“I have a vague recollection.” She had washed the blood off those muscular legs, gripped his firm, powerful thigh while sewing the wound.
Mr Cavanagh smiled, his blue eyes twinkling with mischief. “Tell all, my lady. I imagine Wycliff was a rather surly patient.”
“On the contrary,” Scarlett said, relishing an opportunity to remind Mr Wycliff that he had the capacity to be kind and charming. “I found him respectful, understanding and extremely considerate under the circumstances.”
Mr Cavanagh frowned. He glanced at Mr Trent, who arched a brow and then snorted with amusement.
“I’ve heard Wycliff called many things,” Mr Trent said, “considerate isn’t one of them. He must have made a lasting impression. Is that why you enlisted his help?”
From Mr Trent’s tone, his question had nothing to do with prying and everything to do with protecting his friend.
Interesting.
Wycliff shuffled uncomfortably in the seat beside her. During their meeting at the tavern, he had made a point of informing her that he kept no secrets from his friends. And yet she sensed they knew nothing about the gold cross given to reinforce his promise.
Mr Wycliff proved her theory by saying, “Tell them nothing, Widow, lest my friends use your words to taunt me.”
“Did he act the perfect gentleman?” Mr Cavanagh teased as if there was something distasteful when a man behaved with sensitivity and good manners. “I seem to remember him begging for a moment’s privacy. Did he bow over your hand whilst delivering flowery felicitations?”
“Were we not in the presence of a lady, Cavanagh, I would curse you to the devil,” Wycliff growled. “Perhaps it did not occur to you that a man would be nothing but respectful to the angel who saved his life.”
Lord above!
Mr Wycliff had referred to her as a lady and an angel in two consecutive sentences.
“Hence the reason you’re behaving rather oddly,” Mr Cavanagh countered, determined to torment his friend. “You asked Mrs Crandell to hire exotic dancers and then failed to show.” With amusement filling his eyes, Mr Cavanagh turned to her and asked, “Do you happen to know where Wycliff was last night?”
“Don’t answer that,” Wycliff snapped. “They both know we went to the Marquis of Blackbeck’s ball.”
“And afterwards?” Mr Cavanagh pressed.
Mr Wycliff removed his top hat and brushed his hand through his mop of coal-black hair. “That is none of your damn business.”
Scarlett pasted a perfect smile, but her stomach roiled. Where had Mr Wycliff gone after he’d left her? Certainly not the extravagant party hosted by a member of the demi-monde. Then again, she had to ask herself why she cared.
An uncomfortable silence descended.
Scarlett thought to say something to defuse the tension but could think of nothing other than the heat from Mr Wycliff’s thigh as it pressed against hers. She glanced at Mr Trent, who clearly found nothing amusing in the men’s banter. Indeed, with the same brooding look she had witnessed earlier, he stared out of the window in a dream-like state as they headed towards Vauxhall.
“What is it, Trent?” There was a serious edge to Mr Wycliff’s tone that hinted at a problem or dispute. “You may speak freely in front of Lady Steele.”
Scarlett was almost flattered. But Mr Wycliff knew enough about her secret affairs to silence her for good. Indeed, hearing Mr Trent’s revelation would help to even the odds.
Mr Trent glanced at her from beneath hooded lids. Those sharp green eyes, when cold and glassy, would frighten away the most vicious predators.
“We’ll be at Vauxhall soon,” he said, avoiding the subject of his odd mood. “You’ve yet to tell us why you insisted we come.”
The gentleman’s ploy to move the conversation away from his own dilemma worked. Mr Wycliff relaxed back in the seat, his broad shoulder brushing against her. “You’re free to entertain whomsoever you wish. All I ask is that you keep us in your sights. Pay particular attention to those in the vicinity, those who seem to show a specific interest in our attendance.”
“Praise the saints, Wycliff. You are joking.” Mr Cavanagh snorted. “You draw attention wherever you go. With the Scarlet Widow hanging on your arm, even the musicians in the orchestra will be agog.”
“We’d need the numbers of an army regiment to follow those curious about your intimate connection,” Mr Trent added with a hint of frustration. “And the marquis is sure to attend. I daresay he will find someone to distract Lady Steele while pushing prospective brides your way.”
Prospective brides?
Was Damian Wycliff inclined to marry?
“I thought you said marriage was not for the cynical.” Scarlett’s teasing tone disguised the pang of jealousy slithering in her chest.