Saving Persephone (The Haberdashers Book 4) (3 page)

But no matter. He had some of his best men working on the puzzle of Miss Grant and how she knew anything about Robert Bittlesworth. The chance meeting on the street in front of the apothecary didn't seem so chance at all anymore. His men had already turned up that the shop had been under investigation for some months now, and routing back the source had led to none other than his old friend Gideon Wolfe, Earl of Harrington. Lord Lucifer. Soon he would find out from Gideon what had prompted him to tip off the minister of health. It could be nothing, but best to leave no stone unturned when it came to this flirtatious and over-informed American.

* * *

Imogen had grown up with wealth. She had traveled widely and seen some of the most beautiful buildings in the world. She had dined with princes and danced with kings. It was no small feat to impress her, but she found the townhouse of the Duke and Duchess of Beloin to be enchanting. Casual wealth was evident in the soaring marble foyer and carved mahogany bannister. Discipline and efficiency were evident in the staff that greeted her and conveyed her through the house. Taste and refinement were clear in the artwork on display. But what brought a smile to her face were the clear marks of a couple that didn't care about your opinion of them. Dirty boots in the front hall that, based on the look the butler had cut towards them, were only left alone by a clear command that they were neither to be removed nor cleaned. Artwork that bordered on the obscene displayed in public hallways. In Imogen's experience the wealthy were often so preoccupied by impressing others that they had little personality at all. This home, however, indicated that its residents had quite a bit of personality. Were perhaps even eccentric. Her spirits buoyed, she followed on the heels of the butler.

The sitting room was large, bordering on huge. The walls soared to over twenty feet in height, covered in gold and white silk. The oak floors spanned out in all directions, soaking afternoon sunlight filtering in from cloister windows. In the midst of that golden expanse sat three women in a coze, heads close together and laughing before looking up at her entrance. One blonde, one honey brown, and one a darkest sable. After Imogen's name rang out across the room the dark-haired one nodded once, quite serenely. “Welcome to my home.”

This was the duchess? Hardly larger, hardly
older
than a child. But the feature that sent Imogen's stomach sideways were the girl's eyes. A darker, more intense blue, but she knew there was no mistake. This girl was a relative of Robert Bittlesworth. The afternoon took on a decidedly less cheerful air.

She curtsied low. “Your grace.”

The duchess herself radiated a muted gray aura that was difficult to assess. The blonde was awash in the violet light of an artist, while the brown-haired girl had a soft blue radiance. Imogen waited for one of them to speak.

* * *

Sabrina Telford
nee
Bittlesworth, Sabre to her friends, used almost every ounce of her quite considerable control to keep from bouncing up and down in her seat. The last time she remembered being this excited was the first time Charlie took her out to ride a pony. This was the woman that Robert had danced with last night and then ‘took outside for some air.’ Now Sabre would do her sisterly duty and ensure that Miss Grant was the catch that Robert needed. Not that her eldest brother would thank her
at all
for presuming to interfere in his business. In fact, her friend George, the blonde on her left, had already suggested that Robert would come up with some quite creative revenge for any meddling. But if she were so concerned, then George shouldn't have come over first thing this morning to report the news about Robert, which she had heard from her husband, who had heard it from his business partner, who had been at the dance in question. Because it was completely predictable what Sabre would do with such news. Starting, of course, with inviting over Jack, the honey-haired woman to her right, so that they could discuss the potential ramifications of Robert having formed a
tendre.
The three young women called themselves the Haberdashers. In their youth they had been the terrors of Derbyshire. Now they were a duchess, a countess, and a former spy.

None of that was of any mind to this Miss Grant. Sabre regarded her keenly. Tall, though not as tall as Jack. Ginger-haired with a direct, bright aqua gaze. Yes. Sabre thought she could come to quite like Miss Grant. Provided that first looks weren't deceiving and the woman didn't turn out to be a simpering nitwit.

“Please, join us,” Sabre invited, indicating a seat on the low settle across from her. “May I introduce the Countess of Harrington,” she said, indicating Jack, “and Mrs. Rokiczana.”

