Gareth looked up. “Is there a problem?”
“Well…no…” The valet looked pained. Gareth tried to take pity on him. Poor Mr. Phelps hadn’t realized that he would occasionally be acting as a butler when he’d interviewed for the position, and clearly he’d never been taught the butlerian skill of keeping one’s face devoid of all emotion.
“Mr. Phelps?” Gareth queried.
“He is a she, Mr. St. Clair.”
“A hermaphrodite, Mr. Phelps?” Gareth asked, just to see the poor fellow blush.
To his credit, the valet made no reaction save squaring his jaw. “It is Miss Bridgerton.”
Gareth jumped to his feet so quickly he smacked both his thighs on the edge of the desk. “Here?” he asked. “Now?”
Phelps nodded, looking just a little bit pleased at his discomfiture. “She gave me her card. She was rather polite about it all. As if it were nothing out of the ordinary.”
Gareth’s mind spun, trying to figure out why on earth Hyacinth would do something so ill-advised as to call upon him at his home in the middle of the day. Not that the middle of the night would have been better, but still, any number of busybodies might have seen her entering the building.
“Ah, show her in,” he said. He couldn’t very well turn her out. As it was, he would certainly have to return her to her home himself. He couldn’t imagine she’d come with a proper escort. She’d probably brought no one save that peppermint-eating maid of hers, and heaven knew she was no protection on the streets of London.
He crossed his arms as he waited. His rooms were set up in a square, and one could access his study from either the dining room or his bedchamber. Unfortunately, the day maid had chosen this day to provide the dining room floor with some sort of twice-yearly wax that she swore (rather vocally and on her dear mother’s grave) would keep the floor clean and ward off disease. As a result, the table had been shoved up against the door to the study, which meant that the only way in was through his bedroom.
Gareth groaned and shook his head. The last thing he needed was to picture Hyacinth in his bedroom.
He hoped she felt awkward pass
ing through. It was the least she deserved, coming out here on her own.
“Gareth,” she said, appearing in the doorway.
And all his good intentions flew right out the window.
“What the devil are you doing here?” he demanded.
“It’s nice to see you, too,” she said, with such composure that he felt like a fool.
But still he plodded on. “Any number of people could have seen you. Have you no care for your reputation?”
She shrugged delicately, pulling off her gloves. “I’m engaged to be married. You can’t cry off, and I don’t intend to, so I doubt I’ll be forever ruined if someone catches me.”
Gareth tried to ignore the rush of relief he felt at her words. He had, of course, gone to great lengths to ensure that she could not cry off, and she had already said that she would not, but all the same, it was surprisingly good to hear it again.
“Very well,” he said slowly, choosing his words with great care. “Why, then, are you here?”
“I am not here to discuss your father,” she said briskly, “if that is what worries you.”
“I’m not worried,” he bit off.
She lifted one brow. Damn, but why had he chosen to marry the one woman in the world who could do that? Or at least the one woman of his acquaintance.
“I’m not,” he said testily.
She said nothing in direct reply, but she did give him a look that said she didn’t believe him for one instant. “I have come,” she said, “to discuss the jewels.”
“The jewels,” he repeated.
“Yes,” she replied, still in that prim, businesslike voice of hers. “I hope you have not forgotten about them.”
“How could I?” he murmured. She was starting to irritate him, he realized. Or rather, her demeanor was. He was still roiling inside, on edge just from the very sight of her, and she was utterly cool, almost preternaturally composed.