The Earl's Irresistible Challenge. Lara Temple

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      Finally he spoke.

      ‘I grant you credit for a very vivid imagination. Let me see if I have managed to follow this Drury Lane plot. Sorry, two interconnected Drury Lane plots. In the first a doxy is paid by someone to lie to the magistrates about being your godfather’s mistress, presumably to mask the circumstances of his death which I gather were at the very least humiliating. In the second your godfather ruminates over the past and comes to the startling conclusion based on the words of a Jasper Septimus, whose name is an insult in itself, that my father was wronged. And this revelation is possibly at the root of the first tale. Have I done your fantasies credit?’

      It was evident he was a cold man, but she expected to hear something in his voice when he spoke of his father’s death. There was nothing, not a quiver or a change of inflection.

      ‘I am not fabricating any of this. It is the truth.’

      ‘Well, so what?’

      ‘So what?’ she asked, shocked.

      ‘The facts you proffered don’t amount to much, do they? Certainly not to a murderous plot that spans decades. A much more likely explanation is that you or this woman are attempting to extract money from me on the back of what you believe is my sentimental need to know more about my sire’s very ignominious departure from this world. Let me assure you I have no such need. In fact, you might have gathered I am not of a sentimental disposition.’

      ‘You are ignoring a further possibility, my lord.’

      ‘Am I? Enlighten me. I admit to being curious what your rather unique mind will conjure next. You are a very peculiar girl, do you know?’

      ‘I am not a girl. I am almost four and twenty years of age!’ She immediately regretted her outburst as the amusement in his eyes deepened. He was baiting her and she was rising to his hook each time. She should be the one in control of this conversation and yet she had let him take the reins from the moment he entered the church. She removed the rug, placing it on the seat beside her.

      ‘Goodnight, Lord Sinclair. I shall not waste any more of your time. You are clearly not interested in what I have to say.’

      Again that soft gliding motion of his was deceptive. Though she was closer to the carriage door, she had not even reached the handle when his hand was there.

      ‘Don’t play me,’ he said softly. ‘I won’t be led. And certainly not by a pert almost-twenty-four-year-old who likes mysteries and hiding behind veils. You have five minutes remaining.’

      ‘Then listen instead of being so...aggravating! This is important to me and you keep...’ Her voice cracked and she stopped before she crumbled completely. She was shaking, from cold and weariness and the aftermath of tension and fear. She pulled the rug towards her and shoved her hands into its warmth, feeling like a pathetic fool.

      He didn’t speak, just knocked against the carriage wall and it drew forward. Olivia gasped and reached for the door again, but he put his arm out, barring it.

      ‘Calm down. I won’t touch you and I will take you wherever you ask once we are done. But though I don’t care for much, I care for my horses and I won’t keep them standing further in this cold. Fair enough?’

      She nodded warily.

      ‘Good. Now, what is your name?’ he asked.

      ‘My godfather’s name was Henry Payton.’

      ‘I asked for your name, not his.’

      ‘Olivia, Olivia Silverdale.’

      ‘Olivia Silverdale. Sounds as fanciful as your tale. Now begin at the beginning. Who is this Marcia Pendle and how did you trace her?’

      He had changed again—more businesslike but no less ruthless.

      ‘I told you. Marcia Pendle works in a...a house of ill repute in Catte Street.’

      ‘Catte Street. Madame Bernieres’?’

      She raised her brow contemptuously. Obviously he would know about the brothels of London.

      ‘I think that was the name. She calls herself Genevieve, but she is really Marcia Pendle from Norfolk.’

      He shook his head briefly, but there was no negation there, only a kind of focused confusion as he watched her. Stripped of mocking or anger, he looked more human but no less unsettling.

      ‘So. Marcia Pendle is Genevieve. How and why did you trace her and why on earth would she tell you she was involved in your godfather’s death?’

      ‘I traced her because I had my man of business hire a Bow Street Runner, a Mr McGuire. He was present at the inquest into my uncle’s death. Apparently Marcia gave a masterful performance about a long-standing relationship where they would meet at the leased house where he died. When she left the inquest he followed her and after some discreet investigation discovered her true identity and occupation. He also discovered she is very superstitious and every week she visits a gypsy fortune-teller near Bishopsgate who is no more a gypsy than Marcia is French, but one Sue Davies from Cardiff. So, I went to see Miss Davies...’

      ‘You went to Bishopsgate to visit a fortune-teller.’

      ‘Yes. And after we had a little conversation and understood one another tolerably well, I paid Gypsy Sue, as she is called, to tell Marcia she must consult an occultist.’

      ‘A what?’ he asked. The sardonic edge had left his voice completely. All she could detect there was a kind of fascinated shock.

      ‘Have you never heard of them? Apparently they are quite popular of late. There is very much a demand for communication with dead loved ones on The Other Side. In any case, the gypsy, or rather Sue Davies, told me how Marcia was obsessed with someone named George whom she loved and mourned and that she asked Sue...’

      ‘Wait one moment... Hell, never mind. I will reserve my questions for the end.’

      ‘Thank you. So I had my man of business lease a house in an unassuming part of town where such an occultist might credibly have her lodgings and Sue Davies helped me set the stage, so to speak. Like Marcia Pendle she was once an actress and was very useful in procuring the correct clothes and artefacts. Then she sent Marcia Pendle to me and under the guise of my occultist’s persona I questioned her about her relations with Henry.’

      ‘Good lord. A vivid imagination doesn’t even begin to cover it. So we are now at a consultation between a masquerading occultist from Yorkshire, a French madame from Norfolk and a fraudulent gypsy from Wales. Charming. Proceed.’

      ‘How did you know I was from Yorkshire?’

      ‘I have an ear for accents. Proceed.’

      ‘Very well. During this session, Marcia Pendle revealed she never even met my uncle, let alone became his mistress.’

      He held up his hand again.

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