Pride and Pleasure (2 page)

“Eliza . . .” The earl stared at his clasped hands and shook his head.

“My lord,” Bond began in a casual tone. “Were you aware of the nature of Miss Martin’s inquiry?”

“Trying times these are,” Lord Melville muttered. “Trying times.”

Bond’s precise gaze moved back to Eliza. Her brow lifted.

“Is he daft?” Bond queried.

“His brain is so advanced, it stumbles over mediocrity.”

“Or perhaps it’s tangled by your reasoning in this endeavor?”

Her shoulders went back. “My reasoning is sound. And sarcasm is unproductive, Mr. Bond. Please refrain from it.”

“Oh?” His tone took on a dangerous quality. “And what is it you hope to produce by procuring a suitor?”

“I am not in want of stud service, sir. Only a depraved mind would leap to that conclusion.”

“Stud service . . .”

“Is that not what you are thinking?”

A wicked smile came to his lips. Eliza was certain her heart skipped a beat at the sight of it. “It wasn’t, no.”

Wanting to conclude this meeting as swiftly as possible, she rushed forward. “Do you have someone who can assist me or not?”

Bond snorted softly, but the derisive sound seemed to be directed inward and not at her. “From the beginning, if you would please, Miss Martin. Why do you need protection?”

“I have recently found myself to be a repeated victim of various unfortunate—and suspicious—events.”

Eliza expected him to laugh or perhaps give her a doubtful look. He did neither. Instead, she watched a transformation sweep over him. As fiercely focused as he’d been since his arrival, he became more so when presented with the problem. She found herself appreciating him for more than his good looks.

He leaned slightly forward. “What manner of events?”

“I was pushed into the Serpentine. My saddle was tampered with. A snake was loosed in my bedroom—”

“I understand it was a Runner who referred you to Mr. Lynd, who in turn referred you to me.”

“Yes. I hired a Runner for a month, but Mr. Bell discovered nothing. No attacks occurred while he was engaged.”

“Who would want to injure you, and why?”

She offered him a slight smile, a small show of gratitude for the gravity he was displaying. Anthony Bell had come highly recommended, but he’d never taken her seriously. In fact, he had been amused by her tales and she’d never felt he was dedicated to the task of discovery. “Truthfully, I am not certain whether they intend bodily harm, or if they simply want to goad me into marriage as a way to establish some permanent security. I see no reason to any of it.”

“Are you wealthy, Miss Martin? Or certain to be?”

“Yes. Which is why I doubt they sincerely aim to cause me grievous injury—I am worth more alive. But there are some who believe it isn’t safe for me in my uncle’s household. They claim he is an insufficient guardian, that he is touched and ready for Bedlam. As if any individual capable of compassion would put a stray dog in such a place, let alone a beloved relative.”

“Poppycock,” the earl scoffed. “I am fit as a fiddle, in mind and body.”

“You are, my lord,” Eliza agreed, smiling fondly at him. “I have made it clear to all and sundry that Lord Melville will likely live to be one hundred years of age.”

“And you hope that adding me to your stable of suitors will accomplish what, precisely?” Bond asked. “Deter the culprit?”

“I hope that by adding
one of your associates,”
she corrected, “I can avoid further incidents over the next six weeks of the Season. In addition, if my new suitor is perceived to be a threat, perhaps the scoundrel will turn his malicious attentions toward him. Then, perhaps, we can catch the fiend. Truly, I should like to know by what methods of deduction he formulated this plan and what he hoped to gain by it.”

Bond settled back into his seat and appeared deep in thought.

“I would never suggest such a hazardous role for someone untrained,” she said quickly. “But a thief-taker, a man accustomed to associating with criminals and other unfortunates. . . I should think those who engage in your profession would be more than a match for a nefarious fortune hunter.”

“I see.”

Beside her, her uncle murmured to himself, working out puzzles and equations in his mind. Like herself, he was most comfortable with events and reactions that could be quantified or predicted with some surety. Dealing with issues defying reason was too taxing.

“What type of individual would you consider ideal to play this role of suitor, protector, and investigator?” Bond asked finally.

“He should be quiet, even-tempered, and a proficient dancer.”

Scowling, he queried, “How do dullness and the ability to dance signify in catching a possible murderer?”

