Secret Desires of a Gentleman Page 4

  His smile vanished, but if she hoped the reminder of his words from the other day would provoke him into an admission that they were indeed acquainted, she was disappointed. “I am here on a matter of business, madam,” he said. “The establishment you intend to open here, to be precise.”

  Emma gave another ladylike cough. “In that case, I should go,” she murmured. “Maria, it’s been wonderful to see your shop.”

  “Don’t leave yet,” she implored, giving Phillip a resentful glance. “If this gentleman wishes to speak with me, surely he can do so in front of my friends.”

  “No, no, I do have to be on my way. But I shall see you for Sunday tea in Little Russell Street, I hope?”

  “Of course! But, really Emma, must you go?”

  “I’m afraid so. I am supposed to be at some charity tea in Bloomsbury this afternoon, and you know how beastly the traffic in London is nowadays.” She nodded to Phillip and started for the door. “I’ll talk with Harry about the new catalogue when I see him this evening.”

  “Thank you,” she said, walking with her friend to the door. “You’ve been such a tremendous help.”

  Emma departed, and Maria could feel Phillip’s cool gaze boring into her back as she paused in the open doorway. Taking a deep breath, she turned around. “I cannot imagine what matter of business you and I might have to discuss. But I’m sure you will enlighten me.”

  “I was passing by this morning, and I saw you through the windows. Upon making inquiries, I found you had leased these premises. Needless to say, I was surprised.”

  And angry, too, she concluded. “I find your interest in me baffling, sir. We don’t know each other, remember? You told me so yourself.”

  “Under the circumstances at the time,” he said with haughty dignity, “I thought that action was for the best.”

  “You thought it best to be both cruel and rude?”

  “I—” He paused, and his haughtiness seemed to falter. A shadow of what might have been regret crossed his face, but it was gone before she could be sure. “Forgive me. It was not my intent to be uncivil, nor to wound your feelings. I merely thought to spare us both what would no doubt have been an awkward conversation.”

  She felt compelled to point out the obvious. “Yet here you are.”

  “A conversation between us has now become necessary.” His eyes narrowed, and his expression once again became hard and implacable. “I thought I made it clear twelve years ago that you were to have nothing to do with my brother ever again.”

  “Your brother?” She peered about her in pretended bafflement. “Is Lawrence here? I must be going blind. I don’t see him anywhere. Is he hiding?”

  “It’s clear you’ve not changed, Miss Martingale. Still as impudent as ever.”

  “You haven’t changed either. Still dry as a stick.”

  He ignored the jibe. “You were paid one thousand pounds, in exchange for which you gave me your word you would keep away from Lawrence.”

  She gave him her best innocent stare and told the truth. “I haven’t seen your brother since I left Kayne Hall twelve years ago. I heard he went to America.”

  “He isn’t in America any longer. At present, he is living with me.” He lifted his arm and jabbed it toward the residence next door. “In the house attached to this one, as if you didn’t know it!”

  She waited a moment before replying, choosing her words with care. “When I decided to lease these premises, I had no idea you or your brother were living next door.”

  “So you are saying you have not broken your promise? That your presence here is a mere coincidence?” Before she could answer, he made a sound of derision. “You expect me to believe such a flimsy lie?”

  “I don’t care tuppence what you believe, and I have not broken my word.” Not technically anyway, she added to herself, feeling a tiny attack of conscience.

  “You can hardly continue to keep it if you are living right next door.” He glared at her. “Tell me, do you have no regard for any of the promises you make, Miss Martingale, or just the ones you make to me?”

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake!” she cried, exasperated not only by his intractable attitude, but also by her own niggling sense of guilt. “It’s been twelve years. We are all adults who can behave civilly. Must we all avoid each other like the plague?”

  “You are a plague,” he muttered. “A plague on men’s sanity.”

  She bristled, her momentary guilt vanished, and she opened her mouth to fire off an equally flattering opinion of him, but he spoke again before she could do so.

  “How much?”

