Wicked Again (The Wickeds #7) - Kathleen Ayers Page 0,26
of that horrible emotion. It wasn’t pleasant, curdling the tea in her stomach.
“Jordana and I had a lovely afternoon, didn’t we?” She smiled in Jordana’s direction. “And accomplished much. Although we will continue our discussion while walking in the park—a more preferred venue.”
Jordana nodded in agreement.
“I apologize—” Haddon started.
“There isn’t any need.” Marissa gave a wave of her hand effectively silencing him. “Jordana explained you had a prior engagement. As it turns out, I’ve another caller now, so I must beg my own apologies.”
Haddon’s gaze lingered over her, shuttered and polite. “Of course. Come, Jordana.”
Had he seen Tomkin? Marissa thought he very likely had. He would wonder what a man like Tomkin was doing calling on her.
Let him wonder. Perhaps he would think Tomkin her lover.
Jordana stood to take her leave. “Thank you for the tea, Lady Cupps-Foster.”
The girl did know how to behave, she just didn’t wish to. “I enjoyed our conversation very much today, Jordana.” This afternoon Marissa had learned quite a bit about Jordana, especially her story of trailing behind the lone physician close to Haddon’s estate as the older man called on patients. There was also a local midwife with whom she was friendly.
Most alarming.
“I look forward to our walk in the park together. I’ll send you a note.”
Jordana nodded. “I look forward to it, my lady.”
Haddon took his daughter’s arm to lead her out, his gaze remaining fixed on Marissa. He seemed about to speak, but then the line of his jaw tightened, and he departed, with only a nod of the head.
Marissa waited for the sound of Haddon’s carriage to pull away. Firmly pushing him out of her mind for the moment, she stood and made her way to greet Mr. Tomkin.
7
Mr. Tomkin stood stiffly in Marissa’s study, hat in hand as he cooled his heels. He was a rather rough looking man, coarse and hardened, befitting a person of his profession. Tomkin was nondescript in the way street urchins and thieves were, his features undistinguishable from dozens of other faces in London.
Her father had often told Marissa the best disguise was to hide in plain sight.
Tomkin’s cloak bore a thin line of mud at the edge, as did his boots. Bits of dirt fell from him as he approached her, bowing politely, a shock of graying hair spilling over his collar. The scar at his mouth wiggled as he greeted her.
Greenhouse, ever distressed, watched Tomkin with mounting disapproval, his eyes flickering to the specks of mud scattering across the expensive rug at her guest’s feet.
“That will be all, Greenhouse. Thank you.” Marissa nodded toward the door. God save her if Greenhouse thought his duty was to protect her from Tomkin. Her butler looked like an overstuffed Cornish hen with his chest puffed out in such a way. She doubted his thin arms carried enough strength to hold a pistol, if it came to that.
Not that it would. Marissa was completely safe with Tomkin. He worked for her nephew. And her father before that.
Once Greenhouse shut the door, Marissa waved for Tomkin to sit. “Should I ring for tea or would you prefer something stronger? Whisky perhaps?”
A grunt sounded from Tomkin as he itched his nose. “Please, my lady. If it isn’t too much trouble.”
“Whisky is never a bother, Mr. Tomkin.” Marissa strode to the sideboard and poured out two glasses of whisky, one for each of them; his eyes widened when he saw she meant to join him. “I do appreciate a glass of good whisky, Mr. Tomkin. My father’s doing, I’m afraid.”
Tomkin’s eyes widened further at the mention of the late Duke of Dunbar; he probably had not anticipated that this meeting would involve drinking whisky with the daughter of his former employer. “The duke did enjoy his whisky, my lady.”
She’d engaged Tomkin’s services after her arrival in London, quietly of course. It would do Marissa no good for her nephew to catch wind of her activities and attempt to be involved. Tomkin’s attention to detail, his discretion and especially his loyalty to the Dukes of Dunbar had made him a very wealthy man, though one wouldn’t know by looking at him. Tomkin excelled at gathering information, though Marissa was certain he possessed other skills, as the bulge of a pistol in his coat pocket could attest to.
The big man took a sip of the whisky, the glass looking diminutive in his massive hands. His eyes closed in pleasure. “You’ve excellent taste in whisky, if I may say so, my lady.”