The Gentleman Who Loved Me (Heart of Enquiry Book 6)(55)
She looked so disgruntled that he had to stifle a smile.
“Give them a chance to adjust to the change,” he said solemnly. “Act with maturity, and they will see you in a different light.”
Her gaze narrowed at him. “Are you saying I haven’t been acting with maturity?”
He kept his expression bland.
She sighed. “I suppose you’re right. Eloping with Daltry, avoiding Mama, and sneaking out of Polly’s house aren’t exactly the hallmarks of mature behavior, are they?” she said with wry candor. “It’s high time I faced my problems rather than run from them.”
Her insight surprised him—and yet didn’t. Primrose was one of the cleverest, bravest, and most honest people he knew. When she let her defenses down, she was, in a word, breathtaking.
“You amaze me,” he said.
Her smile was tremulous. “The feeling is mutual.”
The carriage slowed; they’d arrived at the Revelstoke residence.
“I’m sorry the night has to end,” she said, fiddling with a fold of his greatcoat.
“We’ll have many more nights ahead, sunshine.” He stole one last kiss. “Let’s get you back inside before someone notices.”
He opened the carriage door, vaulting down lightly. The moon slipped in and out of clouds, casting a ghostly light on the street lined with mansions. London was never quiet, but here in Mayfair the sounds were filtered by majestic trees and the intangible aura of wealth. Reaching up, he swung Primrose gently to the ground. He escorted her to the front door, and as he waited for her to dig the key out of her reticule, the staccato of hooves caught his attention.
He turned, glimpsed a dark figure approaching on horseback. The moon emerged, its cold light falling on the rider’s scarf-covered face, glinting off the metal in his outstretched hand.
Andrew leapt forward, tackling Primrose.
A deafening blast drowned out her surprised cry. Pain seared his arm as they hit the ground. Covering her body with his own, he shouted at his groom Jem, who jumped off the driver’s seat, firing shots after the vanishing rider.
Andrew rose, pulling Primrose up with him.
“Are you all right?” he demanded roughly.
“I—I think so.” She pushed a curl out of her eyes. “Did someone shoot at us?”
“Yes.” Seeing light beginning to flicker in surrounding windows, he issued terse commands to Jem to stand guard and hauled her toward the door.
“Goodness, your arm is bleeding! You’ve been shot,” she gasped. “Did one of your enemies do this?”
He flashed back to the angle of the gun, the deadly aim.
A chill seized his gut, and he said grimly, “No—one of yours.”
Chapter Twenty-Three
Two days later, Rosie perched on a chair on the premises of Kent and Associates. She’d always loved visiting her father’s office located near Soho Square. Sandwiched between a bakery and a pianoforte maker’s shop, the building had been remodeled due to a fire a few years back, and the understated elegance of the present suite with its oak paneling, studded leather seats, and stone fireplace suited her papa perfectly.
At present, no discordant sounds came from the piano maker’s, but the tantalizing scent of fresh gingerbread wafted from the bakery. While the moist, spicy-sweet treat had been her favorite as a girl, as an adult her ubiquitous slimming plan curtailed such indulgences. At the moment, however, she would have given her eyeteeth for a slice. Knowing what was to take place this morning, she’d been too nervous to take more than a cup of tea at breakfast.
Next to her, Polly murmured, “You’re fidgeting worse than Violet.”
Botheration. Rosie stilled her tapping slipper. She slid a glance at Mama, who sat in a chair by Papa’s desk, embroidering a handkerchief. This was not a good sign: Mama only did needlework when she was upset and needed distraction. As Rosie watched, her mother put in precise pink stitches that formed Sophie’s initials, a complex garland surrounding them.
Since the attack, Mama had sewn a dozen of these handkerchiefs.
She’d also had been glued to Rosie, the present danger dissipating the tension between them. For Rosie, reconciliation was a relief. While she didn’t like that the other had kept the truth from her, she understood why. And she loved her mother too much to sustain the separation.
She’d decided to bury the hatchet—and the whole business of Coyner along with it. Nothing had happened, so what was the point in excavating such ugliness? Dwelling upon the horrid business would only lead to further friction with her mother.
No, she decided, she would not think about the matter ever again.
Anyway, she had more important things to contend with: Andrew would be arriving shortly.
Immediately after the attack, he’d apprised Polly and Revelstoke of the truth. Calm as could be, he’d told them that he’d been escorting Rosie home when they’d been shot at. He hadn’t said what they’d been doing together (thank goodness!), but he also made no effort to hide the fact that, whatever it was, they’d been doing it alone and in the middle of the night.
Luckily for Rosie, Polly and Revelstoke had been more concerned about the attack on her life than her less than proper behavior. If they didn’t ask, there was no way she was going to tell. Besides, being a widow, she had new freedoms, so perhaps she could just brazen the whole thing out.