The Cinderella Countess. Sophia James

      ‘Brandy. Gaming. Horseflesh. Women.’

      There was a wicked glimmer of danger in his gold eyes and Belle stepped back.

      * * *

      Miss Annabelle Smith looked shocked but he was not here to pretend. She had the most astonishing blue eyes Lytton had ever seen and when her fingers had run over his private parts in her haste to remove the dog from the hem of his waistcoat he’d felt an instantaneous connection of red-hot lust.

      Hell.

      Did the tea have something in it, some herbal aphrodisiac that befuddled his brain and bypassed sense? Because already he wanted her fingers back where they had only briefly rested.

      He pushed the money she offered away and stood, his boot crunching the remnants of the teacup into even smaller parts, the roses once etched into the china now disembodied.

      He could not imagine what had made him answer her query as to what he put stock in so rudely, but, he suddenly felt just like the dog—Stanley, had she called him?—all his hackles raised and a sense of fate eroding free will.

      There was protection in the depravities of his true self and suddenly even his sister’s need for Annabelle Smith’s magical concoctions was secondary to his own need for escape.

      But she was not letting him go so easily, the towel she had in her hand now dabbing again at his thigh.

      Was she deranged? What female would think this acceptable? With horror he felt a renewed rising in his cursed appendage and knew that she had seen the betrayal of his body in her instant and fumbling withdrawal. The white towel was stained brown in tea.

      ‘I thought...’ She stopped and dimples that he had not known she had suddenly surfaced. ‘I am sorry.’ With determination she stuck the cloth out for him to take and turned her back. ‘You may see to yourself, Lord Earl of Thornton. I should have understood that before.’

      His title was wrong. She had no idea how to address a peer of the realm. He rubbed at his thighs with speed and was glad of the lessening hot wetness.

      Taking in a breath, he realised how much he had needed air. She still had not turned around, her shapely bottom outlined beneath the thin day dress she wore. There were patches at a side pocket and the head of some straggly plant stuck out of the top.

      She smelt of plants, too, the mist of them all around her. Not an unpleasant smell, but highly unusual. Most ladies of his acquaintance held scents of violets, or roses, or lavender.

      ‘I have finished with the towel, Miss Smith.’

      He was amused by her allowance of so much privacy.

      ‘Thank you.’ She snatched it back from him and the awkward maiden became once again a direct and determined woman, no air of humour visible.

      ‘I would need to see your sister before I prescribed her anything. Proper medicine does not enjoy guesswork and a wasting sickness encompasses many maladies that are as different from each other as night is to day.’

      ‘Very well. She is here in London for the next week, seeing specialists, so if you would have some time...’

      ‘Pick me up here at nine tomorrow morning. I need to prepare some treatments but...’ She hesitated and then carried on. ‘I do not come cheap, my lord Earl. Each consultation would be in the vicinity of three pounds.’

      Lytton thought she held her breath as she said this, but he could have been wrong. ‘Done. I will be here at nine.’

      ‘Good day, then.’

      She put her hand out and shook his. He felt small hardened spots on her fingers and wondered what work might have brought those about.

      Not the soft pliable hands of a lady. Not the grip of one either. The one ring she wore was small and gold. He felt the excess of his own jewellery with a rising distaste.

      A moment later he was in his carriage, leaning his head back against fine brown leather. He needed a stiff drink and quickly.

      ‘White’s,’ he said to the footman who was closest, glad when the conveyance began to move away from the cloying poverty of Whitechapel and from the contrary, forceful and highly unusual Miss Annabelle Smith.

      * * *

      His club was busy when he arrived and he strode over to where Aurelian de la Tomber was sitting talking to Edward Tully.

      ‘I thought you were still in Sussex with your beautiful wife, Lian?’

      ‘I was until this morning. I am only up here for the day and will go home first thing tomorrow.’

      ‘Wedded life suits you, then. You were always far more nomadic.’

      ‘The philosophy of one woman and one home is addictive.’

      ‘Then you are a lucky man.’

      Lytton saw Edward looking at him strangely and hoped he’d kept the sting out of his reply. It was getting more and more difficult to be kind, he thought, and swallowed the brandy delivered by a passing servant, ordering another in its wake.

      He was unsettled and distinctly out of sorts, his visit to the East End of London searing into any contentment he’d had.

      ‘I’ve just had a meeting with a woman who concocts medicines in the dingy surroundings of Whitechapel. Someone needs to do something about the smell of the place, by the way, for it is more pungent than ever.’

      ‘Was the herbalist hopeful of finding some remedy for your sister?’

      Edward looked at him directly, sincerity in his eyes.

      ‘She was.’ Lytton said this because to imagine anything else was unthinkable and because right now he needed hope more than honesty.

      ‘Who is she?’ Aurelian asked.

      ‘Miss Annabelle Smith. My valet recommended her services.’

      ‘She cured him? Of what?’

      ‘No. She prolonged the life of his father and the family were grateful. I can’t quite imagine how he paid the costs, though.’

      ‘The costs of her visits?’

      ‘Three pounds a time feels steep.’

      ‘Had you given her your card before she charged you?’

      Lytton nodded. ‘And I would have been willing to pay more if she had asked.’

      ‘The mystery of supply and demand, then? How old is she?’

      ‘Not young. She spoke French, too, which was surprising.’

      That interested Aurelian. ‘Smith is not a French name?’

      ‘Neither is Annabelle. There was an older woman there who did appear to be from France, though. An aunt I think she called her after their dog attacked me.’ He loosened the buttons of his jacket to show them the wreckage of his waistcoat.

      ‘A colour like that needs tearing apart.’ Edward’s voice held humour, but Aurelian’s was much more serious.

      ‘I have never heard of this woman or of her French aunt. Perhaps it bears looking into?’

      ‘No.’ Lytton said this in a tone that had the others observing him. ‘No investigations. She is meeting Lucy tomorrow.’

      Edward was trying his hardest to look nonchalant, but he could tell his friend was curious.

      ‘What does she look like?’

      ‘Strong. Certain. Direct. She is nothing like the females of the ton. Her dress was at least ten years out of date and she favours scarves to tie her hair back. It is dark and curly and reaches to at least her waist. She was...uncommon.’

      ‘It seems she made quite an impression on you then, Thorn? I saw Susan Castleton a few hours back and she said you were supposed