The Mysterious Miss Flint (Lost Ladies of London 1)

The chime of the mantel clock served as a reminder that his guest would soon wake. Despite turning his attention to the accounts, the numbers were still hazy, and he read the same line over and over again.

He imagined Nicole waking, wondering where he’d gone. She would question all that had happened between them — just as he had done. She would jump to the conclusion that he’d taken what he wanted and had no thought of her welfare now.

Bloody hell!

He pushed out of the chair and was about to march around the desk when a knock at the door gave him pause.

Bradbury entered. “A gentleman is asking to see you, my lord. He is most insistent.” Bradbury stepped forward and offered the salver.

Oliver considered the name on the card — Mr J. Asprey.

Asprey?

He could not recall meeting the gentleman, though the family were well known about the ton.

“Did he give you any indication as to what he wants?”

“Only that it is a matter of protecting a lady’s reputation.”

“Good God, do you think he’s heard from Rose?” Oliver raced around the desk. His mouth was so dry he could barely form a word. “S-send him in, Bradbury. Send him in at once.”

The butler plodded out of the door, and Oliver contemplated prodding his behind with the tip of a quill knife to hurry him along.

Question after question flooded his mind. Where had his sister been these last few days? Was she hurt, ill? Was there any need for Nicole to return to the manor now Rose was safe?

Bradbury returned and introduced Mr Asprey.

“Thank you for agreeing to see me, my lord.” Asprey inclined his head respectfully.

“I understand it is a matter of great importance.” It was hard to look the man in the eye when the pointed collars of his shirt touched his cheeks.

Asprey clutched his leather gloves in his hand. “After what I discovered last night, it is a matter of some urgency.”

Oliver looked at Bradbury, and with a curt nod gestured to the gloves. His butler had never committed such an oversight before.

Bradbury stepped forward. “May I take your gloves, sir?”

Asprey shot Bradbury an irritated glare. “As I’ve already said, I shall keep them with me.”

In his eagerness to learn the reason for Asprey’s visit, Oliver almost made the mistake of asking about Rose. The situation needed tact and diplomacy.

“Have we met before?” Oliver was merely being polite. He knew the answer as he never forgot a face.

“I do not believe so, though your father was acquainted with my grandfather, Geoffrey Asprey, the then fifth Viscount Farlow.”

Oliver vaguely recalled the connection. “I believe my father was friends with his younger brother, Edmund.”

Oliver couldn’t help but stare at Asprey’s mouth as he spoke. Were his lips really berry red, or was it a tint? Asprey possessed the same foppish air as Lord Cunningham.

A strange sense of foreboding gripped him. Rose seemed to prefer a certain type of gentleman. Both men were weak and obsessed with their own worth.

“Would you care to sit?” Oliver gestured to the chairs flanking the hearth. “I can arrange for tea, as it is a little early in the day for brandy.”

“This is not a social call,” the man replied bluntly, slapping the leather gloves into the palm of his free hand purely to intimidate.

Then what the hell was it?

“My butler mumbled something about the need to protect a lady’s reputation.” Oliver kept calm. This dandy would be begging for his life if he’d taken advantage of Rose.