  She blinked at the abrupt turn in the conversation. “I beg your pardon?”

  “I had to pay you once to go away. I am attempting to ascertain the amount required to make you go away again. How much?”

  “Of all the—” Outrage choked her throat, and it took a moment before she could go on. “You don’t have that much money.”

  “I can assure you I do. Name your price.”

  “Not everything is for sale, my lord. I am here, I intend to stay here, and there is nothing you can do about it.”

  “You think not?”

  The question was deceptively soft, but Maria was not fooled. She knew from painful experience how hard-hearted Phillip could be. Prickles of warning danced along her spine, but she stood her ground. “There is nothing you can do,” she repeated.

  “You made a promise to me twelve years ago, Miss Martingale, and by God, I shall see that you keep it. Paying you off would have been the simplest, most expedient course, but since that notion does not appeal to you, I must call upon my attorneys.”

  “Attorneys? Whatever for?”

  “To arrange for your eviction from these premises, of course.” With that, he turned and strode away. He was at the door before she could recover from her surprise enough to reply.

  “What are you talking about? You cannot have me evicted.”

  “Oh, but I can.” He paused, hand on the doorknob, and gave her a grim smile. “I happen to own this building.”

  Chapter 3

  Be he alive or be he dead, I’ll grind his bones to make my bread.

  English nursery rhyme

  “What?” She stared at Phillip, and she couldn’t help a laugh. “That’s absurd. My lease is with a company called Millbury Investments.”

  “A company I own, which makes this building my property. I expect you to be gone from these premises by this time tomorrow.”

  He opened the door and walked out without another word, closing the door behind him.

  “Oh!” Frustrated beyond bearing, she turned away from the door and kicked the wall. It chipped the plaster and hurt her toe, but did nothing to relieve her feelings.

  Of all the ludicrous situations to find oneself in, she thought, balling her hands into fists. Bad enough that Phillip lived next door, but to find that once again her fate was in his hands was aggravating beyond belief.

  “Hateful man!” she muttered and kicked the wall again. “Loathsome, hateful man!”

  She grimaced at the pain in her toe and decided kicking the walls of her shop was no way to rid herself of her frustration. She peeled off her work gloves and marched downstairs to her kitchen, and a few minutes later, she was elbow deep in bread dough.

  For over an hour, Maria kneaded, punched, and pummeled the ball of soft, white dough, less concerned with culinary considerations than she was with relieving her feelings of frustration, a task made even more difficult when an errand boy from the property agent’s offices came to call. He presented her with a very official-looking document.

  “That didn’t take long,” she muttered as she snatched the folded sheet from the boy’s outstretched hand, ignoring his amazed stare at her paint-stained clothes, flour-dusted hands and disheveled appearance. She glanced down at the words, EVICTION NOTICE, printed on the outside of the sheet in red ink. “What did he do when he left here?” she demanded, returning her gaze to the delivery boy. “Ring his
attorneys on the telephone?”

  The boy didn’t answer. He simply continued to stare, his expression conveying obvious doubts about her sanity. Maria heaved a sigh, slammed the tradesmen’s door in his face, and broke the seal on the document. She scanned the typewritten lines from Millbury Investments and was not surprised to learn that she was required to remove herself and her belongings within twenty-four hours, just as Phillip had demanded. But when she reached the reason for her eviction, the frustration she’d been trying so hard to eradicate erupted into fury. “Violation of the character clause?” she cried. “Of all the unfair, unfounded accusations he could make—”

  Too incensed to read any further, she crumpled the eviction notice into a ball, tossed it into the rubbish bin beneath her worktable, and resumed her task, venting her feelings on the dough with more force than ever.

  “I am a woman of impeccable moral character! How dare he say otherwise?” She lifted the ball of dough from the floured board of her worktable, then threw it down again with enough force to flatten it. “And why does it matter to him where I live anyway?” she added, giving the dough a resounding slap with the palm of her hand, wishing she could do the same to Phillip’s face. “I don’t care tuppence for Lawrence. Why, I haven’t even thought about him for years.”