“I did not say ‘dull,’ Mr. Bond. Kindly do not attribute words to me that I have not spoken. In order to be acknowledged as a true rival for my attentions, he should be someone whom everyone will believe I would be attracted to.”

“You are not attracted to handsome men?”

“Mr. Bond, I dislike being rude. However, you leave me no recourse. The fact is, you clearly are not the sort of man whose temperament is compatible with matrimony.”

“I am quite relieved to hear a female recognize that,” he drawled.

“How could anyone doubt it?” She made a sweeping gesture with her hand. “I can more easily picture you in a swordfight or fisticuffs than I can see you enjoying an afternoon of croquet, after-dinner chess, or a quiet evening at home with family and friends. I am an intellectual, sir. And while I don’t mean to imply a lack of mental acuity, you are obviously built for more physically strenuous pursuits.”

“I see.”

“Why, one has only to look at you to ascertain you aren’t like the others at all! It would be evident straightaway that I would never consider a man such as you with even remote seriousness. It is quite obvious you and I do not suit in the most fundamental of ways, and everyone knows I am too observant to fail to see that. Quite frankly, sir, you are not my type of male.”

The look he gave her was wry but without the smugness that would have made it irritating. He conveyed solid self-confidence free of conceit. She was dismayed to find herself strongly attracted to the quality.

He would be troublesome. Eliza did not like trouble overmuch.

He glanced at the earl. “Please forgive me, my lord, but I must speak bluntly in regard to this subject. Most especially because this is a matter concerning Miss Martin’s physical well-being.”

“Quite right,” Melville agreed. “Straight to the point, I always say. Time is too precious to waste on inanities.”

“Agreed.” Bond’s gaze returned to Eliza and he smiled. “Miss Martin, forgive me, but I must point out that your inexperience is limiting your understanding of the situation.”

“Inexperience with what?”

“Men. More precisely, fortune-hunting men.”

“I would have you know,” she retorted, “that over the course of six Seasons I have had more than enough experience with gentlemen in want of funds.”

“Then why,” he drawled, “are you unaware that they are successful for reasons far removed from social suitability?”

Eliza blinked. “I beg your pardon?”

“Women do not marry fortune hunters because they can dance and sit quietly. They marry them for their appearance and physical prowess—two attributes you have already established I have.”

“I do not see—”

“Evidently, you do not, so I shall explain.” His smile continued to grow. “Fortune hunters who flourish do not strive to satisfy a woman’s intellectual needs. Those can be met through friends and acquaintances. They do not seek to provide the type of companionship one enjoys in social settings or with a game table between them. Again, there are others who can do so.”

“Mr. Bond—”

“No, they strive to satisfy in the only position that is theirs alone, a position some men make no effort to excel in. So rare is this particular skill that many a woman will disregard other considerations in favor of it.”

“Please, say no—”

“Fornication,” his lordship muttered, before returning to his conversation with himself.

Eliza shot to her feet. “My lord!”

As courtesy dictated, both her uncle and Mr. Bond rose along with her.

“I prefer to call it ‘seduction,’ ” Bond said, his eyes laughing.

“I call it ridiculous,” she rejoined, hands on her hips. “In the grand scheme of life, do you collect how little time a person spends abed when compared to other activities?”

His gaze dropped to her hips. The smile became a full-blown grin. “That truly depends on who else is occupying said bed.”

“Dear heavens.” Eliza shivered at the look Jasper Bond was giving her. It was . . . expectant. By some unknown, godforsaken means she had managed to prod the man’s damnable masculine pride into action.

“Give me a sennight,” he suggested. “One week to prove both my point and my competency. If, at the end, you are not swayed by one or the other, I will accept no payment for services rendered.”

“Excellent proposition,” his lordship said. “No possibility of loss.”

“Not true,” Eliza contended. “How will I explain Mr. Bond’s speedy departure?”

“Let us make it a fortnight, then,” Bond amended.

“You fail to understand the problem. I am not an actor, sir. It will be evident to one and all that I am far from ‘seduced. ’ ”

The tone of his grin changed, aided by a hot flicker in his dark eyes. “Leave that aspect of the plan to me. After all, that’s what I am being paid for.”

“And if you fail? Once you resign, not only will I be forced to make excuses for you, I will have to bring in another thief-taker to act in your stead. The whole affair will be entirely too suspicious.”

