He wondered whether she was thinking of him. Thinking of Mr. Thorne, the dangerous, wicked Mr. Thorne. If she knew the truth…would she be interested then?
“Mr. Thorne.” The soft, French-accented voice brought him out of his musings. Aphrodite, in a cloud of sweet perfume, was standing at his side.
“Madame.” He bowed over her fingers, heavy with rings. “I have news.”
Her hand trembled, but her beautiful face gave nothing away. “Very well. If you will wait for me in my sitting room, I will join you as soon as I am able. Dobson!” A straight-backed man in a red military-style uniform, with the battered-looking face of a pugilist, approached them. “Show Mr. Thorne into my private sitting room, Dobson,” she said, and then leaned close, resting her hand on his shoulder to murmur something in his ear. Dobson nodded and proceeded to lead the way from the salon into the quieter, private areas of the house.
“Madame won’t be long,” Dobson said, showing him into the sitting room. His gray gaze swept Sebastian, assessing him, and Sebastian wondered if this was the spy who had given information to Aphrodite’s enemies. Dobson didn’t look like a spy, but then Sebastian had learned that in life nothing was as it seemed.
With the door closed, the gaiety was muted. The sitting room was furnished very differently, too, from the flamboyant air of the public areas of the club. The colors here were soft and restful, and there were some beautifully rendered miniatures arranged on a small table. Sebastian inspected them and recognized Aphrodite’s three daughters. Vivianna, Lady Montegomery, was the eldest, a striking woman with chestnut hair and hazel eyes. Marietta, Lady Roseby, was more conventionally pretty, with fair hair and blue eyes and an angelic smile. And then there was Francesca, resembling her mother to a striking degree with her dark hair and eyes. But there was something elusive in her smile, as if she were here under protest.
Sebastian knew she expected never to see him again, but that was her misconception. He’d promised to leave Yorkshire the morning following the fire, and so he had. How would he arrange their next meeting? A chance encounter? A surprise visit? Or should he simply climb through her window at midnight? It might be worth it, just to see the expression on her face…
The door opening startled him, and he turned, Francesca’s likeness still in his hand. Maeve smiled as if she was genuinely pleased to see him.
“Mr. Thorne, Mr. Dobson said you were here. I came to ask you if you’d like something to drink. Champagne, coffee, tea?”
“Thank you, no.”
“I’m Maeve,” she babbled on, strangely nervous.
“I remember you, Maeve,” he said, and waited.
Maeve gave him another smile, as well as a searching glance from under her lashes that took in the miniature in his hand. “Well, then, if there’s nothing I can do, Mr. Thorne…?”
“There’s nothin
g more, thank you, Maeve. Perhaps another time…?”
She smiled, and the door closed softly behind her.
Sebastian stared after her, thinking. Had the invitation really been there? Was Maeve willing to lie with him, and was it because she was attracted to him, or because she wanted to know what he was up to? Was Maeve, with her penchant for listening at doors, his spy?
When Aphrodite joined him, and before she could begin to speak, he put his finger to his lips and went to the door, opening it to check that the entrance hall was empty this time. When he turned back, Aphrodite was watching him with a crease between her arched brows. “You do not trust my staff?” she queried, and she wasn’t pleased.
Sebastian, who had been considering telling her of his doubts concerning Maeve, changed his mind. He’d just have to think of another way of keeping a watch on the Irishwoman. “Habit,” he reassured her with a smile.
“Mr. Thorne, I promise you we cannot be overheard in here. Now, please, tell me what it is you learned in Yorkshire?”
There was no easy way to break the news. “Mrs. Slater is alive.”
Her face lost all color. “You spoke to her?”
“No. Not yet. She’s here, in London.”
“Do you know…?”
“I’ve yet to discover her whereabouts, but never fear, I will.”
She stood, frozen, staring beyond him into the past. “I knew she was alive. I felt it. Here,” and she pressed her closed fist to her breast, above her heart.
“I will find her, Madame.”
“Yes, you will,” she said grimly. “And when you do, she must be made to name the one who planned the kidnapping of my children. I must hear that name, Mr. Thorne.”
Gazing into the courtesan’s face he could see Francesca—her determination, her spirit, and her passion—and for a moment he was mesmerized. But Aphrodite wasn’t finished.
“I fear for my daughters, Mr. Thorne. I fear particularly for Francesca…because of her—her father.” She struggled with the words.