The Wicked Heir (Spare Heirs #3)(130)

A smile curved her lips at the thought of how annoyed he would be to see her again.





Nine


Dell wanted nothing more than to sleep. After getting the Chadwick woman and the elderly dowager countess out of his house, he transformed himself into Robert French, a young man who dressed like a dandy and thought himself an accomplished Casanova. Then he returned to Pendragon’s to see what he could learn. The brothel’s business was still in full swing though morning approached, but Dell managed to obtain a few minutes of the madam’s time.

Instinct warned him not to press the matter of the abducted Miss Chadwick too openly. He chose not to reveal who had hired Nightshade and gave the explanation that he was working on behalf of one of the gentlemen who had not managed the highest bid. He said the gentleman simply wished to know how to contact the girl once her duties were fulfilled with the man who had claimed her.

As expected, the madam was tight-lipped regarding the events that had occurred at her place earlier in the night. Though she could be persuaded to toss him bits of information on common enough things, anything that dealt specifically with her clients—especially one who belonged to the higher echelon of society—was irritatingly off limits.

Dell would have kept working on her if they hadn’t been interrupted by the delivery of a note, indicating someone else desired an audience with her. Apparently, the newcomer was far more important than the dandified and streetwise Robert French. The madam did not hesitate to bring their interview to an end with a generous smile and a sensual brush of her hand down Dell’s arm.

Since no one bothered to come and walk him out, Dell took the opportunity to duck into an unoccupied room near the stairs. He closed the door behind him, leaving a narrow crack through which to observe anyone who passed along the hallway where Pendragon conducted all of her more private business. He was rewarded by the sight of the madam passing by a few moments later to enter another room two doors down.

Dell was too far away to hear anything beyond the low murmur of voices. He remained silent and unmoving. Barely thirty minutes later, a dark-haired gentleman exited the same room. The man was not much older than Dell himself, but infinitely more affluent, as evidenced not only by the elegant cut of his coat, but also by his general bearing and manner.

There was nothing about the dark character to suggest he’d had anything to do with the events of the prior evening. There could have been any number of reasons unrelated to the Chadwick girl for the aristocratic gent to meet with the madam at the unusual morning hour, but Dell decided to follow him all the same.

Waiting a few minutes to ensure there was no other movement in the hall, he crept through the brothel and made it outside just as the dark-haired gentleman drove off. Dell quickly got to his own carriage and followed discreetly. As expected, the gentleman made his way to an elegant mansion in Mayfair.

Dell felt an instinctive urge to enter the house to see if the girl was there. But he had no evidence to connect this man to the kidnapping. It could have been coincidence that had the man at Pendragon’s this morning. Besides, infiltrating a gentleman’s home was not an easy task, and the consequences for being caught could be dire. He was not about to risk arrest on a bald hunch.

Still, he waited outside for a time to ensure no further movement before heading back to the East End with a plan to have his informants dig up what they could on the gentleman. A hunch may be all he had, but his hunches often led him in the right direction.

He was home for only a few short minutes—not even long enough to shed the guise of Robert French—before there was a sharp knock at the front door. Morley was still taking care of the carriage and horses so wasn’t available to answer.

With a growl at being disturbed so blasted early in the day after being up all night, Dell lumbered from his study where he had been organizing a plan for his next steps in the Chadwick abduction. He opened the door just as the caller was about to knock again.

The disturbing slate-gray gaze of the precocious Miss Chadwick widened with a start before she lowered her arm.

Dell’s immediate instinctive response was to slam the door shut. This woman triggered far too many distractions in his mind, as well as his body. She set him on edge, made him feel less in control.

He didn’t slam the door because his next thought was the realization that such a reaction would only pique her curiosity even more. He would need to employ another tactic to get rid of her.

Altering his voice to the smooth, unassuming, lilting tones of Robert French, Dell asked, “Can I help you, miss?”

She tilted her head beneath the wide fall of her cloak hood, and her striking eyes narrowed dangerously. He was suddenly intensely aware of his appearance. French’s look often drew interested gazes from bold young women. Women who understood his jaunty swagger and the overt sensuality in his movement and expression.

Dell felt Portia Chadwick’s gaze like a stream of concentrated interest shooting straight to the center of his chest.

Then she smiled.

His body instantly reacted.

What the hell?

Dell straightened his spine and tried to look down his—or rather French’s—nose at her. Not that he thought any kind of intimidation would work on the chit, but he needed some distraction from his unwelcome and wholly disturbing reaction.

“I believe you can,” she answered before she boldly strode across the threshold.