“Have you had the same pool of suitors for six years, Miss Martin?”

“That isn’t—”

“Did you not just state the many reasons why you feel I am not an appropriate suitor for you? Can you not simply reiterate those points in response to any inquiries regarding my departure?”

“You are overly persistent, Mr. Bond.”

“Quite,” he nodded, “which is why I will discover who is responsible for the unfortunate events besetting you and what they’d hoped to gain.”

She crossed her arms. “I am not convinced.”

“Trust me. It is fortuitous, indeed, that Mr. Lynd brought us together. If I do not apprehend the culprit, I daresay he cannot be caught.” His hand fisted around the top of his cane. “Client satisfaction is a point of pride, Miss Martin. By the time I am done, I guarantee you will be eminently gratified by my performance.”

“T
here are times when I impress myself with my own brilliance,” Thomas Lynd crowed when entering Jasper’s study with hat in hand.

One could always trust Lynd to eschew the services of a formal butler. He preferred lackeys over servants whose training in deportment exceeded his own.

Jasper settled back in his chair with a smile of welcome. “You’ve outdone yourself this time.”

As usual, Lynd’s garments were overdone in style and underwhelming in fit. The result of a poor tailor provided with expensive material yet lacking the knowledge of how best to utilize it. Regardless, Lynd presented a decidedly more refined appearance than others of their profession. He walked a fine line, one that enabled him to remain respected and welcomed by the lower classes, while presenting himself in a way the peerage found nonthreatening.

Lynd dropped into one of the two seats set in front of the desk. “The moment she mentioned Montague, I had no doubt.”

Although he visited Jasper’s home with regularity, he surveyed the room as if seeing it for the first time. His gaze lingered on the mahogany bookshelves lining the far wall and the sapphire-hued velvet drapes framing the windows opposite. “Besides, she wanted a bloody lapdog, and none of our acquaintances can boast your pedigree.”

“Bastardy is no advantage in any situation.” Jasper straddled the line Lynd traversed so well, which worked—surprisingly—to Jasper’s benefit. He was often hired by those who wanted his services to go unnoticed and were capable of paying the added expense such stealth required. That proclivity enabled him to work with Eliza Martin, because his face was not well known.

“It is in this one.” Lynd ran a hand through brown hair as yet unaffected by the graying of age. “It takes breeding to tolerate the sorts of pompous asses Melville’s niece expects you to rub along with, and you will be far less noticeable in the venues she will expect you to attend than anyone else I could think of.”

Standing, Jasper moved to the console table by the window where decanters of liquors and crystal tumblers waited. Lynd was one of very few individuals who were aware of Jasper’s lineage. He had Jasper’s confidence because he’d once shown Jasper’s mother a kindness when she desperately needed it.

As Jasper poured two rations of Armagnac, his gaze took in the two disreputable-looking lackeys who waited out on the street. Lynd’s men.

It had taken Jasper some time to locate a respectable neighborhood that would accommodate his activities without undue strain. His neighbors tolerated the endless comings and goings of his crew because they found his presence useful in minimizing footpad crimes in the immediate vicinity. He considered his services to the community a small price to pay to avoid residing in the areas surrounding Fleet Street and the Strand, where Lynd and many other thief-takers lived. It was nigh impossible to abide the stench from the sewer ditch, which was an inescapable odor embedded into the very walls of the surrounding buildings.

Returning to his seat, Jasper set Lynd’s glass at the edge of the desk. “I have an appointment with Miss Martin this afternoon. I’ll learn then how serious Montague is about winning her hand. Perhaps he has grown desperate enough to become foolish.”

“Preposterous,” Lynd scoffed. “The whole affair. If someone is so determined to marry the chit, he should ask her outright. But then, I suppose the entire lot of hopefuls is daft or desperate beyond reason to mix their lineage with the Tremaines’. She should be grateful her late father’s fortune has attracted suitors to her. She would have a devil of a time enticing a man without it.”

Jasper’s brow went up. He’d been enticed the moment she first opened her mouth.

“Truly,” Lynd went on, “she should just pick a poor fellow and be done with it. Any other woman would. Been allowed to run amok, that one. She took it upon herself to engage a thief-taker to intercede and his lordship is too preoccupied with the maze of his mind to rein her in. Melville’s participation in my interview was only with himself.”

