wind from a lowering pall of clouds whipped the lapels of his overcoat as he set off for St. James Street at a steady clip. Most of his cronies were doubtless still abed, sleeping off the effects of a late night of social functions that ended at a gaming hell or three.
But Rowan had to escape that townhouse and the memories it held. His jibes to Emma about visiting the tailor and the haberdasher had been just that—jibes. He shouldn’t give in to the temptation, but she was too easy by half to wind up, and some devil inside prodded him onward.
He had to admit the sight of her flushed cheeks, her snapping eyes, and her considerable bosom heaving was an enjoyable one. But he also knew he must face facts. He’d been handed a singular opportunity to get back on his feet. He must not blow this chance, for certainly there would be no other.
And that meant taking Emma’s advice. It meant not spending funds he no longer possessed, especially not on frivolities. He could manage without a new pair of Hessians—but damn if he could continue to live in that house when it still looked as it had more than six years ago. Lydia’s old bedchamber hadn’t changed a whit, but what were the chances he could talk Emma into redecorating it?
The reply came to him immediately, borne on an image of his wife glaring an admonishment to watch his spending. Bloody hell, but there was something not quite natural about a woman who took possession of a dwelling and didn’t promptly see about changing it to suit her own tastes.
But Emma was too practical. Beneath the veneer of silks in which she clad herself to satisfy society lurked a woman who preferred serviceable linens and cottons and wools. Even if she could afford better. And here he stood, a man of elegant taste who hadn’t the funds to hire a valet—yet.
And if you’d kept better control of yourself, you wouldn’t be in this mess.
True, but he refused to think about the night when he’d ruined everything.
Another gust of wintry wind carrying a spattering of rain hurried his steps. He entered his club just ahead of the impending deluge and scanned the room. Older members occupied chairs here and there, perusing the
Times
or trading the latest news. As he suspected, Crawley was nowhere to be found. Not Crawley nor any of the others who had been in on the scheme with him, but the hour was early.
Well, then. He may as well settle himself in for the next while in the hopes at least one of the men would put in an appearance.
He called for a newspaper and found himself a seat at an unoccupied table with a view of the entryway, but the details of the latest bills in Parliament did little to hold his attention. What did he care for importation or appropriation acts when he’d lost the last of his personal funds? That money, at least, was all
his,
damn it. If he could somehow regain it, he’d have something his wife couldn’t touch. And perhaps he’d prove himself to both her and Jennings at the same time.
Before long, a shadow fell across the page. Rowan looked up to find Crawley standing in his light.
“What’s the idea sending a Bow Street Runner after me?” Crawley brushed at his sleeves, spraying the newspaper with icy water droplets.
Rowan raised both brows. “I didn’t send him after you.” At some point, he was going to have to go out in this devil-cursed storm, track down Dysart, and have a chat with the man about his methods. “He was supposed to find Higgins for me.”
“Seems he found me instead,” Crawley said mildly enough, but that meant nothing. Crawley could discuss his own financial demise just as casually. “And put me through all the questions he meant for Higgins. At any rate, Higgins is gone, which is the same as I told that fellow from Bow Street.”
“I’m aware.” Rowan wasn’t inclined to invite the other man to sit, given the tenor of his approach. “I went to Higgins’s townhouse in hopes of catching up to him.”
“And you didn’t
But Rowan had to escape that townhouse and the memories it held. His jibes to Emma about visiting the tailor and the haberdasher had been just that—jibes. He shouldn’t give in to the temptation, but she was too easy by half to wind up, and some devil inside prodded him onward.
He had to admit the sight of her flushed cheeks, her snapping eyes, and her considerable bosom heaving was an enjoyable one. But he also knew he must face facts. He’d been handed a singular opportunity to get back on his feet. He must not blow this chance, for certainly there would be no other.
And that meant taking Emma’s advice. It meant not spending funds he no longer possessed, especially not on frivolities. He could manage without a new pair of Hessians—but damn if he could continue to live in that house when it still looked as it had more than six years ago. Lydia’s old bedchamber hadn’t changed a whit, but what were the chances he could talk Emma into redecorating it?
The reply came to him immediately, borne on an image of his wife glaring an admonishment to watch his spending. Bloody hell, but there was something not quite natural about a woman who took possession of a dwelling and didn’t promptly see about changing it to suit her own tastes.
But Emma was too practical. Beneath the veneer of silks in which she clad herself to satisfy society lurked a woman who preferred serviceable linens and cottons and wools. Even if she could afford better. And here he stood, a man of elegant taste who hadn’t the funds to hire a valet—yet.
And if you’d kept better control of yourself, you wouldn’t be in this mess.
True, but he refused to think about the night when he’d ruined everything.
Another gust of wintry wind carrying a spattering of rain hurried his steps. He entered his club just ahead of the impending deluge and scanned the room. Older members occupied chairs here and there, perusing the
Times
or trading the latest news. As he suspected, Crawley was nowhere to be found. Not Crawley nor any of the others who had been in on the scheme with him, but the hour was early.
Well, then. He may as well settle himself in for the next while in the hopes at least one of the men would put in an appearance.
He called for a newspaper and found himself a seat at an unoccupied table with a view of the entryway, but the details of the latest bills in Parliament did little to hold his attention. What did he care for importation or appropriation acts when he’d lost the last of his personal funds? That money, at least, was all
his,
damn it. If he could somehow regain it, he’d have something his wife couldn’t touch. And perhaps he’d prove himself to both her and Jennings at the same time.
Before long, a shadow fell across the page. Rowan looked up to find Crawley standing in his light.
“What’s the idea sending a Bow Street Runner after me?” Crawley brushed at his sleeves, spraying the newspaper with icy water droplets.
Rowan raised both brows. “I didn’t send him after you.” At some point, he was going to have to go out in this devil-cursed storm, track down Dysart, and have a chat with the man about his methods. “He was supposed to find Higgins for me.”
“Seems he found me instead,” Crawley said mildly enough, but that meant nothing. Crawley could discuss his own financial demise just as casually. “And put me through all the questions he meant for Higgins. At any rate, Higgins is gone, which is the same as I told that fellow from Bow Street.”
“I’m aware.” Rowan wasn’t inclined to invite the other man to sit, given the tenor of his approach. “I went to Higgins’s townhouse in hopes of catching up to him.”
“And you didn’t
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