"A most promising young lady, sir."
"Good, good," he said flicking through his correspondence hurriedly before plunking it back down to read whilst he ate, as he usually did.
"I'm off into the bath now. Please have my man come up and lay out my black and silver waistcoat and cravat."
"Very good, sir."
"Oh, and have a note sent round to my solicitor asking him to call the day after tomorrow on a matter of some urgency. I would ask him for tomorrow, but it's New Year's Day. Yet another delay," he sighed as he strode up the stairs.
"Very good, sir."
He soaked in the bath for an hour, idly wondering what little Arabella was like. Well, he would no doubt see her in the morning and they would go riding. He could hire a pony for the occasion. He could take her out to the zoological gardens or the park and stuff her full of unsuitable treats, and then have to dose her with castor oil. He liked children, but the thought of having one full-time made his quiver with apprehension.
Blake dragged himself out of the bath eventually and dressed with care. He did not feel particularly cheerful this New Year's. It was the first year that Europe had known peace in nearly twenty-five years, but if he knew old Bonaparte, he still had a few tricks up his sleeve.
On the other hand, he might soon have a lover or wife if he could find Belle. And now he had a ward. Well, hadn't he been wanting a normal domestic life? Now perhaps it was in his reach after all?
With that happy thought, he straightened his cuffs, inspected himself in the pier glass one last time, and went downstairs.
He strode into the dining room with his letters, and came to an abrupt halt. For sitting there at the dining table, dressed in an elegant russet gown which set off her dark hair to perfection, was none other than the one woman he was determined to turn the Town upside down looking for.
Belle.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
"What are you doing here!" he gasped, hastening over to the chair to grasp Belle's arm as she sat at the dining table.
Never mind that he had thought of nothing else but Belle ever since she had left the inn. Had come back to London expressly to find her. And the fact that she was more lovely even than he remembered.
Panic made him harsh once more.
"Is this some sort of game to discredit me, blackmail me over what happened on the road?"
She stared at Blake in open-mouthed horror. "What are you doing here! Are you trying to follow me, finish what you started? Unhand me, sir!" she said, struggling to free herself.
"Don't take me for a fool, Belle. You know full well why I'm here. I live here. You've come barging into my home, in front of my servants, insinuated yourself-"
A bubble of hysterical laughter burst forth from her lips. She sat back down heavily, stunned.
"No, it can't be. It can't…" she gasped in dismay.
All of his thoughts of taking her as a mistress, marrying her, fled in the face of his conviction that she was dishonest, and had duped and tricked him in some way. She had not staged the accident, of course, but everything else she had done had been designed to entice him. To get him to commit some indiscretion.
He simply had to get rid of her before she did exactly that, despite him knowing what she was…
"What are you talking about? You must leave, Belle! This is a respectable household. I have a young ward coming in a few days' time, the step-sister of a friend, and this will never, ever do. What we shared was a remarkable experience, truly.
"But it was a momentary aberration, no more. You must forget it ever happened, as perforce must I. You're so young. You need to get back on the straight and narrow. Stop this folly before you live to regret it!"
Belle stared at him again, certain now there was no mistake. She laughed again, and did the only thing she could think of. She fell forward in a dead faint.
The bottle of sal volatile under her nose brought her around soon enough. Too soon so far as she was concerned. Oblivion was what she really desired. Anything rather than have to face the truth.
She found herself stretched on the chaise longue in the little gold sitting room.
Dr. Sanderson's face was a mask of impassivity as she looked up at him.
"Feeling better now?" he asked abruptly.
She could scarce find her tongue. At last she replied, "Not really."
"Well, no matter. I have to go out shortly. You can't stay here."
"Please, Dr. Sanderson, we have to talk," she said as she struggled to sit up.
"You and I can have nothing to say to each other, Madame. I don't know what sort of Banbury tale you told Travis to get into the house, but--"