized if it ever became known, but the heat radiating off his body told her that he would be worth the trouble. On the other hand, anticipation always made the reward even sweeter.

* * *

He wanted her. He had told himself that he would wait at least until his contacts had provided a dossier on her, but he wanted her now. Which meant that she would be, if nothing else, a challenge to his control. And Robert loved challenges. He smiled down into her eyes and reclaimed his glass of Scotch. “You have a taste for fine things, do you? Perhaps I will have to test your palate.”

“I look forward to it.”

The stare she directed at him left little doubt that her thoughts ran along the same line as his. That what they wanted was to taste each other. During supper he tried to distract himself with food and drink, rather than spend too much of it staring at this bold, saucy American who had captured his interest.

Chapter Three

Three days later, Imogen fanned herself distractedly while considering her options. At the moment she was standing at yet another entertainment. The Lovells? The Lowells? She couldn’t quite remember their hosts' name. It was as though Violetta feared her own hostessing would be remiss if they didn’t have scads of things to do every minute of every day. Not that her cousin wasn’t sweet and charming and everything a good hostess should be, but the schedule was becoming a bit exhausting. Imogen actually preferred the quiet mornings when they played with the Chester’s two small boys, or teas with Violetta’s impetuous friend Elisa. If Violetta weren’t so overwhelmingly
earnest
in her desire to show her American cousin a fabulous time in London, Imogen would have already put her foot down. Instead, here she was again, cooling her heels at the edge of a ballroom. Most men of the
ton
found her heritage off-putting, and those that didn’t were rarely of the sort she wanted to spend time with, thus she made short work of their attention. At least now she had something to think about, and that brought her mind back to her options. 

How best to seduce Robert Bittlesworth?

The direct approach had much to recommend it. Seeking him out in whatever lairs he might frequent. Luring him with a bold invitation. She wondered what it would take to make him lose some of that control he practiced. It would probably require a good deal more teasing, more time, to accomplish that. First she had to figure out how to put herself in his way in order to even begin. Although at the moment she would rather contemplate how it might end. What it might feel like to have his hands on her. Would he be a rough lover? Gentle? She grew warmer just thinking about it, and had to fan herself that much more diligently. Late summer in London could be simply sweltering.

“I was going to ask you to dance, but perhaps you would like some fresh air instead?”

Imogen was so surprised to hear his voice that she stopped her fan in mid-flutter. “Mr. Bittlesworth.”

He sketched a bow. “At your service, Miss Grant.”

Had she conjured him from her fervent imaginings? Her thoughts scrambled for purchase. Here he was and she hadn’t considered how she would proceed in this situation. Which would be better? A turn out-of-doors where they might find some privacy in the gardens? Or the tension born of touching politely in a room of onlookers when all one really wanted was to be able to strip off one’s partner’s clothes? She reminded herself that she didn’t just want him, she wanted to break his control. Wanted to see what he was capable of. All that energy of his could, she thought, be put to good use.

She snapped her fan closed and gave him a winsome smile. “I would love to dance.”

* * *

Miss Grant’s reaction to his greeting had been almost comical. Considering how composed she had been in their two previous encounters, including the one where he had nearly stumbled over her in the street, it had been intriguing to find her so flat-footed. By the time he led her out onto the dance floor it was clear that she had returned to her usual blasé demeanor. He hadn’t questioned that jaded, seductive persona before, but seeing her taken unawares it had been clear that it was, indeed, a persona. In her surprise she had seemed softer. Vulnerable. Open. She had wet her pink lips while considering how to reply to him, and he had been tempted to kiss her there in the ballroom. He usually wasn’t taken by the sweet and gentle, but it had just made her seem… naked. Delectably, sensually naked.

Now, thank God, she was dressed both literally and figuratively as they prepared to make their way through the intricate steps of a classic country-dance. It would never do to have his name in the scandal sheets for kissing an American girl on the dance floor of the Lyle Summer Ball. He would prefer, in fact, if his presence here weren’t noted at all. He didn’t care much for entertainments and didn’t fancy having to refuse a flurry of invitations if hostesses thought he might be willing to attend theirs.

As the orchestra struck up the tune she asked him, “Would you like to play a game?”

He smiled at her. “Always. What are the rules?”

“Whoever makes the most correct guesses about the other wins.”

On one level her proposal alarmed him. Nothing good could come of anyone attempting to dig into his history. However, Robert loved games and he especially loved games he knew he could win. He had received his first dossier of information about her this morning. She was younger than he thought, only twenty-two, and far richer than he could have imagined. “I find myself intrigued. Who goes first? “

“I will,” she said smugly. “You were hurt very badly by someone you loved.”

The dance separated them, but when they came back together he said, “Too vague. For instance, I think that you,” he trailed off, narrowing his eyes as though looking deeply into her, “have traveled extensively.”

She snorted. “Too vague.”

He added, “With your mother's shipping company.”

Her eyes widened for a moment, then narrowed in suspicion. When their dance brought them back together she scoffed, “Information you learned from my cousin does
not
count as guessing.”

