“No, I shall wear red,” Eva said with renewed determination.
But how would she maintain an air of confidence with Mr Ashwood at her side? A mere glance from the man turned her into a quivering wreck.
And how was she to hold her head high knowing of the dreadful things her brother had done? Equally, her father was famous for being one of the greatest profligates of his time. And she still hadn’t explained to Mr Ashwood how she knew Clara Swales, let alone inform him of Lord Benham’s role in this dreadful business.
“The red is so daring I won’t need jewels.”
“You’ll need rouge, ma’am,” Kathleen said, returning the blue dress to the armoire. “Just a touch on your cheeks. A light pass of carmine blush will do the trick.”
Eva groaned as an internal war raged.
The thought of a night spent mingling in society brought on a bout of nausea. The thought of a night spent laughing and dancing with Mr Ashwood filled her with a different feeling entirely.
* * *
Disappointment hit like a savage blow to the stomach. A hard wallop to wake her from her pathetic fantasy.
It was Mr Cole, not Mr Ashwood, who stood in the hall, dressed in black. While he looked the epitome of elegance and sophistication, there was no mistaking the dangerous undertone hidden beneath.
“Good evening, Miss Dunn,” came Mr Cole’s gruff greeting. He scanned the red gown but appeared totally indifferent.
The gentleman lacked Mr Ashwood’s charm, lacked the teasing gleam in his eyes that made a lady’s heart flutter. He seemed so cold, so detached from all personal thoughts and feelings. Oh, this would be a long, insufferable night.
“Good evening, Mr Cole.” If she could rouse a glimmer of a smile on his solemn face, it would be an achievement.
“No doubt you were expecting my colleague,” he said dryly.
“I presumed Mr Ashwood was dealing with my case, yes.”
It was Mr Ashwood who sent the note sealed with his monogram. The note—informing her of the need to attend Lord Newberry’s ball—carried the gentleman’s teasing tone and unique scent. The man’s alluring persona oozed from the page. Excitement had squeezed the breath from her lungs. And her thoughts had turned to dancing, to touching him, to a romantic stroll in the garden, to another toe-curling kiss.
“Your brother’s debts make this a complicated case,” Mr Cole said, scanning his environment through dark, critical eyes. “Mr Daventry wishes me to assist Mr Ashwood.”
“Mr Daventry? Ah, yes. The gentleman who hired you to help right the imbalance of justice.” Eva was intrigued to know what prompted wealthy men to chase criminals and put their lives in danger.
Mr Cole motioned to the rectangular mark on the wall. “What happened to the painting that used to hang there?”
She glanced at the dirty smudges. “I had to part with it, sir.”
“It wasn’t stolen?” Suspicion coated every word.
“No. I sold the painting this morning. Has Mr Ashwood informed you I have parted ways with my publisher?”
Had Mr Ashwood mentioned they’d shared a long and lingering kiss while standing in the middle of Mr Hemming’s office? Was that the real reason Mr Cole stood in her hall looking like the devil come to claim another soul?
“Out of concern for your safety, Miss Dunn, my colleague had no choice but to convey details of the case.”
“I see. I trust I can speak in confidence.”
“Absolute confidence.”
“Then with regard to the painting, not only do I need funds for household expenses and the purchase of new boots, but after Mr Ashwood’s kind gesture, I am now in debt to Mr Daventry to the sum of one hundred pounds.”
Mr Cole’s expression remained stone-like, but the slight widening of his eyes said he knew nothing of Mr Ashwood’s generosity. Surely he had recorded the expense.
“To whom did Mr Ashwood pay a hundred pounds?”
“My publisher.”
“For what purpose?”
“To release me from a contract.”
“Hmm,” he mused, yet two frown lines appeared between brows almost swamped by a mop of sable hair.
Kathleen’s sudden appearance brought light relief. “I have your cloak, ma’am. There’s a mighty chill in the air tonight.”
There was a frosty atmosphere in the hall, too. Mr Cole was so difficult to read. So reserved. So stern.
“Allow me.” He snatched the gold cloak she had not worn for two years and draped it around her shoulders.
His fingers brushed absently against her nape, though she felt nothing. Not the delightful shiver that shot to her toes as a result of Mr Ashwood’s touch. Not the need to turn on her heel and meld her body to his. Not the desperate hope that he felt the same way, too.
“Will Mr Ashwood be attending tonight?” she asked as Mr Cole led her to his carriage. If she were to face Lord Benham, she would rather have a man named Dauntless as her companion.
Mr Cole ignored her question and gestured to the hulking figure sitting atop the box of an unmarked carriage parked at the end of Brownlow Street. “Bower will watch your house until we bring an end to these troubling matters. He’s a strong, capable man, one used to dealing with villains.”
“I see.”
Witnessing the burly individual should have settled her nerves. But Mr Ashwood would not have appointed such a sturdy watchman if there was nothing to fear. Indeed, the sudden thought of sleeping alone tonight chilled her to the bone. Filled her with dread.
Dread held her rigid in the carriage seat as they rattled through town on their way to Lord Newberry’s ball in Cavendish Square. In Mr Ashwood’s company she felt safe, protected. Mr Cole made her want to run for the hills, not race into his embrace.
To pass the time, she studied Mr Cole’s conveyance. The black leather seats were so opposed to the inviting red ones in Mr Ashwood’s carriage. The potent smell of Mr Ashwood’s cologne—bergamot, exotic spice and some woody essence—roused primal urges when in the confined space. In Mr Cole’s carriage, she
