She found she rather liked it.
"You went to a hell of a lot of trouble to get in here," he purred. "And now you're anxious to leave?"
Julienne sidestepped, but he didn't release her. "My need was especially dire. I apologize for any trouble I-"
"You don't sound very sorry."
"I'll leave immediately," she offered.
"You'll leave in the morning. The hour is late. The streets aren't safe."
"My aunt will worry," she argued.
"I'll send Lady Whitfield a note. She'll know you're well."
She stilled, her eyes narrowing. "How do you know about my aunt?"
"I know everything about every one of the members of my club. Especially those who enjoy lines of credit." Remington's thumb began an absentminded caress of the hollow of her elbow. Julienne felt the warmth of his touch all the way to her bones.
"I know your parents died when you were very young and your Aunt Eugenia's been your guardian for years. You and Montrose are always running roughshod over her. Your brother is brash, hotheaded, and still too young for the responsibilities of his title. You're always bailing him out of one mess or another. And now I know how seriously you take that responsibility."
She looked away, flustered that he knew such intimate details. "Do you also know how sick to death I am of that chore?" she said finally, surprising herself with the admission.
His voice turned soft and sympathetic. "I'm certain you must be. But you've done an admirable job. There's not been even a breath of scandal attached to the La Coeur name."
Julienne looked up at him, overwhelmed by his nearness. She felt slightly tipsy, but she couldn't blame it on the brandy. Lord Ridgely was presently wearing most of it.
Remington led her across the room and pulled the bell. "I'll have one of the courtesans give you a night rail. You'll be comfortable. My hospitality is legendary."
She scowled. "That's not all that's legendary."
Pride and Pleasure
Now, enjoy the first chapter of Sylvia Day's
Pride and Pleasure
(Historical Romance)
* * * * *
Chapter 1
London, England 1818
As a thief-taker, Jasper Bond had been consulted in a number of unusual locations, but today was the first in a church. Some of his clients were at home in the rookeries his crew haunted. Others were most comfortable in the palace. This particular prospective client appeared to be one of strong faith since he'd designated St. George's as the location of their assignation. Jasper suspected it was considered a "safe" place, which told him this person was ill at ease with retaining an individual of dubious morality. That suited him fine. He would probably be paid well and kept at a distance: his favorite sort of commission.
Alighting from his carriage, Jasper paused to better appreciate the impressive portico and Corinthian columns of the church's fa?ade. Muted singing flowed outward from the building, a lovely contrast to the frustrated shouts of coachmen and the clatter of horse's hooves behind him. His cane hit the street with a thud, his gloved palm wrapped loosely around the eagle's head top. With hat in hand, he waved his driver away.
Today's appointment had been arranged by Mr. Thomas Lynd, a man who shared Jasper's trade and confidence for many reasons, not the least of which was his mentorship of Jasper in the profession. Jasper would never presume to call himself a moral man, but he did function under the code of ethics Lynd had taught him--help those in actual need of it. He did not extort protection money as other thief-takers did. He did not steal goods with one hand in order to charge for their return. He simply found what was lost and protected those who wanted security, which begged the question of why Lynd was passing on this post. With such similar principles, either of them should have been as good as the other.
Because Jasper had an inordinate fondness for puzzles and mysteries, he was too intrigued by Lynd's motives to do anything besides follow through. This, despite the location being one that necessitated his handling the inquiry personally, which was something he rarely did. He preferred to work through trusted employees to retain the anonymity necessary to his greater personal plans.
Mounting the steps, he entered St. George's and paused to absorb the wave of music that rolled over him. Near the front on the right side was the raised canopied pulpit; on the left, the bi-level reading desk. The many box pews were empty of the faithful. Only the choir occupied the space, their voices raised in musical praise.
Jasper withdrew his pocket watch and checked the time. It was directly on the hour. In his profession, he found it highly useful to be a slave to punctuality. He moved to the stairs that would take him up to the right-side gallery for his appointment.
When he reached the landing, he paused. His gaze was drawn to and held by wild tufts of white hair defying gravity. One hopelessly overworked black ribbon failed to tame the mass into anything but a messy, lopsided queue. As he watched, the unfortunate owner of the horrendous coiffure reached up and scratched it into further disarray.
So fascinated was Jasper with the monstrosity of that hair, it took him a moment to register the petite form beside its owner. Once he did, however, his interest was snared. In complete opposition to her companion, the woman was blessed with glossy tresses of a reddish-blond hue so rare it was arresting. They were the only two people in the gallery, yet neither had the tense expectation inherent in those who were awaiting an individual or event. Instead they were singularly focused on the choir below.
Where was the individual he was scheduled to meet?
Sensing she was the object of perusal, the woman turned her head and met Jasper's weighted gaze. She was attractive. Not in the exceptionally remarkable way of her hair but pleasing all the same. Deep blue eyes stared at him from beneath thick lashes. She had an assertive nose and high cheekbones. When she bit her lower lip, she displayed neat white teeth, and when her lips pursed, she revealed a tiny dimple. It was a charming face rather than beautiful, and notable for her seeming displeasure at the sight of him.
"Mr. Bond," she said, after a slight delay. "I did not hear you approach."
One could blame the choir's singing for that. However, the truth of it was that he walked silently. He'd learned the skill long ago. It had saved his life then, and continued to do so in recent years.
Standing, she moved toward him with a determined stride and thrust out her hand. As if cued, the singers below ended their hymn, leaving a sudden silence into which she said, "I am Eliza Martin."