On the other hand, he would probably pay her for her help. God knew she could use the money; the Ravenshaw Arms’ profits were down by four percent from this time last year. Because of the damned war, no doubt. Everyone had flitted off to Belgium to gawk at the young men about to be brutally slaughtered by Napoleon. As always, one person’s tragedy was someone else’s entertainment.
Four percent wasn’t too bad, but she couldn’t help worrying. She’d already put off buying new bed-hangings for some of the rooms for months, out of a reluctance to deplete her small reserve. She didn’t like to risk compromising the inn’s wealthy, fashionable image, but it was better than letting some of the staff go.
Serena couldn’t face that. She remembered what it was like to be penniless and on the street. “Show him in,” she told Sophy.
Serena had found that it was a good idea to make visitors wait for her attention; it established that she was in charge, and gave them time to get nervous. So when the door opened again and the stranger came in, she finished her sum and double-checked it before looking up.
It was him.
She couldn’t breathe. She couldn’t believe she had almost sent him away. She’d been looking for him for years. The Hundred and Twenty-Five Pounds, she called him, and she remembered him as if it had been yesterday. Hair like ripe wheat, freckles in a pale face, dreamy hazel eyes, a flexible mouth, and that unexpectedly stubborn chin. He’d looked like an angel.
Either she’d embellished, or he’d grown up, or both. He didn’t look like an angel now. He looked like a man, solid and broad and taller than she’d thought.
He looked tired, too, and worn. His hazel eyes were watchful now. It was idiotic how much it hurt her, that he hadn’t stayed young and unbruised forever. But he’s still beautiful, she thought. As if it made any difference what she thought.
It didn’t, because on top of everything else he looked rich. Rich and stylish, in a well-cut coat and breeches, tasseled Hessians, an exquisitely tied cravat, and a fanciful crimson waistcoat, its enormous pocket flaps embroidered in orange and pale green. Everything brand-new and expensive, and cheerful in a way that jarred with his expression.
She’d known he was a gentleman, coming into Mme Deveraux’s with his noble friends, but it still made her feel a little queasy. People like him didn’t associate with whores like her.
“Good afternoon,” he said. “I’m Solomon Hathaway.” She hadn’t remembered his voice at all beyond his educated accent; he’d barely spoken. Husky and a little rough around the edges, it wasn’t what she’d expected. “And you must be Lady Serena.”
She nodded, carefully keeping all expression from her face.
“I—” He took a deep breath. “I’ve been told you could help me. There’s been a theft—a family heirloom—” He flushed a startling shade of red.
He couldn’t even get the words out. No doubt he thought a man like him asking a woman like her for a favor went against the natural order of things. “Ashamed to ask for my help?”
He frowned. “Of course I’m ashamed,” he said impatiently. “If Susannah weren’t so superstitious, she’d just get married without the damned things. Sorry. The dashed things.” He squinted at her. “Do I know you?”
He didn’t recognize her. He was branded into her mind and he didn’t recognize her?
He was getting married?
Who cared? She wasn’t some daydreaming schoolgirl. She’d known the odds were slim that she’d ever see him again. She hadn’t expected anything to come of it even if she did.
Yes, this was perfect. He didn’t know who she was. She’d find his missing object and they would be even. She’d repay her debt, send him on his way, and be free of him.
Perfect.
“No, we’ve never met.” She gave him a smooth smile. “Now tell me, why do you think I can help you?”
“My uncle Dewington says you know every rogue in London by his Christian name.” There was a beat, and then he sighed, as if he’d just realized that was a strange thing to say but was resigned to it.
He’d heard part of her reputation, anyway. “His or her Christian name, yes,” she said dryly. His uneasiness intrigued her. It seemed to be about a quarter self-consciousness and three-quarters not focusing on the conversation. What was he really thinking about?
It annoyed her that she wanted to know, and, annoyed, she gave in to