  The moment she’d said those words, she had to admit they weren’t the absolute truth. Even a dozen years after her departure from Kayne Hall, memories of her first love had sometimes stolen into her mind. A particular shade of blue would remind her of his eyes, or she’d catch the scent of roses and remember that day in the arbor when he’d put rosebuds in her hair and declared her the prettiest girl he’d ever seen.

  Phillip had been in the rose garden that day, too. “Glowering as if he had indigestion,” she muttered. She lifted the dough and slammed it back down. “Stuffy, stiff-necked snob. How dare he evict me?”

  Maria stopped, panting, and she knew she had to find a way to fight him. She refused to meekly slink away. She refused to believe that she had found the perfect shop only to lose it before she’d even had the chance to prove herself.

  She could call upon Prudence’s attorneys, but she was already borrowing a fortune from her friend, and though Prudence didn’t care if she ever paid any of it back, Maria cared. Pride had always been one of her besetting sins, she supposed, but she didn’t want to live on her friend’s charity. She was determined to pay Prudence back every penny she borrowed, so she didn’t want to run up her debt by any extravagant expenses, particularly the engaging of attorneys.

  In any case, she doubted it would do much good. If she remembered the terms of the lease, there was indeed a character clause within it. Her tenancy could be revoked for nonpayment of rent, for infliction of damage to the premises, or for immorality of character. Though there was little explanation of what immorality of character encompassed, it hardly mattered. That sort of fight would ruin her reputation regardless of the outcome, and no one in Mayfair would buy her pastries.

  She could find another shop. Maria looked around her beautiful kitchen, with its modern ovens, gleaming copper hoods, and generous cupboards. She could recreate it all somewhere else, she supposed, build cupboards like these, buy equipment just like this. But again, that would be so costly. And she couldn’t recreate prime shop frontage on Piccadilly. That particular commodity was as rare as hen’s teeth. Still, what else could she do but leave?

  She was suddenly swamped by despair. Phillip was a marquess, a man of vast wealth and influence. She was powerless against him, just as she’d been when she was seventeen.

  How cold he’d been that day in the library at Kayne Hall when he’d told her of his brother’s decision to keep his income rather than marry her. How unmoved he’d been by her tears of heartbreak and fear as she had first protested, then agreed to his terms. How impersonally he’d held out the check in exchange for her solemn promise to never come near Lawrence again.

  With sudden certainty, Maria knew what she had to do. She reached behind her and untied the strings of her apron. She pulled off the heavy cotton garment and tossed it onto the worktable, then she left the kitchen. For twelve years, she had faithfully kept her promise. Now, she was going to break it.

  Two hours later, there was no paint on her face, nor was there any lingering scent of the turpentine she’d used to remove it. Maria stepped out of the porcelain bathtub and lifted a towel from the mahogany surround. She dried off and squeezed the water from her hair, then hung the towel on the iron towel rail and walked into the dressing room that adjoined the bath.

  After donning fresh underclothes, she slid her arms into the sleeves of a crisp white shirtwaist and did up the buttons. For this occasion, she chose her best day dress, a walking suit of blue serge. She combed out her hair, pinned the long, curly strands into a tight twist at the back of her head, and then put on her prettiest hat—a wide-brimmed, dark blue straw trimmed with a froth of cream-colored ostrich plumes and ribbons. After all, she told herself as she slid her hands into knitted white gloves, when a woman intended to see the man who had once been the love of her life, it wouldn’t do to encounter him looking drab and down at heel.

  Maria went downstairs, retrieved the eviction letter from the rubbish bin and smoothed it out, then folded it and put it in her pocket. She exited the house, and as she locked her front door, she took a peek up and down the street just to be sure Phillip wasn’t hovering about, spying upon her, ready to pounce if she came near his doorstep.

  She dropped her latchkey into her handbag and bought a newspaper from the boy on the corner, then crossed the street to Green Park. Choosing a bench where she had a plain view of Piccadilly in both directions as well as the entire length of Half Moon Street, Maria sat down, unfolded the newspaper, and pretended to read, but all the while, she kept her gaze fixed on the corner across the street.

