The Mysterious Miss Flint (Lost Ladies of London 1)

A little ruffled but still unperturbed by the threat, Mosgrove captured hold of her elbow, and she struggled to shake free of his grasp. “What sort of man would I be to relinquish my love at the mere threat of violence.”

“I do not make idle threats,” Oliver roared. He closed the gap between them, grabbed Mosgrove by the lapels of his coat and thrust him back over the viewing window. “Perhaps I should relegate you to the pit with the other miscreants where you belong.”

With nothing but Oliver’s strength stopping Mosgrove from falling back into the stalls below, he cried, “Wait! Wait!”

Arms flailing, Mosgrove tried to hold on to the gilt edge.

A scream echoed through the auditorium.

“Let him go, Oliver.” Nicole hovered at the earl’s side, too scared to touch him in case he lost his grip. “Come. We don’t have time to waste here. He’s not worth the time or the trouble.”

“Please. Please. I beg you.” Mosgrove whimpered like a schoolboy

cornered by the class bully. “Put me down.”

“I cannot abide a man who enjoys exerting control over women.” Oliver pulled him back to safety, released the lord’s coat and brushed his hands clean to show his disdain. “Lay one grubby finger on Miss Flint again, and I shall stalk you through the ballrooms, waiting for an opportunity to pounce.”

The words were chilling but were not the reason for the shiver running down Nicole’s spine.

“Miss Flint?” Lord Mosgrove sounded confused.

Damn it all. She would explain the nature of her deception later once back at Stanton House.

“Stop playing games, Lord Mosgrove.” Nicole moved to Oliver’s side and slipped her hand into the crook of his arm. “I’m to marry Lord Stanton. There is nothing you can do.” With luck, she’d be far away from the city before Mosgrove, or her brother discovered it was all a lie.

The tinkle of glass and the creak of pulleys in the auditorium drew their attention. The giant chandelier in the centre of the ceiling quivered as it was lowered down on ropes.

“It’s late.” Oliver turned and opened the door. “They’re set to extinguish the candles. And so we must be on our way. I suggest you leave too, Mosgrove, lest you stumble in the dark and do yourself an injury.”

“This is not the end of the matter.” Mosgrove’s threat hung in the air. “Let us see what your brother has to say.”

A crippling sense of foreboding surfaced as Nicole imagined Jeremy’s face twisted with the need for revenge. Indeed, the vision was still with her as they descended the stairs to go in search of the maid.

It would be with her until the day she finally faced her wicked sibling.

Chapter Fifteen

The foyer of the Haymarket was empty except for a few stragglers. Oliver tried to access the door leading to the dressing rooms, but the steward who gave permission for members of the public to enter, and who took bribes from those not on the list, was nowhere in sight.

“Mosgrove has a lot to answer for.” Oliver could think of nothing but punching the lord’s sunken eyes even further into his head. “Come, we’ll have no choice but to wait outside.”

With a firm grip of Nicole’s hand, they exited the theatre and hurried across the street to the George Tavern. The entrance to the alehouse afforded a view of the unmarked door to the far right of the Haymarket. Drunken patrons hovered on the pavement, their loud and garish behaviour made it a perfect place to blend in and keep watch. A perfect place to avoid Lord Mosgrove should he take it upon himself to follow them.

Nicole looked up at him. “Do you think we’ll find Miss Brooke’s maid?”

“There is every chance we’ve missed her.”

Blood still flowed through his veins like hot, molten lava. Though he did not need spectacles, the imposing building before them seemed much further away. His heartbeat pounded in his ears. He should have beaten Mosgrove to a pulp for laying his filthy hands on Nicole.

“Are you angry?” Her hard stare fixed on his face.

Anger was a mild emotion compared to the rage burning inside.

The feeling had nothing to do with missing the maid. If there was one thing he hated, it was the sight of fear in a woman’s eyes. He’d witnessed his mother’s pallid face and frozen expression so many times the sight still haunted him. After one glance at Nicole’s deathly pallor, he’d happily hang in his quest for retribution.

“Yes, I’m angry.” He turned his attention to the brown painted door opposite, but his mind insisted on conjuring images of Mosgrove assaulting Nicole in his private box.

“I should have told you about Lord Mosgrove. But I hoped never to lay eyes on him again.”