“Miss Browning? What are you doing here? Shouldn’t you be tucked in your bed for the night with one of Whitney’s footmen guarding your bedchamber door?”
“No one tucks me in.”
He rather enjoyed watching her jaw clench. “Pity, I would be more than happy to take on that chore myself,” he countered.
Wanting to cause her unease, he made a slow inventory of her person from head to toe with a protracted examination of her bosom. The lady hissed. Yes, his perusal was insulting, but served her right for keeping him from his bed.
She knew, as well as he did, how much she risked by venturing to Hanover Square with the intent of talking to him. In his world when you made a mistake, you paid the price. She was the one flaunting every tenet Polite Society held dear for unmarried ladies, not him. She was fortunate he was an honorable gentleman who did not take advantage. Most men would have without hesitation. His service to the Crown did not leave time for dalliances.
Even so, the image of the lady beneath him on the settee was a vision that wouldn’t leave him anytime soon. She may be plain faced but Miss Browning possessed the curvy body of a Covent Garden doxy. He clenched his hands into fists to keep from touching her. To slide a finger over the curve of her breast.
Moreham shoved his carnal desire aside and forced himself to remember who the lady was and why her presence in Philly’s library in the wee hours of the night was problematic. The very last woman he should be entertaining the thought of bedding was Miss Browning. Her aunt, the Duchess of Whitney, saw to the young lady’s protection from men like him. He’d best turn his thoughts to discovering why she stood before him. Her tale should prove interesting.
She must be all of two and twenty years of age. With a sizable dowry, one of the largest in England, she should have garnered herself a lord in her first season. Word in the clubs was Whitney had given his permission for his ward to have a say in who she married. Word was the girl wanted a love match. Plenty of gentlemen had professed love and asked for her hand. All had been rebuffed. For good reason—all were fortune hunters who had loved her dowry not the lady.
As for Miss Browning, she was a puzzle. He relished puzzle solving. Yes, at a glance, her looks were lacking, but standing closer than he’d ever been to the lady, he found her to be far shorter in stature than he preferred. Not that he intended to pursue the woman. Her looks were quite unremarkable at first glance. A closer perusal revealed a prettiness that bordering on handsomeness. Her brown eyes were her crowning glory. Those orbs possessed a mischievous fire in their depths.
Did that brown hue ever darken? Did her eyes ever lose the ever-present glimmer of laughter? The answer to both questions was yes. He grimaced as that hone brown color darkened. Neither of them had anything to laugh about. What a pity. Guilt gnawed at his insides for his role in her distress.
“Yes, well, would you like to sample Lady Philly’s brandy.” She waved her hand toward the sideboard.
He pushed his ruminations about her person into the far reaches of his brainbox. “What I would like is an explanation as to why we are meeting at all.”
She smiled. For the first time in a very long time, he rather enjoyed eliciting a reaction from a lady. Was Miss Browning flirting with him? No, she was baiting him, but why? What did she wish to gain?
Her uncle, the Duke of Whitney was a traitor. Moreham believed this with all his being. He’d spent the past month reading reports and discussing with his associates how to uncover inconvertible proof of the duke’s guilt. Frustration ate at his belly. His efforts had failed to produce substantial evidence to bring charges of treason against the duke. Not one to admit to failure, Moreham intended to continue his investigation until he found the evidence he sought.
No doubt the lady had learned of his interest in her uncle’s affairs. Was she here to demand he abandon his inquiry? If so, she was on a fool’s errand.
He gave up trying to discern her intent. Better to drink a glass of Philly’s brandy. The only way Miss Browning had gained access to Philly’s inner sanctum was with the spymaster’s agreement which he took to mean he was at liberty to help himself to her brandy.
He uncorked the crystal decanter. He nodded in the direction of the glasses on the sideboard. “Interested?”
She shook her head. “I think our discussion will go better if I keep a clear head.”
“Your choice.” Moreham shrugged his indifference and poured himself two fingers of the liquor. He raised the glass and drank the liquid down in one swallow. Quite good. He must find out where Philly procured her drink.
He knew he should speak, but for the life of him, he didn’t know what to say. He’d never admit it to a living soul, but Miss Browning’s appearance tonight was one occurrence he’d never imagined. Why hadn’t Philly warned him? Where was Philly? Nearby, eavesdropping on their conversation? Nothing the old girl did surprised him.
He rather admired the young lady for her devotion to Whitney, even if her actions were misguided. Best to wait for her to initiate “the discussion” as she called it. No doubt, Philly had told her about his investigation. Why would the old girl involve an innocent miss