“Pleased to meet you,” Miss Grant said. Such a harsh American accent. That was definitely a mark against her.

“How do you take your tea?” Sabre asked, beginning to pour.

“Just plain, please.”

Like George. Interesting.

Chapter Five

Introductions having been made, Imogen waited patiently to find out why the duchess had summoned her. As the tea was poured, the blonde asked, “You realize there’s no harbor to throw it into?”

The countess gasped. “George!”

The duchess gave her friend a quelling look and said evenly, “Yes, George. Don’t.”

The blonde looked far from quelled, but also seemed more interested in teasing than anything else, as she waggled her eyebrows at Imogen. 

“Actually,” Imogen said, “I developed my fondness for tea while in China. That’s why I don’t take milk or sugar. It’s only inferior tea that requires something additional to make it palatable.”

The blonde grinned now. “I think she’s saying we may drink inferior tea.”

The countess shook her head. “Actually, as she didn’t immediately request milk or sugar, she’s inferring that our tea may be acceptable.”

“Oh, well now you’ve caught her in a coil. She can’t request milk or sugar without seeming to pass judgment.”

“Haberdashers,” the duchess scolded, “you are being far from welcoming.”

“But she’s not a guest,” the blonde countered, relaxing back against the sofa cushions in a decidedly unladylike posture. “She may be my new sister. I wouldn’t want her to have a false impression of me.”

Imogen froze. How could all of these women be sisters of Robert Bittlesworth? They didn’t even appear to share the same parents. Although entertained by the bold and sarcastic girl now lounging back with a challenging glint in her eyes, Imogen would have happily paid a dear price to be able to leave the room immediately. She barely knew Robert Bittlesworth and hardly wanted his bevy of sisters testing her for ‘suitability’ or whatever else it was they had in mind. It was no better than being at a seamstress, sized and measured and pricked by needles.

“I’m sorry, Miss Grant,” the countess said, quite earnestly. “We are obviously far too much at our ease and shouldn’t treat you so. I would love to hear about your travels in China. Were you there long?”

“Two years,” she replied. “I was young enough that at the time it felt like forever.”

“Have you traveled anywhere else?”

Imogen smiled down into her cup. The tea was quite good. “It’s fair to say that I’ve traveled everywhere else.”

“That sounds exciting,” the countess said encouragingly. “Did you enjoy it?”

Imogen looked up at the young woman again. Most people took the opportunity to say they were jealous, or went on at some length about how they did or didn’t want to travel. Few asked if Imogen had enjoyed herself, but the countess had a steady gaze that said she was truly interested in the response. “Sometimes. But traveling can be quite tiresome. Weeks or months on the ships. Feeling awkward in another culture, not able to speak the language or know what to do in most situations.”

“What are your talents?” the duchess asked.

Imogen turned her attention to the petite brunette. “I beg your pardon?”

“Your accomplishments. Your hobbies.”

“I juggle,” the blonde volunteered as an example.

“It’s not that I didn’t understand your question,” Imogen clarified. “I fail to see the relevance.”

The blonde tapped her foot. “I think you know precisely why we’re asking. Anything that concerns Robert concerns us.”

Imogen didn’t think she often displayed the temper many equated with her flame-colored hair, but she was quite finished with this odd and heavy-handed inquisition. She might as well show the blonde how rude and sarcastic was really done. “Pardon my uncouth American manners,
your grace
, but I don’t understand how a simple dinner party and dance can generate this much interest. I have spent
far
more time with
many
men, I assure you.”

The duchess only raised her brows. “Dinner party?”

Imogen stood. “Enjoy your afternoon, ladies.”

The girls didn’t gasp and whisper as she assumed they would, just silently watched her as she crossed the vast expanse of oak flooring and let herself out of the room. She hoped her temper would cool, the further she withdrew from them, but she found instead that her anger only increased. What in the 
hellfires 
had Robert Bittlesworth told his sisters that they had immediately taken to assessing her as marriage material? She thought they hadn’t even separated amicably last night after she had essentially accused him of murder. She didn’t know precisely what the hints and visions of death had meant, and if she had taken a few moments to compose herself she might have spoken more guardedly. So why on earth had he hinted to his sisters that there was to be something of a future for them? It was ludicrous.

