Page 9 of The Lyon Rampant

“Is it, indeed? You seem so very sure of yourself. Anyway, I’d rather be thought mysterious than a notorious rake like you, sir!”

Darvill tipped his head back and laughed. Insulted by his amusement, Belinda tugged at her hand—but he was not yet ready to free her.

“You haven’t come to my notice before. Which surprises me.”

Arrogant devil. She wanted to stamp her foot at him, but she’d sworn to give up the habit. Only incorrigible children did that sort of thing—and she was a child no more.

She tried to keep her voice even as she replied, “I have not been out in Society a great deal. I’ve had other, more pressing things requiring my attention.” By which she meant her work with the foundling children, but there was no need to give him any more information than she had to.

“Things such as chasing imagined pickpockets down dark alleyways near the theater? If that is how you like to spend your time, Miss Bellamy, I would advise you to rethink your choices. I shall have to take your chaperone to task and tell him to take better care of you.”

“I can assure you, there’s no need.”

If only he would let her go! The old Belinda would have caused a scene, raising her voice, drumming her heels, and—under the direst circumstances—tearing at her hair. It would probably have had the desired result and brought Roland running, and probably some other doughty fellows as well. But she was a lady now, a Person with a Mission, and she was not going to let herself down. Nor would she brook any interference, certainly not from the handsome rogue at her side. He’d put her plans at risk once—he wouldn’t get the chance to do so again.

“I have nothing to say to you, sir. If you’d be so kind as to release me, I can make my way to my carriage. It would be improper for you to accompany me any farther, and Mr. Chetwynd might feel inclined to take issue with you.” And his gaudily attired female companion would be waiting to take issue with Darvill as well, and serve him right!

He laughed again. It was a curiously warming sound, and she wished it didn’t make him seem quite so human.

“That would be a case of the pot calling the kettle black, I believe. Why, only the other night he . . . but no. I mustn’t sully your ears with tales of Chetwynd’s misdemeanors.”

If he was talking about when they’d been thrown out of the Lyon’s Den, Mr. Darvill wasn’t nearly as clever as he believed himself to be. He hadn’t recognized her. To him, she was a member of the ton, not a kitchen wench, and most certainly not the young female Roland had smuggled into the gambling den. She allowed herself a secret smile.

“That’s better.” His tone had softened, and she realized she’d forgotten to hide behind her hood. Any moment now, he’d put two and two together and her guilty secret would be exposed.

He lowered his head until she felt his opera hat touch her ear, and she was certain she’d been found out. The need to run was powerful, but her body was held in suspended animation. He whispered, ‘Before I let you go, there’s one matter on which I must be clear. I have my reputation to maintain.”

Then he kissed her.