The Bride Wore Pearls by Liz Carlyle Page A

will—”
    “No, she’s in, and she’s to stay in,” Sutherland interjected, “or the lot of you will answer to me—and, I daresay, to Bessett.”
    “The devil!” said Lazonby again, for it seemed the only response.
    “Not the devil, laddie,” said the Preost grimly, “but the good Lord. May His will ever be done.”
    Lazonby was still sitting in the water, eyes wide, when his bedchamber door thumped shut. Almost immediately, however, it opened again to admit the efficient Horsham, who swept the untouched dinner tray away, then returned to lay out the shaving things.
    Well. Anaïs de Rohan had got what she wanted. She was a Guardian. A brother, as it were.
    Inwardly, Lazonby shrugged. What was it to him, after all? Indeed, he had great admiration for the lady’s mettle, despite his snide comments to Bessett. It was mere chance that her file had come to him for approval, and sheer perversity that had made him approve it and pass her on for initiation.
    The initiation ceremony, however, had not got far. Not, apparently, until yesterday. But Sutherland was right—she was indisputably qualified.
    Still, a female  . . .
    But that thought merely served to return him to his more pressing problem.
    “Horsham?” Lazonby called through the door. “What do you know about flowers?”
    The valet lifted his head from his work. “A bit, sir.”
    “What sort of flowers does a fellow send to a friend?” he asked. “A lady friend whom he has—well, inadvertently insulted?”
    Horsham drifted to the door. “Yellow roses should suffice, sir. For both friendship and regret.”
    Friendship and regret.
    That seemed to sum the whole bloody mess up pretty thoroughly. . . .
    Moreover, he liked roses. And ladies liked roses. He put himself in Horsham’s hands. “Excellent,” he said. “Fetch me some, won’t you?”
    Horsham gave a little bow. “Certainly, sir,” he said. “Shall you require rather a lot of them?”
    “Oh, aye, a rude plenty.” Lazonby snatched his towel and rose, streaming, from the water. “How did you know?”
    The faintest hint of humor flicked over the valet’s face and was quickly veiled again. “Oh, just a guess, sir.”

Chapter 4
     
    I pray you, do not fall in love with me,
    For I am falser than vows made in wine.
    William Shakespeare, As You Like It
     
    T he afternoon had turned quite warm by the time Lazonby dressed, penned his note of apology, and called for his cabriolet. Despite the faint dread simmering inside him, he drove up to Mayfair at a brisk clip, savoring the feel of the spring breeze against his face, having long ago learned in prison never to take such small pleasures for granted.
    As he turned up Park Lane, however, he began to reconsider his strategy with regard to Lady Anisha. It would have been better, perhaps, to have sent one of the footmen. He had told himself that Ruthveyn’s house was practically on the way to St. James—which it was, he supposed, if one preferred the long way round. And just as his newfound dread blossomed into grave reluctance, Lazonby had the good fortune to spy Higgenthorpe, Ruthveyn’s butler, striding some distance up the pavement carrying a shallow basket filled with what looked like small, misshapen parsnips.
    Ah, there was his out!
    Drawing at once to the curb, Lazonby leapt down, his groom following suit at the rear, the wrapped cone of flowers cradled in the crook of his elbow.
    “Drive round to Adams Mews, Jacobs,” he said, taking the bundle from the servant. “I’ll be but a few moments.”
    Higgenthorpe had already crossed over Mount Street and made the turn. Hastening up Park Lane after him, Lazonby wove between the oncoming pedestrians—ladies twirling parasols, mostly, chattering arm in arm, and drifting up from Mayfair in the direction of Oxford Street, doubtless for an afternoon’s shopping.
    It seemed foolish to chase after a butler, but Anisha’s sitting room sat just above the front door and she had a bad habit