The butler scrambled to get in front of her to hold the door as she swept into the foyer. She drew up short and looked at the older man. “Do you know where Robert Bittlesworth lives?”

“Yes, mum.”

“Tell me.”

She repeated the address to her driver and resisted the urge to seize the door of the carriage and slam it closed behind her. Soon enough she could release her ire on the proper source.

* * *

The room was quiet for a few minutes after Miss Grant left. George finally sat up again. “I liked her.”

Jack nodded. “Agreed. She has mettle.”

Sabre sipped her tea, still staring at the door. “She isn’t easy to intimidate. That should stand her in good stead.”

“Irritable, though,” George said.

“We did seem a bit like the
Erinyes
,” Jack said.

“The what?” George asked.

“The Furies,” Sabre explained.

“Oh, yes. I loved the Furies,” George mused. “They punished the wicked.”

“The breakers of oaths,” Jack corrected.

“I want to know what dinner party she's referring to,” Sabre said.

“I can certainly find out,” George said with a devilish grin.

Sabre nodded. “Good. I'll find out more about her family.”

Jack frowned. “Aren't we, well, being a bit presumptuous? One dance does not an engagement make.”

“Robert told me once that he is careful not to complicate his personal life because his work keeps him busy enough. He wouldn't do anything to lead on a young lady because it was simply too much trouble to deal with. Thus, even mild attention means a great deal more than it does from any other man, because he wouldn’t be casually flirting with an unmarried woman. Or she made him compromise his own rule. Either case makes her of great interest.”

“Agreed,” George said.

“Fine,” Jack said. “Then what do you want me to do?”

Sabre patted her arm. “We want
you
to go get some rest. Otherwise we will have one very upset earl on our hands.”

Jack smoothed a hand over her rounded tummy. “I'm sure you can think of something for me to do that isn't too taxing.”

“Of course I can. But Gideon would be most put out if you spend too much of your time on this, and we've already taken up most of your day. Let George and I do what we do best, and we will tell you of our findings.”

Chapter Six

Robert heard a knock on his study door. From habit, he swept the papers he was working on into his drawer and locked it before rising to unlock the door. “Yes?”

His butler Bobbins' tall, solid figure loomed in the doorway. “Lady here to see you, sir. Says her name is Miss Grant.”

His staff was under instruction to always tell him of unexpected visitors. Miss Grant might qualify as the most unexpected. “Bring her to me.”

Bobbins' eyebrows rose slightly. “Here, sir?”

Robert straightened his cuffs and nodded. “Here.”

The staff was rarely allowed in his study, especially on a day when he had been locked in for hours on end, but it appealed to him to bring her here. To have her in his lair, where his power was absolute. He left the door open and settled behind his desk again.

She entered behind Bobbins, her glare at the butler indicating that she considered the former brawler more annoying than intimidating. “Miss Grant, sir,” the butler announced, moving aside to usher the lady forward. On Robert's nod Bobbins withdrew, pulling the door partly closed behind him.

“Did you have more questions for me?” Robert asked without preamble.

Miss Grant set her hands on her hips. “In fact, I do. What on earth did you tell your sisters about me?”

Robert narrowed his eyes. This woman had the damnedest habit of surprising him. “My sisters?”

“Yes, a short while ago three of them did a fair impression of the Spanish Inquisition over tea. If you are truly looking for a bride then I suggest you are going about it incorrectly.”

“You wouldn't care to be a viscountess?”

“You're a viscount?”

He shrugged. “I will be once my father is dead.”

She shook her head. “That is beside the point. I have no wish to be married.”

“Really? And why is that?”

“I value my freedom. My interest in you wasn't as a potential groom, but as a lover.” Her chin tipped up in defiance and her eyes boldly perused him. 

He let the faintest ghost of a smile cross his face. “That is agreeable.”