* * *

Imogen thought that Mr. Bittlesworth appeared
far
too smug. It would do him good to be brought down a peg or two. She looked at him,
really
looked at him, as she didn't often with people. She usually didn't want to see too much. But this man, with his smirk and information he only could have received from Violetta during the supper, had pushed her too far. As they separated again during the dance she kept her eyes trained on him, endeavoring to
see
him, see
into
him. It had been so long since she had attempted to do such a thing she wasn't sure it would work. But it did. And what she saw made her falter and collide with another dancer. 

Seeing her distress, Bittlesworth made straight for her and whisked her off the dance floor. She was torn between a desire to struggle away from him and console him. Death. So much death around him. She shouldn't have looked. She wrapped her arms around herself and focused on pulling in her perceptions.

“Give her air, please,” Bittlesworth said, holding his hand up to some well-meaning guest that fluttered nearby. His tone was sharp, commanding. A man used to giving orders. 

No, no, no. Stop observing. Stop trying to read him
. She closed her eyes tightly and rocked from the waist, her arms a protective shield. The images had flit by so rapidly she hadn't been able to see a pattern, just blood. She had smelled offal and the sweat of desperation. The vision had been overwhelming, but underneath it she had sensed him. His grim determination. His stark sense of justice.

Now she heard his voice sharply in her ear. “Breathe.”

His tone cut into her reverie. She took a deep breath and realized they were outside. Her eyes popped open in surprise. They were in the gardens. The scent of roses and gardenias laced the air. She didn't see any other guests around them, and suspected the foreboding glare Bittlesworth gave their surroundings was the cause of it.

“Were you a soldier?” she asked.

He turned his attention back to her and frowned. “No.”

Her mouth was quite dry and her tongue felt thick. “Then why have you killed so many people?”

Chapter Four

Robert felt every inch of his skin erupt in tingles. As a green lad he had been snookered in cards once. It wasn't a mistake he made often, placing a bet he couldn't afford to lose. A bet he wasn't certain, beyond doubt, he would win. There had been that card game, and now Miss Grant's game. He schooled his expression into one of polite perplexity. “I'm sorry? You think I've done what?”

Her aqua eyes regarded him solemnly. Her eyes seemed ancient. Fathomless. She didn't bother repeating her question, merely took another deep breath and squared her shoulders.

“Thank you for the dance, Mr. Bittlesworth.”

And then she walked away, back to the lights and gaiety of the ball. He wanted to grab her by the shoulders, demand why she thought he had killed anyone. He would study her dossier in detail again tonight. It stood to reason, with her connections and ease of international travel, that she might be an agent. But why boldly ask him about the men he had killed? Why the pretense of a near fainting spell? Nothing about this made sense. Robert didn't like things that didn't make sense.

* * *

Imogen had recovered from her evening and enjoyed a morning playing with Violetta's sons. Then the butler arrived with a silver salver, bearing a fancy note addressed to “Miss Grant” and sealed with wax. She noted the wax had been pressed with a stamp of crossed swords. Raising her brows at Violetta, she broke the seal and opened the missive.

“And?” her cousin asked impatiently.

“It's an invitation,” Imogen murmured, reading through it.

“To what?”

“Tea. With the Duchess of Beloin.”

“When?”

Imogen looked up. “Today.”

Violetta chuckled. “The duchess is quite unorthodox. What did you do that garnered her attention?”

“I'm sure I don't know.”

Violetta patted her hand. “The two of you will get along swimmingly. You'll have to tell me all about it.”

“You think I should accept?”

“She's a duchess, you goose. You must accept.”

Imogen frowned mildly at Violetta's casual acceptance of rank. But an unorthodox duchess could certainly be an entertaining diversion, and Imogen needed something to keep her from thinking about the intriguing but quite frightening Mr. Bittlesworth. She penned her acceptance.

* * *

Robert wasn't given much to guilt or questioning his own actions, and it rankled him that Miss Grant's voice kept returning to him.
‘Why have you killed so many people?’
Firstly, he would like to question her use of ‘so many’. In his line of work he had the death of more than a few men on his hands, some directly and more indirectly. But what really qualified as ‘many’, anyway? Especially ‘so many’. Was that any number above ten? He steered his attention back to the report he had been decrypting, but it almost immediately flitted away again. Secondly, he still had no idea how she even knew he'd killed anyone, much less ‘so many’. Did the character of the men matter naught? It could be said that innocents died on the battlefields every day, on both sides. Loyal, honorable men who wanted only to serve their country and were thrown against each other day after day until one side or the other broke. There were few innocents, few loyal, honorable men to be found in the back alleys that Robert had claimed as his battlefield. 

That had been her question, hadn't it? ‘Were you a soldier?’ As though that might make the history of death, of blood, somehow more palatable. The only thing that made death palatable, or killing truly honorable was the end result. The triumph of moral justice. Generals attempted to secure it by sending thousands of boys to their death. Robert did it by collecting and controlling information. And, from time to time, a well-placed knife to the ribs or shot to the head. Why was he to be judged, while generals were awarded medals? He had, in the final accounting, killed far fewer for far greater results.