  She didn’t have to wait long. After perhaps twenty minutes, she spied a brown-haired man in dapper, buff-colored flannels and a straw boater coming up Half Moon Street, swinging a walking stick. She squinted, studying him for a moment, then she gave a satisfied nod and stood up. She’d know that jaunty, carefree stride anywhere.

  She cast aside the newspaper and hastened back across Piccadilly, careful to do so at an angle away from the corner so that she would not be seen by her quarry too soon. By the time she passed the doorway of her shop and turned onto Half Moon Street, she had her handbag open and was fumbling within its depths, seeming to any unknowing observer like a woman too preoccupied with the contents of her bag to pay attention to where she was going.

  The collision was perfectly timed. Her bag and his walking stick clattered to the pavement, his hat and her bonnet went flying, and even to her own ears, her cry of pain sounded quite genuine.

  “I say,” Lawrence cried, grasping her arms as if to prevent her from falling, “I’m terribly sorry. Are you all right?”

  “I–I’m not certain,” she answered. Looking up into his face, she found he had not changed much at all, for his countenance was very much the boyishly handsome one she remembered. But time had changed her, for looking at him now, she felt none of the agonizing sweetness she’d felt for him at seventeen.

  She gave a gasp of pretended astonishment. “Why, Lawrence Hawthorne, as I live and breathe!”

  Thankfully, Lawrence wasn’t like his brother. Not only did he recognize her at once, he freely acknowledged the fact. “Maria Martingale?” he said, laughing as he stared back at her in amazement. “Maria, is it really you?”

  She nodded, laughing with him. “Heavens, this is a surprise, isn’t it?” she said, hoping she sounded convincing. “How have you been?”

  “Well enough. Well enough,” he answered and bent down to retrieve their hats. “And yourself?”

  “Perfectly well, thank you.”

  “I’m glad to hear it.” He straightened, and as he looked at her again, there was open admiration in his expression, something Maria found quite gratifying in light of h
is brother’s disdain. “By Jove, you haven’t changed a bit,” he said and winked at her as he put her bonnet on her head. “Still the prettiest girl I’ve ever seen.”

  Maria wondered what Miss Dutton might think of that opinion, but she didn’t voice her speculation aloud. “And you’re still the biggest flirt,” she said instead, straightening her hat to the proper angle as he bent to gather the rest of their belongings from the pavement. “My goodness. How long has it been? Ten years?”

  “Twelve,” he said as he dropped items in her handbag. “What have you been doing with yourself?”

  “I’m opening a shop.”

  “Are you?” He snapped her handbag closed and held it up to her, then he retrieved his walking stick and rose. “What sort of shop?”

  “A bakery. Right there,” she added, turning as if to show him, then she cried out with a pretense of pain. “Oh! I think I twisted my ankle.”

  Lawrence’s amiable face took on a frown of concern. “And it’s all my fault,” he said, chivalrously taking the blame. “You must come inside, and I’ll send for a doctor.”

  “Come inside?” she repeated, looking around in pretended puzzlement. “Do you live near here?”

  “Right there.” He pointed to the red door beside them.

  “There? Why, you’re right next to my shop!” She waved a hand to the doorway behind her. “I’ve leased those premises.”

  Lawrence was not only more amiable than his brother, he was also much more trusting. “What an amazing coincidence!” He gestured again to his front door. “Do come in and have a cup of tea and tell me all about it while we wait for the doctor. No, really,” he added, overriding her feeble protest, “I insist. Come with me.”

  She accepted his offered arm and shoulder. As she hobbled to his front steps with quite a convincing show of pain, it occurred to her that if her bakery didn’t succeed, she could always take up the stage as a profession. Ten minutes later, she was comfortably ensconced in her neighbor’s luxurious drawing room, sipping a cup of tea and pouring out her tale of woe to a very sympathetic listener.