hten her away. But whatever his intention, she was beaten. This time. Although, if Montegomery thought this was the last of the matter, then he was a fool as well as a rake. Except that he wasn’t a fool. She had learned that much.
“What is your address?” he said now. “And do not lie—I will be able to tell if you are not honest with me.”
“Queen’s Square, Bloomsbury,” she replied sullenly, not looking at him.
“Very good,” he declared, as if he were a tutor giving her a lesson. “Now, one last thing…”
She looked up at the pause. He was holding out his hand steadily toward her. An ebony and silver ring winked on his little finger. “The door key, Miss Greentree, if you please. I have a feeling you have it hidden about your person somewhere.
What would he do if she were to withhold it? But once again he seemed to read her thoughts and that smile touched his mouth—oh yes, he would relish the opportunity to wrestle with her for possession! Vivianna fumbled in her pocket and all but threw the key at him. He caught it, gave her a brief bow, and strolled to the door. Vivianna stood, outraged, as the key turned in the lock and the door opened and closed behind him.
She was alone.
Had he bested her? Had she squandered her chance? Perhaps she should have waited until the morning, presented herself properly, spoken to him with cool and calm logic….
It would have made no difference.
Oliver Montegomery was a rake, the type of man who cared little for others and everything for himself. He would not have answered her any differently, no matter how prettily she wrapped up the facts for him.
And yet he must. Somehow, she must ensure that he did.
Behind her the door opened again. There was a rustle of stiff skirts and a strong, sweet perfume. Vivianna turned sharply and found herself being surveyed by a dark intelligent gaze in the face of an elegant woman. It was the same woman she remembered seeing out in the other room with the beaded black gown and diamonds about her throat. She was older than the other “ladies,” but still beautiful, the lines upon her face giving it interest despite her air of aloofness. It was a face that had laughed and lived, but it was a face that had also suffered.
“You should not be here,” the woman said in a rich, educated voice with a light French accent.
“So I have already been told,” Vivianna replied, ignoring Montegomery, who had also reentered the room.
A flash of something lit the woman’s large, dark eyes—amusement, perhaps—before she became serious once more.
“This is no place for a respectable young lady, and I can see that that is what you are, Miss…?”
“Greentree,” Vivianna supplied, darting a fulminating look at the “gentleman.” He had moved to a table with a decanter and was pouring himself a glass of brandy.
“Miss Greentree,” he added with emphasis, “is a founder of the Shelter for Poor Orphans.”
Vivianna felt the woman’s stare upon her. There was something almost familiar in it, and yet she was certain she had never met her before. Then the woman gave a sophisticated, very French shrug. “I do not understand.”
Vivianna threw off her own momentary inertia and took charge. “I do not know your name.”
Another smile. “I am called Madame, Miss Greentree. That will do for now.”
“Very well, ‘Madame.’ I have traveled from Yorkshire to speak with Lord Montegomery. I am, as he has said, a founder of the Shelter for Poor Orphans. The Shelter is presently housed at Candlewood, a house which belongs to Lord Montegomery and is leased to us. We were told the lease would be indefinite and the house would be available to purchase, but now it appears that Lord Montegomery wishes to demolish the house and…” She took a breath. “I wanted to ask him not to. But I fear he isn’t a man who thinks much of anything but himself.”
Madame gave a brittle little laugh. “But all gentlemen are so, Miss Greentree. Oliver is neither better nor worse than the rest of his kind.”
Vivianna felt her tension ease. She glanced sideways at Oliver, to see how he was reacting to his hostess’s summation of his character. He was standing against the darkness of the windows, looking elegant and yet with that air of danger and aloneness she had felt surrounded him from the first. He had narrowed his eyes at them over his brandy.
“You think so?” he asked in deceptively soft tones. “I could have ruined her, Madame. I could have forced her, although she seemed to be enjoying herself so much I don’t think it would have been force. But I was a perfect gentleman. Don’t I deserve some credit for that?”
Outrage had stolen Vivianna’s voice, but Madame answered for her. “Of course you do, Oliver,” she soothed him. “You are not quite as despicable as you pretend to be—I do know that, mon chéri.”
He returned her smile, as if he couldn’t help himself. “I am whatever you want me to be, Madame,” he replied with smooth good manners.
Madame laughed again, and then she wrapped fingers heavy with rings about Vivianna’s arm. “Come, Miss Greentree. I will make certain you reach your cab safely. You were fortunate tonight, as Oliver has reminded us. Please, do not risk yourself again.”
Briefly, Vivianna thought of refusing, but there was no point. Lord Montegomery had won this round. But Vivianna would never give up—the orphans were relying upon her—and once she had set her mind upon winning, she did not do it by half measures.
“Goodbye, Miss Greentree. Do not forget your whip.” Oliver had raised his glass to her. Mocking her, daring her. Gloating. The last thing she saw as the door closed on them were his dark eyes and his victorious smile.