“Do you have a point to this disparagement of my client?”

“Six weeks will seem a lifetime, I vow. No compensation can restitute the loss of your sanity. She is contrary in the extreme. Unnatural in a female. She had the gall to look down her nose at me—a feat, I must say, since I’m taller—and tell me I would do well to hire a decent tailor. No polish to her at all. I could barely tolerate her for the length of the interview. Made my teeth grind.”

“Good of you to decline the post, then,” Jasper drawled. “Clearly you would not have made a convincing suitor.”

“If you manage to be, I’d say you missed your true calling as a man of the stage.”

“So long as Montague fails to acquire the funds he needs to regain his marker from me, I can do whatever is required.” It was a delectable twist that the best way to foil Montague’s suit was to woo Eliza Martin himself.

“Revenge has a way of eating at you, my boy, like a cancer. Best to keep that in mind.”

Jasper smiled grimly.

Shrugging, Lynd said, “But you’ll do as you like, you always have.”

The marker Jasper held was for a deed to a parcel of land in Essex that boasted only a modest home and was by far the smallest property Jasper laid claim to. Regardless, its value was priceless. It represented years of meticulous planning and the retribution due him. And in a mere six weeks it would be irrevocably his to destroy or flaunt at his whim.

Jasper withdrew a waiting coin purse from his desk drawer and pushed it to the edge of the desk.

Lynd hesitated before collecting the silken bag. “I wish I could afford not to accept this.”

“Nonsense. I owe you more than I could ever repay.”

Rounding his desk, Jasper escorted Lynd to the foyer and saw him off. Once his visitor was gone, he shot a quick glance at the clock above the mantel in his office.

He was only a few hours away from paying a call on Miss Eliza Martin. He was anticipating it far more than was seemly. He should not be thinking of her at all, a woman who inferred he was more brawn than intellect. His goals were met by dealing with each challenge at the proper time and with the whole of his attention. Eliza’s appointed time was later; there were other items needing to be addressed now. Yet he stood on the threshold of his office where pressing matters awaited him, thinking instead of how he should attire himself to call on her, contemplating whether he should dress to impress or whether mimicking her somber style would better achieve his aim.

Jasper found himself wanting to meet with her approval. It would be hard won, which made it worth the effort.

“The
trone d’amour
,” he murmured to himself, touching his cravat. Decided on a style, Jasper headed to his desk and determined he wouldn’t think of his newest employer for at least an hour.

 

Jasper’s foot crossed the threshold of the Melville front door at precisely eleven o’clock. Snapping his pocket watch shut, he waited only a moment while the butler dealt with his hat and cane. But it was a moment he relished for the expectation weighting it. He’d considered the possible reasons why he should be so confoundedly eager to reach this portion of his schedule and come to the conclusion it was Eliza Martin’s ability to surprise him that he enjoyed.

The realization came with the sudden understanding that nothing surprised him anymore. He knew precisely what others would say before they said it and how they would respond before they did so. It was the way of the world, the rules of decorum, and his own acute appreciation of human nature. Socializing was like a scripted play, with all the actors aware of what their lines were and when they should be spoken.

Eliza had yet to say anything he expected her to say.

“This way, sir.”

Jasper followed the butler to a study and paused on the threshold while he was announced. With his hands clasped at the small of his back, he took in the room, noting how the heavy masculine furniture was offset by flowery pastel drapes and artwork featuring picturesque country landscapes. As if the space had once been a man’s domain and was no longer.

“Ah, good morning, Mr. Bond.”

The butler bowed and stepped aside, exposing the slender woman who’d been hidden by his tall frame. Eliza sat at a walnut desk so large she appeared dwarfed behind it. Her gaze was downcast, her hair piled high in soft curls, and her shoulders partially hidden by the fine lace decorating a modest bodice.

Jasper entered fully and moved to one of the two carved wooden chairs facing the desk. Before he sat, he glanced down at what occupied her. Ledgers. She worked over them studiously, filling the columns with impressive speed and painfully neat numerals.

“Once again,” she murmured, “you are precisely on time.”

“Another of my faults?” he asked.

She glanced up at him, studying him beneath the veil of thick auburn lashes. “Would you care for tea?”

