“It’s all right, Turnburry,” Stowe said. “Go back to work and I’ll see to Lord Wessex.”
Blake grasped the lapels of his fine black wool coat and tugged. “I told him you would see me. Whatever client you might have is surely able to wait the five minutes it will take for me to speak to you.”
“Actually, Lord Wessex—” Stowe blocked the door with his rounded body “—it’s not business. It’s personal.”
Blake lifted a brow, now amused. “A lady friend, is it?” He attempted to peer around the paneled walnut door. “Didn’t know you had it in you, Stowe. You Englishmen are a sly—”
“Jessup, have you a client, mon chèr?” The woman had an interesting accent, one that appeared French, but he recognized it as actually being French-Cajun out of New Orleans.
An American? Stowe had an American lady friend? Blake’s interest was definitely piqued now. His homesickness made him long for the sound of an American’s voice, even if it was an older woman’s.
“That’s quite all right, dear,” Mr. Stowe called over his shoulder, and then, returning his attention to Blake and still holding firmly to the door, he barred Blake’s entrance. “Lord Wessex can wait.”
“Lord Wessex?” she exclaimed. “Mon dieu!”
Her tone changed, intriguing Blake further. Apparently she knew him, even if he didn’t know her.
“Invite him in.”
“Really, dearest,” Stowe hedged. “I don’t think that—”
“The lady wishes to be introduced,” Blake insisted. “I never disappoint a lady.”
The moment he pushed past Stowe and met the mystery woman’s gaze, he knew who she was. They had not met, but he recognized her all the same. He had spotted her frequently in the past few weeks, at the theater, at balls, at the races. She was Sapphire Fabergine’s aunt, godmother, chaperone, something.
“Mademoiselle Lucia Toulouse,” Stowe said reluctantly as he followed Blake into his office. “Lord Wessex. Lord Wessex, the woman I hope to make my wife very soon if she’ll have me, Mademoiselle Lucia Toulouse.”
It didn’t get past Blake that Stowe first introduced him to the woman, an obvious fault in proper protocol—done intentionally, he was certain. The slight amused him. Mr. Stowe was obviously smitten.
Blake turned to Lucia and bowed, then offered his hand. She curtsied and allowed him to lift her gloved hand to his lips. “Mademoiselle Toulouse,” he said in perfectly accented French.
“Lord Wessex, a pleasure.”
He released her hand. She was a pretty woman for her age—stout and well-rounded with a relatively unlined face. He couldn’t guess how old she was. Forty-five? Fifty? Fifty-five? “A pleasure, indeed. I cannot help but notice your accent, madame. It’s not from France—New Orleans?”
She chuckled, seeming to know she was caught. “I was actually born right here in London, but I passed through New Orleans, once upon a time,” she said with a smile.
Blake was tempted to move the conversation right along and ask her what the hell her charge, Miss Sapphire Fabergine, was doing making claims to a dead man’s name, but he decided against it. In three short days he would be gone from London, gone from all this nonsense, and who she or Sapphire Fabergine was wouldn’t matter to him any longer.
“I apologize for barging in this way,” he told Stowe, who had taken his seat behind his desk. Mademoiselle Toulouse had returned to the red leather chair in front of the desk. “I only wanted to inform you that I’ll be sailing for Boston Sunday morning. Any paperwork you might require of me in order to give you full access to my properties, the right to sell in my stead, and whatever other business that needs to be transacted, you must have prepared by tomorrow.”
“You’re leaving London?” Madame Toulouse asked, sounding alarmed.
Blake looked at her sternly. “I’ve been here over two months dealing with some business matters as well as a personal affair, as you well know, but I can remain in London no longer. I must return to Boston, mademoiselle.”
She scowled, lifted her chin and made a show of looking away, dismissing him.
Stowe’s gaze darted from Blake to Madame Toulouse and back to Blake again.
“My Lord Wessex—”
“Stowe, I’ve made up my mind. I cannot possibly remain in England another week. I’ve one engagement I must fulfill, some ridiculous masquerade ball, but then I’m off and there will be no further discussion on the matter.” He started for the door. “I’ve work in Boston I’ve ignored too long.” He didn’t say he was leaving to get away from a redhead with one blue eye, one green. He hadn’t even realized the truth until he’d met her aunt, until the lie had come out of his mouth.
“Lord Wessex.” Stowe rose from his chair, hurrying after Blake. “We’ve matters to discuss and decisions to be made.”
“I trust you completely, Stowe.”
“But, my lord…” Stowe lowered his voice until Lucia could not possibly hear what he was saying. “I realize this is not my place to say, but what about the Dowager Lady Wessex’s situation? If I sell the homes, she’ll have no place to go.”