The Gentleman Who Loved Me (Heart of Enquiry Book 6)(62)
“But—”
“Terms ’o the treaty are clear. The aggressor in any unwarranted conflict will answer to me.”
Black’s warning was unmistakable.
Todd gritted his teeth, remaining silent.
“As for you, Corbett,”—Black transferred a gimlet-eyed stare to him—“if I smell a whiff o’ wrongdoing from that Nursery o’ yours, it will be razed to the ground before you can blink twice. And you know from experience the fire of my wrath.”
Even after all these years, the memory of the inferno that had been Kitty’s club burned in Andrew’s head.
“There will be no wrongdoing, sir,” he said.
“Then we’re done with business.” Black’s majestic nod ended the conversation. “Finish your coffee. Nightingale’s makes the best in London.”
Todd stood abruptly. “I ’ave matters that require my attention.”
“You do indeed. You keeping an eye on that granddaughter o’ mine?” Black demanded. “What’s this I ’ear ’bout Tessie skipping lessons and carrying on like a hoyden?”
Todd looked annoyed. “I’m a busy man. I leave the domestic affairs to my wife.”
“Well, your wife is my daughter, and we both know she ain’t got the wherewithal to ’andle Tessie. So you’d best do your part, or you’ll answer to me.”
With a sullen jerk of the head, Todd departed through the curtain.
“God Almighty,” Black muttered, “what kind o’ man don’t look after ’is own blood?”
Andrew wondered if he was expected to respond. He drank coffee instead.
“Tessie may not be my flesh and blood, but she might as well be. Girl takes after me. Got looks, brains, and deserves nothing but the best.” Black pounded a fist to the table, making the cups jump in their saucers. “You understand, Corbett?”
“Er, yes. Of course.”
“My Tessie’s a fine lady.” Black jabbed a finger at the framed paintings that lined the alcove walls. “Accomplished, ain’t she?”
Andrew took in the cheerfully terrible watercolors. “She has… a unique talent.”
“Exactly.” Black sat back, slurped his coffee, fingers drumming on the table. After a moment, he declared, “I like you, Corbett. More so since you finally cut ties with that blowsy bitch, Kitty Barnes. So this is why I’ll spare you a word o’ advice.”
A chill permeated Andrew’s gut. He shouldn’t have been surprised that Black knew about his personal affairs; the other had an eye on most everything. His trepidation wasn’t over Kitty but Primrose. Did the King know about her?
“What advice?” he said warily.
“You’re a decent cove and rare man o’ principle. That said, every man’s got a weakness.” Black’s gaze held a shrewd glint. “Beware o’ females, Corbett—they’re yours.”
Chapter Twenty-Six
“Do you think this gown is too much, Odette?” Rosie asked.
She was examining herself in the gilt-framed mirror on the wall of her new sitting room. She’d moved into the house on Curzon Street two days ago, and Andrew would be arriving shortly for a cozy midnight supper. In the reflection, her eyes sparkled with anticipation. She hadn’t been alone with him since the shooting, and she couldn’t wait to see him again.
Behind her, Odette paused in the act of arranging the flowers on the intimate table set for two. Rosie had been torn about whether to keep the maid on; she didn’t like the fact that Odette had betrayed her trust by being a spy for Andrew. The maid was exceptional at her job, however… and an absolute genius with hair. Moreover, Odette had apologized, and Rosie couldn’t stay angry at the other for helping Andrew to keep her safe.
Now the Frenchwoman inspected Rosie with the precision of a sergeant-at-arms scrutinizing a cadet. “Your ensemble—c’est parfait, my lady,” was her verdict.
For tonight’s special occasion, Odette had taken extra care with Rosie’s toilette. Rosie wore a gown of violet taffeta so dark that it was nearly black, and it bared her shoulders, displaying the merest hint of her bosom. The bodice fit her torso like a second skin, ending in a point that was echoed in the cuffs of the full sleeves. The skirts were overlaid with black silk netting which caught the light and gleamed with her movements.
Odette had fashioned her hair into an Apollo’s knot, violet ribbons woven into the complicated braids. Ringlets were left to frame Rosie’s face. She’d kept her jewelry to a minimum: a cameo on a black ribbon nestled at the base of her throat.
She wanted to be beautiful for Andrew and hoped he would find her so.
Too restless to remain still, she went over to the table, inspecting the silver domed dishes on the cart beside it. “Do you think Mr. Corbett will like the menu?”
“Mais oui, my lady,” the maid replied. “Cook has selected all of Mr. Corbett’s favorites.”
“And Cook would know his preferences,” Rosie said dryly.
Cook—and the rest of Rosie’s household staff—had been sent over the day before by Andrew. As the accompanying note had indicated, each of the servants had been personally vetted by him, having either worked in one of his clubs or private residences. If Rosie had found his actions a tad high-handed, his closing lines had dispersed her irritation like dandelion fluff in the wind.