The Scoundrel and I - Katharine Ashe Page 0,43
connections, Charlie actually cared about printing. Because of it, they were friends. He shared her passion, even if he did not share it with any actual passion.
“I had a letter yesterday, Gabrielle, from Abel Pickett.”
“Oh?” The apothecary across Gracechurch Street could not possibly know about the missing type.
“He wrote to me because he is fond of you and did not wish to plunge you into trouble with Father. He said you have been transacting business in our absence.”
“I have not. I would never disobey your father’s orders.” In that manner. “I never have.”
“That was my thought. You are not a liar.”
Elle could do nothing but stare. And wait.
“Mr. Pickett gave me details of the”—he shifted from one foot to the other—“the customer he has witnessed enter the shop several times in the past sennight. From what he said, it seems to me, Gabrielle, that this man is probably not in fact a potential client.”
“What man?” She forced her voice not to shake.
Charlie came forward and took her clasped hands into his own.
“You are an honest person and, despite my brother’s wickedness, still wonderfully naïve.”
Considerably less honest and naïve than he believed.
She drew her hands away. “What do you wish to say to me?”
“You and I have our differences on occasion. But I believe you know that I care about you.”
Impatience prickled up her neck. She could not bear another moment waiting for the axe to fall.
“Charlie, please, speak directly.”
“Mr. Pickett said your caller is a gentleman, a man of attractive appearance and costly attire. He said he believes the man is a”—his eyes recoiled a bit—“a naval officer.”
Charlie hated the sea.
Elle squared her shoulders. “Yes. I admit it. An acquaintance, a naval officer, has called here several times this week. How that is Mr. Pickett’s concern, however, I cannot fathom.”
“Gabrielle, men like that, men who can have any woman that appeals to them at the flick of a wrist, they are not—” He drew himself up. “They are not honorable men.” His gaze grew surprisingly firm. “They chew up women like you and spit them out without a second thought.”
She gaped. And every tiny niggling worry she had harbored about Captain Masinter’s intentions came roaring back.
“Has he called on you at home?” Charlie said. “Has your grandmother met him? Or does he only waltz through here while you are alone, unprotected, when he knows you are vulnerable?”
Charlie’s concerns were entirely reasonable, of course. But last night in the captain’s house, she had not felt vulnerable. She had felt powerful. Beautiful. Cared for. As no one had cared for her in years.
“I see,” Charlie said. “He has not met your grandmother. Either you are ashamed to tell her about this flirtation with a man you do not actually respect or he has made excuses not to meet her.”
“That is not—”
“I don’t like it that a man of that sort is calling on you, Gabrielle. I don’t like it and I will not stand for it.”
“You will not stand for it?” She backed away from him. “Charles Brittle, you have no right to tell me whom I may or may not see. If I wish to consort with—”
“Consort with?”
“—a handsome war hero—”
“War hero?”
“—I very well will.”
“Gabrielle—”
“That is, no, I have not been consorting with him.” Only briefly at a ball, then in his foyer. Not nearly enough. “We have been working together on an important project.”
“A project? Is that what he calls taking advantage of a lonely girl? By all that’s holy, Gabrielle, do you hear yourself? A fortnight ago you were a modest, disciplined, hardworking, sensible girl. Now you are a—”
“Woman.” The captain stood in the open doorway, his jaw rigid, his bearing decidedly military, and his gorgeous blue eyes spearing Charlie like a fish. Abruptly Elle could think of nothing except that he had arrived early after all.
“She is a modest, hardworking, disciplined, sensible woman,” he said to Charlie. Then he turned his gaze upon her. He bowed. “Miss Flood, how do you do?”
Better. So much better.
“Captain,” she said, “this is my employer, Charles Brittle. Charlie, this is Captain Masinter.”
The captain nodded.
Charlie bristled, but said, “Good day, sir,” between his teeth. “You have happened upon a private conversation between Miss Flood and I. I wonder if you wouldn’t mind stepping outside until we have finished.”
“I would mind. Miss Flood, are you at liberty to allow me to take you up in my carriage?” He spoke slowly, articulating each syllable with sober authority, and Elle realized that when he spoke formally