“Lady Alice is here,” she pointed out, irrelevantly.
“Everyone who is anyone is apparently here. That is the point of places like this—to see and be seen. I’ve told the clerk you are my sister. I think I should send a dressmaker over. If you are to appear as my sister—or a countess—you need something better than that rag.”
She opened her straw tote and shook out a rumpled cotton gown of demure green and gold print. “I’ll ask the maid to have this pressed. With a bustle and underskirt, it will look respectable.”
“One of Lowell’s choices? Then it might work. I’ll have someone collect it. You’re safe here. Can you not buzz about for a few hours, until I return?” If she wasn’t here when he got back—Gerard wouldn’t let her see his fear, but she probably sensed it.
“If the reward exists, you’ll have it,” she assured him.
She’d read his fear wrong, but nodding as if he were reassured, he walked out, waiting until he heard the key turn before trotting downstairs.
Leaving his messages at the desk—it was amazing what one could command with a few coins and a title—Gerard hurried on to the tavern.
“Word is that you’ve brought in one of your sisters,” Rainford said the instant Gerard pulled up a chair. “I’ve met your sisters. There is no way they would have arrived without a parade of baggage, children, servants, and a twelve-piece band. I assume our heiress is now in residence.”
“Damn, I hate this town. Give me London any day.” Gerard took the drink the waitress instantly brought over. “Tell me we can set up a meeting tomorrow and claim the reward.”
“The money is there,” Rainford agreed. “Mortimer is increasingly desperate. Word is that Mr. White is no longer inclined to believe the twins exist.”
“The reward is not tied to marriage settlements?” Gerard verified. He really wanted to throttle Mortimer before presenting Iona, but that was his newly discovered savage beast speaking.
“Not as far as I can ascertain. Mortimer may insist that the ladies be handed into his care, but I’m fairly certain we can provide sufficient objection. That still does not mean the twins are safe to go home.”
“No, we need to remove Mortimer from the picture. To that end, how did Drummond fare at the card table last night?” Gerard forced himself to sip his drink until his lunch arrived. Iona was safe. He needed to keep his distance—and his head.
“Mortimer is a drunk and plays like one. White appears tired of bailing him out. Tempers are running short. I don’t think it would be difficult to force Mortimer to sign the twins away. Enforcing the agreement, of course, is a different matter. You may need the reward money to pour him on a ship leaving for Australia.”
“There’s one in port now, sailing in a few days for the Far East,” Gerard offered. “We think alike.”
“Ho! Leave him with the Chinese where he can’t speak a word. Even better. So how do you wish to work it?” Rainford sat back, calmly sipping his whisky as his lunch was set before him.
“We’ll have to prove we have at least one twin and hold the meeting in a solicitor’s office tomorrow.” Gerard had planned this carefully, but he waved his fork about as if he were thinking aloud. “Perhaps play a card game with them tonight to convince White we’re the genuine article. Give them a little hope and pry Mortimer off the girls’ back for a day or so.”
“Take the money and run?” Rainford suggested.
Gerard scowled at his facetiousness. “Take the reward money, then offer a chance to win it back.”
The studious marquess beamed. “Put Mortimer deep in the hole, and force him to sign the agreement to leave the twins and their property alone.”
“Then get him drunk and carry him to port,” Gerard finished, knowing it would never be easy. But at least it was a plan.
“Leave White to court the lady?”
“That,” Gerard said gloomily, “is the fly in our ointment. He must have some plan to force her hand. And she’s not a countess yet. The title is still in abeyance. We can’t predict how either of them will react.”
Rainford bit into his beef as if it were nails instead of tenderloin. Gerard knew how he felt—only worse.
At the knock on the door, Iona fretted over letting anyone in. Had the maid already pressed her gown? She didn’t know what to expect of a luxurious hotel like this one. Even the soap in the washbasin smelled of lovely herbs.
“I have your gown, my lady,” a female voice said from the hall.
Iona grasped her walking stick and a hatpin. The attack today had shaken her. She’d known Mortimer was capable of it, but she had thought they’d been so careful—
Easing open the door a crack, she glimpsed a dour matron holding the secondhand gown, followed by a bevy of young women carrying measuring tapes and baskets of trimming and fabric—seamstresses?
“His lordship said you’d be needing a wardrobe to fit this size.” The stout matron shoved in, holding up the gown Iona had sent for pressing. The stranger gestured for her army to take their places around the room. “We can fit you up with a few ready-mades. You’re a small size, so we can take down several. Anything fancy will be longer.”
She threw the cotton print over the bed and studied Iona with expert eye. “Let’s get you out of that rag. Travel is dreadful these days, losing a lady’s luggage like that.”
Not knowing whether to be thrilled or angry at the earl’s tale-telling and presumption, Iona let the plain-spoken seamstress bully her into a fitting. Was this how a lord made a woman into a mistress? Sweet kisses, a secret hideaway, unexpected gifts?
That kiss in the carriage—she’d been too caught up in the pleasure to read his reaction. Or perhaps his scent of desire had blocked all else. But bringing her to a hotel room and providing her with a wardrobe. . .
She didn’t
