‘No, I have no desire to be an hysterical female author,’ she said tightly, biting back all the other things she itched to say.
Ranting about male prejudice was not going to help matters. Hainford’s reading matter was probably confined to Parliamentary reports, the sporting papers, his investments and Greek and Latin classics.
That little stab of awareness, or attraction, or whatever it was, vanished. ‘When do you wish to set out?’
‘How long do you need?’ he countered. ‘Would six days give you enough time?’
‘That would be perfect. Thank you… Cousin Blake.’
He stood. ‘I will be in touch about the details, Cousin Eleanor.’
‘Ellie,’ she corrected, rising also.
‘I think not. Ellie is not right for the character you will be playing in this little drama. Eleanor is serious, a little mournful. You will drift wistfully about under your floating black veils, the victim of nameless sadness…’
So what is Ellie?
She did not dare ask—he would probably be happy to explain in unflattering detail.
‘Tell me, Cousin Blake, do you make a habit of reading Minerva Press novels or do you have a natural bent for the Gothic yourself?’
‘The latter, Cousin Eleanor. Definitely the latter. Dark closets, skeletons…’ There was no amusement in his eyes.
‘Will you not wait for tea?’ She rose, gestured towards the door.
‘I think not.’
He caught her hand in his and lifted it to his lips, his breath warm as he did not quite touch his mouth to her fingers, which were rigid in his light grip.
The door opened and Polly edged in, a tea tray balanced against one hip.
‘Lord Hainford is just leaving, Polly. Put the tray down and see him out, if you please.’
And leave me to recover from having my hand almost kissed and from the knowledge that I am about to spend several days in the company of such a very dangerous man.
She would be quite safe, she told herself. Polly would be with her, would sleep in her room every night, and an earl would stop at respectable inns—inns with locks on the bedchamber doors.
The problem was, he was not the danger—she was. Or rather her foolish imagination, which yearned for what, quite obviously, she could never have.
*
Ellie stood at the foot of the stairs and regarded the sum total of her personal belongings. One trunk with clothes and books, one hat box containing two hats, one valise with overnight necessities, one portable writing slope. And one umbrella. Nothing so frivolous as a parasol.
Polly had almost as much luggage.
Somewhere upstairs an auctioneer was going round with Mr Rampion, making an inventory and sorting the furniture into lots. The solicitor had managed to locate enough money and small items of value to discharge the debts and the legacies to old servants, which was a weight off her mind, but she would get no recompense from the sale for her losses.
The new baronet was inheriting nothing more than a title.
Polly was peering through one of the sidelights framing the door. ‘He is here, Miss Lytton. The Earl, I mean.’
‘I guessed that was who you meant,’ Ellie said wryly, and took a firm hold on the umbrella, feeling like a medieval knight arming himself for battle.
What did she know about this man? That he spent a great deal of money on his clothing and his boots, his horses and his entertainment. And most of the entertainment, she gathered, was hedonistic and self-indulgent but not, as a perusal of the gossip columns had told her, undisciplined.
Lord Hainford might enjoy gaming, racing…all matters of sport. He might be seen at every fashionable event and he might enjoy himself very well in other ways, as sly references to ‘Lord H’ and ‘renowned beauty Lady X’ being ‘seen together as we have come to expect’ betrayed, but there were never any reports of riotous parties, scandals at the opera or heavy gaming losses. He was not married, betrothed or linked to any respectable lady who might have expectations—which was interesting as he was now twenty-eight and had his inheritance to consider.
And when he smiled she thought there was something behind the amusement—as though he could not quite bring himself to surrender to it. Her imagination, no doubt…