The Mysterious Miss Flint (Lost Ladies of London 1)

“Oliver. Call me Oliver.” His hand came to rest on her hip and moved seductively back and forth.

“No. I meant we should retire to our own rooms.” The sudden look of disappointment on his face tore at her heart. “I cannot do this knowing Rose is out there somewhere. It’s not right.”

It was a pathetic excuse. Had he whispered an endearment, given any assurance that this meant more than the need to satisfy a physical hunger, she would have given herself to him completely.

“What more can we do to find her?” Frustration burst forth. “Peters is out there now, combing the area, making enquiries.”

“There is only one thing we can do.” The answer got stuck in her throat. Drawing in a deep breath, she stepped away until she reached the door. “Once we have dealt with your father’s solicitor and I own the deeds, I must return to Morton Manor.”

Chapter Ten

They arrived at the solicitors’ office at ten. While Miss Flint wore the same old dress, a maid had styled her hair and given her a straw bonnet that fastened with a blue ribbon.

Oliver couldn’t help but stare at her.

Not that this new accessory proved unflattering. On the contrary, she was one of those lucky women whose radiance shone through, regardless. It was more that a woman of her beauty and intelligence needed something striking, something inventive to convey the true originality of her character.

“Either you disapprove of the bonnet,” she said with a smirk, “or the wind has changed direction and now you’re stuck with that odd scowl.”

Oliver smiled. “No, ‘tis not the wind. But simply that I imagine you wearing something bolder. Perhaps in sapphire-blue silk rather than straw, with an ostrich feather draped rakishly across the front.”

“So you are an expert in ladies fashions, too.”

“More an interested observer of what would suit you, Miss Flint.”

“I’m surprised that a man with your responsibilities has time to think of hats.”

It had nothing to do with a passion for millinery. “Where you’re concerned, I find it necessary to make time.”

Indeed, she entered his thoughts far too frequently. At breakfast, he’d watched with fascination as she devoured a piece of toast rather than nibble the corners as ladies were wont to do. He liked the way her hair was a little unruly despite the maid’s effort to tame the vibrant locks.

He liked everything about her.

Then again, he was in the grip of a mild obsession, and so it was to be expected. That was undoubtedly why his body flamed as soon as he took hold of her hand and assist

ed her from the carriage.

Oliver pushed the swollen wooden door of the solicitors’ office. The jingle of the overhead bell brought the clerk scurrying out of a room located to their left.

“My lord. Welcome. Welcome. May I congratulate you on a successful trip to Morton Manor.” Mr Andrews fiddled with his fingers as he spoke, which was perhaps part of the reason the words burst from his mouth far too quickly. “How fortunate that you remembered Mr Benting was an alias used by your father. Else you might never have solved the puzzle.”

To what was the clerk referring?

Was it his success in finding the heir to the manor? How did Andrews know the lady at Oliver’s side was Miss Flint? He had not yet made the introductions.

“Is Mr Wild able to spare a moment of his time?” Perhaps Rose had heard of their father’s death and come straight to the office. Oliver shook the thought away. Had that been the case, she would have returned to Stanton House.

“Mr Wild is ill, my lord. A terrible sickness came upon him, and he’s taken to his bed. His morning tea spurted out of his mouth like water from a fountain.” The clerk glanced left and right and bent his head. “Mr Wild asked that you not tell Mr Jameson how you discovered the Benting file. He asked that you say you found the papers inside your father’s desk and let that be the end of the matter.”

Oliver inclined his head. While Mr Wild had been helpful, it was only through Mr Andrews’ foresight that they found the necessary information.

“Of course. I would not want Mr Jameson to learn of your involvement.”

“And you have my hearty thanks, my lord. I don’t mind telling you that Mr Jameson has been like a rabid dog this morning, snarling and growling at the slightest thing.”

“Then Mr Jameson has returned from his trip?” Relief should have been the only emotion to surface, yet disappointment crushed Oliver’s chest in a vice-like grip. Once Miss Flint received her inheritance, there would be no need for her to remain in Town.

“Yes.” Mr Andrews appeared confused. “He returned last night and is with a client as we speak. But surely you knew that.”