‘Excuse me. I think you have dropped this?’ Luc stooped and straightened with a man’s large linen handkerchief in his hand. He made a polite bow in her direction, but his eyes passed over her with no sign of recognition and his enquiring gaze fixed on Bradon.
‘What? No, not mine. Obliged, sir.’
‘Not at all. Lord Bradon, is it not?’
‘Yes.’ Bradon pokered up, whether because he objected to being addressed by a stranger or because he was suspicious of anyone in naval uniform after this morning’s revelations, she could not tell.
‘Forgive me, but someone pointed you out to me the other day as a considerable connoisseur of porcelain.’ Under her palm Averil felt Bradon relax. It was a miracle that he could not feel her own pounding pulse.
‘You are interested?’
‘As a mere amateur. I was able to pick up some interesting Copenhagen items when I was in that area recently.’
‘Indeed? I do not believe we have been introduced.’ Bradon’s manner became almost cordial.
‘Captain le comte Luc d’Aunay.’
Averil managed to breathe. Bradon would not suspect a count of involvement with an undercover operation and, thanks to the remark about Copenhagen, he now had a mental image of Luc being posted somewhere in the North Sea. And Luc was very properly not acknowledging a lady to whom he had not been introduced and not, as she had feared, doing anything to make Bradon suspicious. Perhaps this was a coincidental meeting. Had he recovered from that morning’s madness?
‘ … interesting dealer off the Strand,’ Bradon was saying as she pulled herself together to listen to the two men. ‘Feel free to mention my name.’
‘Thank you, I will certainly do that. Good day.’ Luc raised his hat, his gaze focused on Averil for the first time. His expression was perfectly bland with just the hint of a query.
Her escort seemed to remember her presence. ‘Er, Miss Heydon, from India.’
‘Ma’am. India? I thought I had not had the pleasure of seeing you in town before.’ The bow was perfectly judged: polite and indifferent with just the hint of masculine appreciation that would be expected.
‘Captain.’ She inclined her head. ‘Lord Bradon’s family has kindly asked me to stay with them for a month.’
‘I will not delay your sightseeing any longer. Thank you for the recommendation, Bradon.’
As Bradon turned to hail their carriage Averil glanced back, but Luc was gone, swallowed up by the crowds. What had he been doing there? Surely not following her? He had work to do at the Admiralty, she was certain; it would do his career no good if he neglected that in order to dog her footsteps in the hope she would throw her bonnet over the windmill and decide to become his mistress!
‘We will return to Bruton Street,’ Bradon said as they settled into the carriage. ‘Mama will have given Finch her instructions on where to take you and what you will need. We must have you creditably outfitted before anyone else sees you in that hand-me-down gown.’
‘Yes, my lord.’ Averil bit her lip and reminded herself of her duty and that tumbling out of the carriage and running up Cornhill in search of Luc would be madness.
Luc took one of the side alleys, went into the George and Vulture, the first tavern he came to, and sat at an empty table in the taproom. ‘A pint of lush,’ he said to the girl who approached, wiping her hands on her apron. Brandy was tempting, but strong beer was prudent.
He still could not credit that Bradon was waiting a month to see if she was with child. Calculating devil. At least he had seen him now. After what Averil had said that morning he could not rest until he had seen her with her betrothed, seen how the man was with her. The tankard came and he took a swallow. Good London beer, full of hops and dry in the mouth; he had missed that.
Yes, he was a calculating devil who did not believe Averil when she told him she was a virgin. Luc realised he was angry and drank again while he sorted that out in his head. Bradon did not believe her; in fact, he thought she could well be lying. He deserved to be called out for that alone, Luc thought as he drained the tankard.
Getting changed, visiting the Admiralty, had distracted him not an iota from the anguish and confusion that morning’s encounter had caused, but he had not had time to think too deeply about the workings of Bradon’s mind.
Damn it, Averil was so patently honest, he thought now. Didn’t the fool realise that she could have spun him any number of yarns—with the full support of Sir George and his sister? Bradon did not deserve her, but the very fact that he was keeping her, for a month at least, proved that he wanted her, or her dowry, more than he cared about her maidenhead and his own honour.
In a month, possibly much sooner, he would realise that she was not with child and then the marriage would go ahead. She would become Lady Bradon and be lost to Luc for ever.
The fantasy that had been sustaining him since he had sailed from Scilly, of Averil spread beneath him on a wide bed, gasping his name as he drove them both to ecstasy, gripped him afresh, only this time not with a wash of pleasurable anticipation, but with claws of frustration. He snapped his fingers for another tankard. Frustration and loss, if he was to take her at her word and leave her to the other man. Damn it, but he needed her. Where else would he find that enticing mixture of courage and sensuality, beauty and honesty, innocence and spirit?
A group of clerks came in, loudly discussing a prize fight, and called for ale and food as they settled at the next table. Luc nursed his beer and let their argument wash over him until the arrival of their pie reminded him that he had been up since dawn working on his notes about the Scillies traitor. Then he had found his feet leading him to Bruton Street to watch for Averil and to try to find out what had happened with Bradon.
Now he knew. Bradon would marry her and she had accepted that, and his lack of trust in her. The meek way she had stood there just now, her hand on his arm, ignored by the men, waiting to be acknowledged, made his blood boil. Bradon would be satisfied with his bargain, that was for sure, but he doubted it would give Averil any joy.
But her joy, or lack of it, was no longer his business, it seemed. He ordered pie and told himself that he had to stop thinking about her. He had a wife to find. A home to build. Somehow it no longer seemed so straightforward or desirable.