“No, thank you.”

She set her quill aside and waved the butler away. “The trait of punctuality simply tells me that you value time. It suggests you will value mine as well, which I appreciate.”

“What else do you value, Miss Martin?”

“I fail to see how that signifies.”

Jasper smiled. “If I am to be a lovelorn swain or even simply a fortune hunter who has set his cap for you, I am expected to know things about you.”

“I see.” A slight wrinkle marred the space between her brows, then she said, “I value my privacy, solitude, the books in my library, my horse, and my money.”

He watched the way her fingertips tapped lightly atop the ledger in front of her. “You keep your own accounts?”

“As my father did before me.”

“Why have you not wed?”

Eliza sat back and crossed her arms. “Are you married, Mr. Bond?”

“Jasper,” he corrected, wanting to hear his given name spoken in her soft, yet steely voice. “And no, I’m not married.”

“Then I ask the same question of you. Why have
you
not wed?”

“The manner in which I live my life doesn’t lend itself to matrimony. I keep odd hours and odder company.”

“Hmm . . . Well, I have not wed because I’ve yet to find an individual whose company is worth the expense.” She lifted one shoulder in an offhand shrug. “Frankly, marriage for me is an extremely expensive proposition. In addition to the loss of control over my own funds, I’d be agreeing to spend an inordinate amount of time with another person. It makes me odd, I know—or perhaps it just makes me a Tremaine—but I find socializing with others is more exhausting than refreshing. I have to consider everything I want to say, and then filter it through my mind before I speak so what emerges from my mouth doesn’t offend with its bluntness.”

And there it was, the key to wooing her into bed: encourage her to be herself. Not a problem for him at all, since he enjoyed her unpolished pronouncements and reasoned judgments. He looked forward to the challenge of unveiling the woman beneath the brain.

“Eliza,” he purred, watching her reaction to his uninvited familiarity—the slight dilation of her irises, the unaffected flutter of her lashes, and the quickening tempo of the pulse visible at her throat. “I must confess, I was very much looking forward to our meeting this morning precisely because of what emerges from your mouth.”

Which led to thoughts of what else he liked about that particular feature. Such as the full curve of her bottom lip, and the way it pursed lightly when he goaded her. Even the way it moved when she spoke. The things he wanted to do to that mouth shocked even him. He wanted to feel it move over his skin, whispering lewd taunts and pressing soft kisses. Teasing. Suckling....

He inhaled sharply, displeased for the first time in his life with the finely honed instincts he’d long relied on to survive. It was one thing to be sexually aware of a woman—something he found quite stimulating and enjoyable. It was quite another to be physically affected by that awareness.

“It’s rare,” he continued, forcing his thoughts back to the business at hand, “for a client to be so forthcoming. It makes my efforts far more effective when they are.”

Her head tilted to the side, causing two curls to sway beside a delicately shaped ear. She seemed prepared to speak, but then she didn’t. Instead, she withdrew a piece of paper from beneath her leather-bound ledger and offered it to him.

He leaned forward and accepted it, turning it around so he could read what was written. As with her bookkeeping, the columns were neat and tidy, yet the way in which she formed her letters was different. Highly slanted as opposed to straight, elongated at the highs and lows, bleeding at the point of ink refill as if she was too hurried to shake off the excess properly. He mulled this over as he read—the care over numerals versus the carelessness over proper names was telling. The list catalogued her suitors by peerage rank—if applicable—as well as length of suit, age, brief but concise physical descriptions, and anomalous traits such as throat clearing and nose twitching. He would easily be able to put a name to a face with the information she provided.

“I’m impressed with the thoroughness of your observation skills,” he praised, looking up at her.

A ghost of a smile curved her lips, making him realize he had yet to see her smile in truth. “Thank you. I came to the conclusion last evening that this would be my final Season. I secured an agreement from my uncle long ago that six Seasons would be all he’d ask of me . . . but I was undecided about holding him to the promise. He asks so little of me, after all.”

“I see.” He should feel no guilt in enjoying her, then. He would not be ruining her if she was seated firmly on the shelf.

“And so I’ve also decided to utilize your services for the entirety of the six weeks remaining in this Season, Mr. Bond. If you will advise me of the cost of securing your services for that length of time, I’ll see you are paid by the end of the day tomorrow.”