The Mysterious Miss Flint (Lost Ladies of London 1)

“Let go of me, you … you buffoon.”

Despite having a thin frame, Mosgrove was taller and stronger than Baxter. With the door closed she had no hope of escaping.

The lecherous oaf pulled her to his chest and wrapped his arms around her waist. With her back to him, she could see out over the vast auditorium. The boxes opposite were mostly empty. Other than those where the occupants were too engrossed with each other to care what was happening elsewhere.

“Oliver!” she cried as loud as she could.

“Will you stop that!” Mosgrove slapped his clammy hand over her mouth. “Why must you fight me? Don’t you know I only want to make you happy? Come now, my dear. Calm yourself so we can be on our way.”

“Miss Flint!”

Lord Mosgrove’s hand covered her mouth so tightly she couldn’t fill her lungs sufficiently to think. Consequently, it took seconds for the sound of Oliver’s voice to penetrate the haze.

“Miss Flint. Where are you?”

Nicole mumbled against Mosgrove’s hand.

“Be quiet.”

She tried to bite him but to no avail. Then she remembered he suffered from gout in the joint below his toe. If only she’d worn sturdy boots instead of flimsy slippers. Still, with all the strength she could muster she brought her heel down on the blighter’s left foot.

“Ow!” He immediately relinquished his hold on her mouth and waist. “For all the blasted saints,” he cried in pain as he hopped up and down. “Why did you do that? When your brother hears of this lunacy, he’ll be livid. Mark my words.”

At that, the door to the private box burst open and Oliver stood there, filling the doorway. His frantic gaze settled on her. And then the devil rose up ready to relegate Mosgrove to the fiery pits of hell.

Oliver stepped inside and slammed the door. “You’d better have a bloody good reason for keeping the lady in this room.”

Mosgrove puffed out his scrawny chest. “I do not see what business it is of yours, Stanton.”

Either the man had the memory of a fish, or he was in complete denial.

“Don’t you? Then allow me to explain. The lady you are currently harassing is my betrothed. I believe I have every right to know what is going on.”

“You’re betrothed?” Mosgrove snorted. “How can that be when I have already made a down payment?”

The blood drained from Nicole’s face.

“A down payment?” The fine lines at the corners of Oliver’s eyes crinkled. “She’s not a horse at Tattersalls.”

Mosgrove shuffled towards her. “I paid her brother five thousand pounds for the privilege. And then she upped and disappeared, and I’ve not heard so much as a chirp from her since. We’ve been searching for months.”

Oliver turned his attention to her. “Is this true?”

The hard lump in her throat was pressing on her windpipe. “Yes. Lord Mosgrove had an arrangement with my brother though I had no say in the matter.”

“A written arrangement?”

Mosgrove made a puffing sound. “Written? No. A shake of the hand and the word of a gentleman was good enough for me.”

“And you were aware that the lady disapproved of the match?” Oliver cast her a sidelong glance. What was he thinking? He looked so serious and so damnably annoyed.

“Do ladies really know what they want?” came the ridiculous reply. “A host of pretty dresses and they’re content enough. She’ll come around to the idea.”

Oliver exhaled deeply. His blue eyes turned a cold silver-grey. “Then it is unfortunate for you, Lord Mosgrove, that I paid her brother eight thousand pounds for the pleasure of her hand.”

“What?” Mosgrove sucked in his cheeks. “But that’s not possible.”

“Oh, I can assure you it is.” Like a panther stalking its prey, the earl took a step closer. “Your gripe is with her brother. Now move aside and allow the lady to pass, else I shall knock your rotten teeth so far down your throat you’ll be chewing on your food for days after you’ve swallowed it.”