So whatever she was up to, she expected it to be done in a month. Why had she picked a deadline, and what exactly was she hoping to find? If she knew who he was all she had to do was announce it—once suspicions were aroused the police would be able to find proof no matter how well he’d covered things up. No matter how hard he tried to atone.
If the woman beside him knew who he was it would explain her highly entertaining lack of respect for him, but he didn’t think that was the case. She was simply chafing at the restraints of servitude, and he was doing his best to needle her. It was working beautifully.
“You can take a deep breath and relax, my dear Mrs. Greaves,” he said lightly. “I have no intention of assaulting your honor on a public street. Truth be told, I’m bored, and I’d rather accompany you to the draper than deal with business.”
“Business, my lord? I can’t imagine an aristocrat would have anything to do with business.”
“Then you’d be surprised. I find business quite fascinating, and I have an odd gift for making money. Unfortunately one of the businesses I had a partnership in has hit a difficult patch. The founder embezzled a fortune from the place, and then was killed in a carriage accident as he tried to make his escape. I’ve been trying to shore things up, make certain the investors are satisfied, see to it that any money left by the wily old fox gets returned to the company.”
“Interesting,” Bryony Greaves said in a neutral voice, and he got the sense that she meant it. “What about the man’s heirs?”
“His heirs don’t matter,” he said, “because he left nothing to inherit. Everything was confiscated by the crown. So not only has Russell destroyed his business and his good name, he’s ruined his family as well.”
She was even stiffer than she had been before, but she didn’t try to pull away. “Russell? Was that the man’s name?”
“Don’t you read newspapers, Mrs. Greaves? You strike me as someone who would. If so, I’m certain you heard of the nine-day’s wonder that was the Russell case and the ensuing bank panic?”
“It sounds vaguely familiar. So did you lose a great deal of money in all this? I would think you’d be very angry at… Mr. Russell, did you say?”
“I didn’t have time to be angry with him—I heard of his death before we realized he’d embezzled such a vast sum of money from the company that he left it on the edge of ruin, destroying two banks in the process and nearly causing a panic. By then it was too late.”
“What about his heirs? Couldn’t you have extracted your pound of flesh from them?”
“You like Shakespeare, Mrs. Greaves? Now why doesn’t that surprise me? And you’re perfectly suited to the Merchant of Venice. You’re such a stern, judgmental creature.”
She opened her mouth to refute him, then snapped it shut again, and he wondered what she’d do if he simply leaned down and tasted that luscious mouth as he so wanted to. “I most certainly am not,” she said finally.
He just laughed. “And I hold no personal grudge—if anything my finances are in better heart thanks to Russell. For some reason he left my shares completely untouched. The other investors weren’t quite so fortunate.”
“For some reason,” she echoed, sounding skeptical. “And did the police look into that? I do assume the police were involved?”
“Of course they were. Did they scrutinize my finances? Of course not—I’m a peer of the realm.”
“Not this realm, apparently. I didn’t know Irish lords received the same careful treatment from Scotland Yard.”
“You’re forgetting my charm.”
“I’m—” She stifled herself, and he wondered exactly what insult she’d been about to hurl at him. The bonds of servitude certainly chafed.
“Oh, don’t hold back, Mrs. Greaves. I assure you, I don’t mind if you speak freely. I find it quite refreshing.”
“I beg your pardon, my lord. I wouldn’t think of insulting you.”
Oh, you’d think it, my girl, he thought cynically. It’s killing you not to lash out at me with that sharp tongue. “Always the perfect servant,” he murmured.
She knew a goad when she heard one, but she had mastered her reactions. “I do my best to please, my lord.”
Oh, that he couldn’t resist. He leaned down, and his mouth brushed her ear. “Oh, my sweetness, you most certainly will.” He pulled back, looking ahead of them on the noisy street. “I believe we’re here, Miss Greaves.”
Peach’s Emporium was just a few doors away, the word Drapers written beneath the sign in neat, gold ink. She pulled her arm free, and this time he let her go, watching with amusement as she struggled to pull herself together. She turned to face him, her expression a mask of politesse. “I thank you so much for accompanying me, your lordship. I should have no trouble from here on.”
“Of course you won’t, my dear Mrs. Greaves, because I’ll be with you.” The door to the shop had already been opened by one of Mr. Peach’s subordinates, and he waved her in.
She looked up at him, all stubborn defiance. She was a charming woman but a terrible spy. Didn’t she know her best bet was to encourage his advances instead of trying to drive him away? She was much more likely to ferret out his secrets by curling up next to him. There was nothing to be gained by searching the house or questioning the servants. Only old Taggart knew the truth about the money he’d sent, and he’d go to the stake before he’d utter a word.
He didn’t move. It was a contest of wills, but they were on an uneven playing field. She could scarcely defy her employer in front of witnesses and expect to continue in her job. And she knew it.
Her shrug was almost imperceptible, and she preceded him into Mr. Peach’s emporium.