Her face had grown warm, too. The heat was spreading, from the back of her neck, along her arms . . . and heading south to pool in her belly.
“Shall we leave them behind and go to take our tea?”
Her heart started to hammer. “Yes. Please.”
She directed him to Jermyn Street and a bakery called Le Cygne. He wondered what she was up to as he paid a lingering boy to watch the bays. They went inside and sat by the window, where the French Madame who owned the place took their order herself.
The tea was of good quality and the pastries delectable. He ordered gingerbread and sighed in happiness at the first bite.
“A favorite?” she asked.
“Oh, yes. Cook always made ginger biscuits in the winter months. I would come in from the cold and follow my nose down to the kitchens. I could stay, if there were ginger biscuits. She’d fix me a plate and a tumbler of cold milk. It was always so warm and cheerful down there.”
Unlike the rest of the house.
“Our cook’s specialty was a currant cake. It was always a grand day when she made them. The smell would drift up and everyone would smile, from my father on down to the chamber maid.”
They enjoyed in silence for a moment.
“What do you eat in your tenant cottage?” she asked, eventually.
He shrugged. “Toasted bread and cheese. Fruit from the orchards. Fish from the river.” He grinned. “Sometimes I am invited to a tenant’s or laborer’s home for dinner. Just like those old tea parties with my sister, the cook at Greystone always gives me a game pie or a pot of stew to take with me.”
“I’ll bet you get a lot of invitations, then,” she said with a laugh.
“More than in Town, for sure.”
He took another bite, savoring it. “It is a good way to stay connected with my people, keep track of their conditions, and be sure that they are fed well, at least for a day.”
Her expression turned solemn. “We are fortunate, all of us who know the comfort of good smells, a warm welcome and a full belly.”
“Very true.” The bloke who married her would know such comforts, and countless more. He wondered who the damned lucky sod would be.
He hated him already.
“Why was Bardham at your home?” he asked suddenly.
“He’s thick with Catherine and her brother. I cannot avoid him entirely.”
“If he bothers you, tell me immediately, and I’ll—” He’d beat the sodding arse to within an inch of his life. And he’d enjoy every minute of it.
“I think Lord Bardham understands the situation.”
“I hope you are right.”
Madame Hobert came to their table. “Everything is fine, yes?” She was middle aged, very French and still pretty.
“More than fine. Every bite was delicious.” Tensford reached for his purse.
“Non, non! Lady Hope and her friends are always welcome, and they do not pay here.” She waved him off with a smile.
He looked between the two of them, sure there was a story there.
Lady Hope merely raised her brows at the proprietress.
“Yes, yes.” Madame Hobert nodded toward the back. “The doors are unlocked. All is ready.”
“Will you come with me, my lord? I will explain.”
“Ah, the campaign continues?”
“It does.”
She led him to the back. Another woman worked in the kitchen. In one corner she had trays of small, rounded loaves laid out and she stood at the stove, stirring something that smelled wonderful. “Oyster stew today,” she told Lady Hope.
She sniffed appreciatively. “I’m sure it will be well received.” She led on, taking a narrow stair at the back to a sparse bedroom upstairs. A wide door on the far wall looked out of place, until Tensford realized it was a pass door that connected this building to the next.
They went through, to a room set up as a parlor, but with a cot in the corner. Lady Hope went to the window and adjusted the drapes, leaving an opening down the middle.
“Come and look,” she beckoned.
An alley lay below and the back door to the bakery kitchen. The half door had been left open at the top and steam and the smell of the stew drifted out.
“Now, stand back, please. Just a step or two. They will not come if they think they are being watched. Can you still see the back door?”
He nodded, mystified.
“Good. Stay there and watch. We’ll wait. Let me know if you see anyone down there.”
She settled into a nearby chair. “You’ve been scarce these last days, sir. Have you been on the hunt for Lady X?”
“I have.”
She stilled. “Did you find her?”
“Almost. I am very close.”
She pressed her lips together.
“You still disapprove.”
“I’ve been reading back over her sheets. I believe she overreacted to the stories that were going around about you and your family and I wondered why. To sell more papers? To create a scandal? Was she trying to say something to the ton without saying it directly?”
“And what did you conclude?”
“Nothing absolute, but I did see a hint of a pattern. She seems to react strongly to any idea of a woman in peril or a girl neglected, or one pushed into marriage by her family.”
It hit him like a bullet, the crux of what she was saying. “You think she reacted strongly to the stories of me neglecting or abusing the women in my family, because she is suffering a similar situation?”
She lifted a shoulder. “How can we know for sure? But I think it is a possibility.”
His mind began to churn out scenarios. Was Lady X writing
