Beguiled by Her Betrayer

‘Damn it, I am St Osyth! I won’t have some grubby lout prying into my business. You find her, Deverall.’ He glared at him. ‘Money no object, just send me a round total of your expenses at the end of it. No scandal, that’s all.’

Quin found he was so angry that he dared not speak.

‘You aren’t tied up with some mission or another, are you? Not leaving on the noon tide for Russia?’ the duke snapped when Quin remained silent.

All he had planned was the courtship of Lady Caroline and that could wait. Everything could wait. ‘No, Your Grace. I was merely...’ Controlling myself. ‘Thinking. Have you any idea where her woman lives?’ Cleo might have gone there, but he doubted it. She would not want to bring the duke’s wrath down on the head of Maggie’s family. The duke shook his head. ‘Did she leave a note? Has she made female friends?’

‘No note. And she’s been too busy for such fripperies as friends. Time enough for tea parties when she’s married.’

Quin took a firm hold on his temper at the thought of Cleo, lonely and adrift on this emotional desert island where he had stranded her. ‘I must take my secretary into my confidence, Your Grace. He is perfectly discreet and with his help I can work faster.’

‘Very well. Keep me informed twice a day.’

Quin stood. ‘I will let you know when I have something to report. Anything else is simply a waste of time better spent searching. Good day.’

Damned old autocrat, Quin fumed as he ran down the steps and hailed a cab. ‘Albany and fast.’

* * *

George Baldwin was sitting at his desk when Quin strode in. ‘The invitations—’

‘Leave them. Miss Woodward is missing.’

‘Miss Woodward? As in the Duke of—’

‘Exactly. She has left home and nothing, not a whisper of this, must get out.’

‘Not a man, I assume?’

Quin shook his head. ‘I’ve got to think.’ He slumped into a wing-back armchair, flung one leg over the arm and closed his eyes. Cleo. Would she try to leave London? No, she knows nowhere else and besides, she’ll understand the way a great city can hide people. She will try to earn her living honestly, but how? She has no qualifications for anything except...

‘Languages!’

‘My lord?’

‘Miss Woodward speaks French, Italian, modern Greek and Arabic.’

Baldwin, always fast on the uptake, reached for three books from beside the desk. ‘Let’s see what the directories have for translators and educational services.’ He glanced up from where he was beginning a list. ‘We’ll find her, my lord. Don’t worry.’

Quin reached for another book and began to search, unsettled by that reassuring smile. It was as if George thought Quin had lost someone of his own. He flattened the pages open at the right spot and pushed it across to George. Who do I think I am fooling? Myself, probably. This is Cleo. My Cleo, and she is all that matters.

* * *

Quin studied the list in his hand and checked the address in Wimpole Street. Eight down, six more to go. He wondered how George was getting on with his list since they had met for a snatched mutton chop and pint of ale at the Red Lion just off Piccadilly. The brass plate on the door was well polished and respectable, as was the location. Throcking and Trimm. Confidential translation services. Linguistic tuition.

He thought he would probably still be repeating his story in his sleep. ‘Good afternoon. I am travelling to the eastern Mediterranean on family business and require some basic Arabic tuition. It is urgent and I do not care what age, sex or nationality the tutor is.’

‘Good afternoon, sir. I am Mr Trimm.’ The gentleman behind the desk in the office appeared to have been polished to a high gleam from the top of his bald head to the toecaps of his boots. ‘Kindly take a seat and I will check our files. Arabic is not a common language, you understand... Ah.’ He riffled through and removed a slip of paper. ‘We have one tutor at the moment for Arabic, but I am afraid they have only just joined us. I have not yet had the opportunity to assess their work. However, by next week I am sure I will have fully tested their abilities.’

Mr Trimm put down the slip and Quin strained to read it unobtrusively upside down. Impossible.

‘I am in rather a hurry and none of the other agencies I have approached have been able to help me. A young man, is it? Perhaps I can interview him myself if you let me have his direction.’

‘A lady, actually. I am afraid we cannot give out addresses. However, I can write to her and ask her to attend the office tomorrow, if that would suit?’

‘Excellent,’ Quin said. He lifted his hat as if to replace it on his head. ‘About two?’ The hat dropped along with his gloves and cane as he made a show of catching it. The little bud vase on the desk overturned, spilling water across the surface. Quin’s elbow knocked the filing drawer, sending it to the floor and Mr Trimm, with a small shriek, dived for it.