“As you will, sir.”
The atmosphere outside did little to calm Dante’s nerves. A low fog crept through the streets, a ghostly mass stealing through the darkness, its spectre-like fingers ready to slip into his pocket and rob him blind.
Dante stopped on the corner of Howland Street, scanning the long shadows for signs of movement before giving himself a mental boot to the backside. Where was the man who didn’t care if he lived or died? Where was the man who taunted the devil?
“Dante?” Beatrice’s voice reached him through the darkness. She appeared beneath the soft glow of the lamplight. “It is you. Is something wrong?” Slight panic tinged every syllable. She glanced behind.
“No. I thought I would walk to meet you.” H
e didn’t want her to worry.
Moving a little quickly, she closed the gap between them and clutched his arm. “No. You’re worried, worried that whoever killed Mr Babington will be looking for the letters. You came to offer your protection.”
Dante couldn’t help but smile. “Can a man have no secrets?”
“You have more than your share of those,” she teased.
The world seemed brighter in Beatrice’s company. The night sky was more magical than monstrous. Like fog, fear dissipated as if it lacked substance.
“I presume Miss Trimble knows you’re dining with me.”
“She advised I bring Bower along to play chaperone.” Beatrice laughed. “When I refused, she cautioned me about what can happen between a man and a woman when they’ve consumed too much wine. Then she taught me a manoeuvre should I need to free myself from the clutches of a lustful rake.”
“Let’s hope you weren’t paying much attention.”
During the brief walk to Fitzroy Square they made idle conversation, discussed the dinner menu, whether she liked the theatre, how she came to own a pocket pistol. Dante could have strolled through the streets until dawn, listening to her tales about the drunkards from the Bull in the Barn, watching her eyes brighten when she laughed.
You think you have what it takes to keep a scoundrel entertained for an hour?
Beatrice Sands could keep him entertained for a lifetime.
“Don’t be alarmed, Bateson.” She handed the butler her cloak. “I have my pocket pistol but have no intention of murdering your master.”
Bateson inclined his head. “No, miss.”
“And this might look like conventional attire.” She gestured to the splendid cornflower-blue gown that showed the swell of her breasts to perfection. “But beneath, I’m wearing gentleman’s trousers.”
“I would expect no less, miss.” Bateson turned to Dante. “Would you care to go through to the dining room, sir, or shall I serve drinks in the drawing room?”
“I believe Miss Sands is famished, Bateson.” And Dante wished to get all formal conversation out of the way so he could focus on more pleasurable pursuits. “And our new footman in training is eager to earn his keep.”
Bateson struggled to maintain his indifferent expression. “He is somewhat of a determined fellow, sir, rather excitable at times.”
Curiosity danced in Beatrice’s eyes.
Not wishing to ruin the surprise, Dante distracted her by guiding her towards the dining room. “Tell me you’re not really wearing trousers beneath that gown.”
“What, and spoil the suspense?”
Were it not for the fact his staff had gone to a tremendous effort at such short notice, he would have skipped dinner, set his mind on seduction. But they had the case to discuss, and he was desperate to see her reaction when he presented his gift.
She stepped into the room lit by thirty candles, positioned so the light was soft and warm, caressing the rich red walls with gentle strokes.
“Heavens, you must have purchased every candle in London.”
“Not quite.” He captured her gloved hand, pressed a tender kiss to her palm. “I’ve spent too long in the darkness, Beatrice.”
Her gaze slipped slowly over him. “Far too long.”