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My hands still on the dough. She’d be spreading rumors throughout the ton so that when Kitty and the duke return to society, they’re met with closed doors and cold shoulders.
“Fred,” my voice is filled with vengeance, at least enough to make Fred’s bushy eyebrows quiver, “can you check if anyone has started rumors about Justin’s firm? Or about his sudden disappearance from society?”
Fred’s forehead creases in bewilderment. I can’t blame him. I’m fairly certain he’s never read a Regency romance in his life. And I don’t have time to educate him.
“You’ve met Margot. Is she really the type to run and hide like this? Maybe it’s all been a distraction once her original plot failed while she implements Plan B.”
His eyes narrow in thought as his eternally suspicious brain works the problem.
“I’ll check.” He spins abruptly on his heel and leaves the kitchen. I pound the dough extra hard against the cutting board. Working out my frustration with the general situation and my desire to pound one particular redhead into the ground.
I’m dragging my sorry ass around the bedroom in slow motion. I’ve no idea if it’s helping or hurting my recovery, but it’s something to do. Fred stalks in with a glower. I pause with one handon the dresser to keep myself upright and raise an eyebrow of inquiry.
“Girl was right. Someone is spreading rumors that the firm is under investigation.”
“For what? It’s not an investment firm, for Christ’s sake. Just a bunch of sorry lawyers. And what do you mean the girl was right? I’m assuming you’re referring to Ingrid,” I add dryly.
Fred rolls his eyes at me. It must be catching. “What other girl is there? She asked me to check, said hiding wasn’t typical of Margot and damn it all, she’s right. I should have seen it first.”
Ah. Fred’s pride is smarting, but I think I detect a tiny glimmer of pride in his unofficial protégé. Or adopted granddaughter depending on the day. I shuffle my way slowly over to the bed and sink down. The journey gives me time to think. “Women’s minds are devious, Fred. Don’t beat yourself up because another one got there first.” I bite back the groan as I stretch out and let the mattress take my weight.
Fred snorts. “Well, what are you going to do about it? Just sit there and take it?”
I shake my head slowly. “No. But a full frontal assault will simply backfire. We need something much more subtle that will draw her out in the open. Then the authorities can clean up the mess.”
My words receive nothing more than a blank stare. Fred is much more about the direct approach once information has been uncovered. My knee joints are aching and I’m cursing the frailty of my body once again. “We should head back to New York. It’s too hard to coordinate shit from here, and I can keep Ingrid safer in the penthouse.”
“You tell your little wife that yet?” Fred asks dryly.
“Tell me what?” Ingrid asks quietly from the doorway. Her eyes are anxious, but her voice is steady.
“It’s time to go home,” I tell her calmly and brace myself for the explosion.
But if anything, Ingrid’s voice goes softer. “What do you mean?”
“I can keep you safer in New York.”
Her eyes widen. “No. I am home. Right here.”
I shake my head at her, wincing as the impending headache chooses that moment to penetrate my resistance. Rubbing my hand over my forehead, I remind her, “New York has more resources, I can hire someone to guard you. You won’t be a prisoner.”
“No, Justin. You do what you have to do to keep yourself safe, but I’m not going back to the city. Oh, and dinner will be ready in fifteen minutes. Do you want to eat up here or downstairs?”
The headache is banging on my brain. “Here,” I capitulate and close my eyes. “This conversation isn’t over, but it is on hold until this headache goes away.”
Instantly cool soft fingers are rubbing my temples. I relax into her hands, practically purring like a cat at the relief it brings. I hear a distant snort from Fred and then echoing footsteps as he departs.
Ingrid gently encourages me to relax. I’m resistant because there’s still so much we need to resolve. I can’t help thinking that if we don’t solve the location problem, then whatever this is between us won’t be strong enough to survive more than a few weeks. And that seems… unfortunate. She continues to apply gentle pressure to the stress points at my temples.
Her phone rings from somewhere on her person. I don’t want to open my eyes to pinpoint the location. It keeps ringing, stops briefly, and then rings again. Whoever is calling really wants to get in touch with her.
“Shouldn’t you answer that?” I finally ask dryly.
“In a minute. You’re still really tight,” she responds softly.
“Thought that was supposed to be my line,” I tease her gently.
There’s a brief pause, and then she bursts into giggles. Not the shy teenager kind, but rather the laughter of a young woman who can’t quite believe I’m capable of making mildly dirty jokes.
