What Happens in Piccadilly - Chasity Bowlin Page 0,90
it constitute meddling to find out what might have occurred?”
Winn couldn’t bite back the grin that her mischievous tone teased from him. “It depends on the amount of fishing you have to do for that information… and if you should discover something, you are bound by the rules of betrothal to share it with me.”
Callie’s lips quirked in return. “The rules of betrothal? I wasn’t aware of any such thing. Were those rules discussed at length prior to my acceptance of your proposal? If not, I can hardly be bound by them.”
Winn reached for her hand, tugging her forward until she stood close enough that he could wrap his arms about her and steal only the most innocent of kisses. Even though it was barely a brush of their lips, he felt the heat coiling inside him. Lust was a familiar sensation to him, but not the incessant, clawing need that she seemed to evoke in him. “What spell have you put me under, Calliope St. James?”
Her reply was uttered on a breathless laugh. “I think perhaps we have bespelled one another.”
The sound of a throat being cleared quite loudly and with little patience prompted them to break apart. Highcliff stood in the doorway looking rather nonplussed by their display of affection. “Ettinger is on his way up to the nursery. A note has been sent round to the Hound of Whitehall.”
That pronouncement hit Winn like a punch to the gut. “The Hound of Whitehall? Why on earth are you in communication with him?”
“Several girls that are students of Miss Darrow have come to be in her care as a result of the Hound rescuing them from… undesirable situations. I thought he’d prefer to have men of his own looking after the school,” Highcliff responded. “And suffice it to say, he and I have an understanding about things that occur within the city of London which he has a vested interest in. This would be one of them.”
“Why?” Winn asked. “What possible interest could he have in all of this?”
Highcliff smiled. “Let’s just say he’s got his own reasons for disliking the Duke of Averston. Now, my carriage awaits.”
Chapter Twenty-One
A verston met his grandmother’s steely gaze as she entered his study. As a rule, they resided in separate households and had as little to do with one another as possible. He was in a foul mood having sent a note round to Burney that morning and not receiving a reply. It hadn’t been an apology per se, but he had accepted that he’d spoken more harshly to the man than he should have and that their disagreement was trifling in nature. It wasn’t love. He didn’t love, as a rule. But it was more than lust, enough so that it bothered him that the young man had not replied. Now, to have his grandmother to deal with on top of that, it was enough to make him want to crawl head first into a bottle of brandy and never come up.
“I’m in no mood for a scolding,” he remarked as she walked in.
“You appear to be quite out of sorts, Gerald.”
“Don’t call me that,” he snapped. “You know I prefer to be called Averston.”
“And I’d prefer for you to be married to a respectable young woman with an heir and a spare rattling about in that monstrous nursery upstairs. We shall both have to accustom ourselves to disappointment it seems. Someone has contacted the trustees claiming to be the missing heiress,” she said frostily.
He laughed. “For the twentieth time. Many claims have been made over the years and all have failed to provide any legitimate proof of their claims.”
She stepped deeper into the room, settling herself on one of the chairs facing his desk. “This one may be more problematic than the others. But I’ve taken steps to ensure that it is handled.”
Averston frowned. “You’ve never bothered to involve yourself in these matters before. Which makes me question why this one is different. Do you think there’s a possibility this claimant is the genuine article?”
His grandmother leaned forward, her eyes glittering like shards of broken glass. “It doesn’t matter. Genuine or not, she’s entitled to nothing. Or do you wish to give all this up to the misbegotten by-blow of a French whore?”
“What have you done?” he asked, a sense of dread filling him. “We have acted, for decades now, on the presumption that the child died. But if the child survived, contrary to what my wishes might be, we