Reckless. Shannon Drake

      Emma squared her shoulders, a frown furrowing her brow. “Has she run away?”

      “I think she just needed…a little air,” Hunter said.

      “I do hope she returns. Such an exquisite little creature. Why, Hunter, in all my life, I’ve never seen such eyes as hers. And she’s ever so polite. A true joy. Not that it’s my place to say, but compared to a few of the women you’ve had here… Oh, sorry. And I’ve worked so hard on a lovely supper… Oh, not that I don’t want you to enjoy a lovely supper, but—”

      “Emma, I do believe she’ll be right back,” Hunter said. “You go tend to the supper.”

      When Emma was gone, he saw the note on the dresser. As he read it, he was surprised by the little stirring of emotion that seized him.

      And then there was the sketch. A marvelous reproduction of the Sphinx.

      Her father.

      Not that it had been such a natural thing that he should have realized the man’s identity by peeping through his window. But oddly enough, it had just been the week before that he had been out in the country at the home of his friends, the Earl and Countess of Carlyle, that he had first seen one of the stirring seascapes painted by William Adair. Brian hadn’t really known anything about the artist. He had simply fallen in love with the wild natural turbulence, the sense of the sea, of the wind, in the painting. “A local fellow, I was told, though the gallery owner didn’t know much about the artist personally, for he had acquired the work through an agent. I must, soon, find out where he does live. The piece is quite magnificent, but I bought it at a steal from a fellow down on Sloane Street.”

      Hunter had been entranced and had studied the oil at his leisure. The signature had been small but firm, and entirely legible. William Adair. And once he had followed Kat, peeped in through the window and seen the pieces hanging within the small abode, he had realized that oils of such power and emotion could have only been created by the same artist.

      And so his mermaid was the man’s daughter. And her little sketch gave proof of an amazing, if untapped and untrained, talent, as well.

      He replaced the note as it had been left and slipped out of the room, leaving all as if he had never entered it.

      Then he waited in the yard, determined to catch his guest in the act of trying to return undetected. He wondered how long she waited to depart her home unnoticed. It would have taken her a bit of time, since she would have had to convince her sister to be part of her subterfuge. In Kat’s mind, all she would have to do was elude her father for the evening. Her one magical evening. She couldn’t know as yet that there would be no way to see Lord Avery—or David—tonight.

      At last, he saw her. Behind a pillar on the porch, he watched as she made her way down the street. She slowed before reaching the house, and must have been dismayed to realize that he was outside. She hovered by a mulberry bush, certain that he must give up soon and go into the house.

      He did not.

      At last she wandered by, twirling a piece of impossibly brilliant hair between her fingers. “Sir Hunter!” she said, sounding politely surprised.

      “My dear girl,” he replied just as pleasantly. “Wherever have you been?”

      “Oh, not far,” she lied sweetly. “I just slipped out for…some air.”

      “Ah. And did the air help any?” he inquired.

      “Help with what?”

      “The return of your memory, of course!”

      “Oh! Well, no…I’m so sorry. Yes, yes, of course, I had thought that a walk might bring much more to mind regarding my identity, but…alas, I’m afraid that it hasn’t been so.”

      “Oh, dear,” Hunter sympathized.

      “Will…will I be seeing Lord Avery and David Turnberry this evening?” she asked.

      “I’m afraid not.”

      “Oh?” She sounded startled, certainly. And, actually, quite cross.

      Understandable, given her circumstances.

      He smiled. “Lord Avery has an old ticker, my dear. Heart, that is. He must rest tonight. He will come tomorrow.”

      “I see.” She lowered her head quickly, hiding her disappointment. And trying to come up with a new plan, he imagined.

      “I’m so sorry that you’re disappointed. However, we’ve a lovely dinner awaiting us, at your convenience.”

      “How very kind of you. I… Would it be possible to dine in my room? I do believe the excitement of the day has made me quite tired.”

      “But have you been out walking so very long? I was under the impression that you’d had a nice long nap this afternoon after we returned.”

      “Well, I did, yes, of course, but near drowning can be so very tiring!”

      “Mrs. Johnson has a meal prepared. We were only waiting for you to wake up. Imagine! We didn’t want to disturb you, but you were already awake and wandering about.”

      “Right. Imagine,” she murmured. “But I am so very exhausted…”

      “You must join me for a meal.”

      She lifted her hand, smiled—her teeth grating beneath the facade, surely—but not at all certain how to escape his insistence. “As you wish.”

      “As you wish,” he returned, but his tone gave evidence that they would, indeed, dine together. He walked to the door, opened it and indicated that she precede him. She did so, the sweet smell of rosewater drifting to his nostrils.

      He followed her, showing her the elegant dining room to the right of the main entry, adjacent to the kitchen. A fire burned brightly and the table was beautifully set. He pulled out her chair, seating her with all propriety. Her head was lowered. When he took his own chair, she looked up and murmured, “This is all quite lovely. Thank you.”

      He noted that she was looking at the clock on the mantel. Was her intent to slip back to her own home this evening? Or had she thought that she could sleep the night and be back before her father noticed her bed empty in the morning?

      He waved a hand negligently. “Emma loves to cook. She doesn’t get the opportunity all that often.”

      “You don’t eat?” she inquired with fake courtesy.

      “I’m usually at my club, arguing with someone,” he admitted. “When I am in London.”

      “Ah, yes. You are seldom in the country.”

      “You knew that?” he asked.

      “Of course. Your name is quite often in the papers.”

      “Ah. So you remember reading the newspapers.”

      She flushed but rebounded admirably. “Indeed, I do.”

      Emma swept in then, bearing a large silver tray with delicate slices of beef and pheasant, generous servings of au gratin potatoes and greens. Ethan—handsomely attired in livery—was at her side, ready to serve.

      Hunter noted that his guest sat up, savoring the aromas. He wondered then when she had last eaten.

      “Child?” Emma said. “Oh, this is so difficult! We must call you something!”

      “Mmm, true,” Hunter murmured. “It does seem rude to keep referring to you as ‘girl’ or ‘child.’” He watched as they were both served, and thanked both Emma and Ethan, then sat back in his chair, surveying his guest.

      “Ah, well, soon enough, we must discover your real name!” he said. He smiled up at Emma. “But for the moment, well…”

      “Perhaps she is a Jane,” Emma suggested.

      “Possibly.