If His Kiss Is Wicked. Jo Goodman

am seeking from you. I do not believe I mistook the doctor’s meaning. He was speaking of protection from harm. That is why I have come to you.”

      Restell folded his arms across his chest and regarded his visitor frankly. He did not try to penetrate her veil but took in the whole of her figure: the braced shoulders and narrow back, the quality and cut of her clothing, the stillness of her hands on the reticule. There was no glimpse of her hair and her feet were tucked modestly under the chair and hidden by her gown. She could be fair or dark or possess the olive complexion that suggested a Mediterranean heritage. She spoke in accents that were similar to his own and were influenced by years in London, attention to education, but nonetheless hinted at origins far north of the city. He could not deny that he was intrigued. He accepted that as fact. It did not necessarily follow that he was favorably disposed to taking up this matter of her protection.

      “Is it shelter that you require?” he asked.

      “No, not shelter. I have a home.”

      “Then you are not seeking to escape it.” He saw her shoulders jerk and the brim of her bonnet lift as her chin came up. She was clearly shocked by the import of his words.

      “No, of course not. I am content there.”

      Restell thought it a peculiar expression of sentiment, but he did not comment on it. “You will have to tell me more. It would be a good beginning to tell me why you need protection.”

      “I’m not sure that I do. That is a matter for you to determine. I thought I heard Dr. Bettany say that you make discreet inquiries. I am as interested in securing your services toward that end as I am in protection.”

      Was it too early for a drink? Restell wondered. He glanced past his visitor’s shoulder to the drinks cabinet and actually considered removing the stopper from the decanter of whiskey and taking his fill. “Did you not just say you weren’t certain you needed protection?”

      “I’m not certain I need it for myself,” she said. “I believe perhaps my cousin is the one who requires it.”

      “Your cousin. I don’t suppose I might know her name.”

      “In time, I think. You can understand that I must be certain that engaging you is the right course of action.”

      One corner of Restell’s mouth lifted slightly, hinting at both mockery and amusement. “I understand you think the decision is entirely yours.”

      “Isn’t it?”

      Restell did not respond immediately. Unfolding his arms, he picked up the letter opener on the tray at his side and lightly tapped the end of it against the palm of his other hand.

      “No, in fact it ultimately rests with me,” he said at last. It was just a fancy on his part, but he imagined that behind her veil she was frowning deeply. “I do not accept everyone who applies to me as my client. Conversely, I might choose to offer my services to someone who does not formally engage me. Once you announced your intention at the door to have this interview and stubbornly waited when I gave you sufficient time to think better of it, you surrendered your prerogative to decide the outcome. Whether you like it or not, I will determine how we go from here.”

      “But you don’t even know who I am. If I do not hire you, you will never know it. You cannot offer your services to someone whose name you don’t know.”

      “God’s truth, you cannot be so foolish as to believe I will not discover it. If my peculiar talents do not extend so far as that, then why would you entertain any notion of engaging my services? It defies any sort of common sense. Have you so much in the way of cotton wool between your ears?”

      Restell replaced the letter opener and stood. “Are you taking exception to my words? I hope so. If you are completely cowed, then there is no hope for it but that I will have to show you the door.”

      “I know where the door is,” she said. “And sense enough about me still to get there on my own.”

      Restell permitted himself a small smile as he turned his back on her and skirted the desk. He dropped into the leather chair behind it and set his long legs before him at an angle. “How did you find me?” He did not miss the way she subtly shifted in her seat. The question surprised her.

      “But I have already told you. Dr. Bettany.”

      “That is how you heard of me. I inquired as to how you found me.”

      “You are not the only one who can make discreet inquiries. I had it from a member of your family that you were temporarily using your brother’s London residence.”

      “I sincerely doubt that someone in my own family characterized my stay here as temporary. All of them know I am quite satisfied with the arrangement; indeed, that I enjoy the distinct benefits of making this establishment my home. I will not be easily dislodged, even if Ferrin should raise some objection. The earl is my stepbrother, by the way, although we do not make too fine a point of it. I merely mention it so you will know that he possesses a generous nature that I frequently admire and regularly take advantage of but do not necessarily share.”

      “You are the poor relation, then.”

      The half smile that frequently lifted one corner of Restell’s mouth now became a fulsome one, engaging his clear blue eyes and deepening the creases of twin dimples on either side of his lips. “Some would say so, yes.”

      “You do not seem to mind.”

      “I hadn’t realized that I should.” He shrugged, dismissing this line of inquiry. “So you had it from some member of my family that I could be found here. Dr. Bettany wouldn’t necessarily know that, you see, which is what made me curious. I was yet living on Kingston Street when I made the acquaintance of the good doctor.” Restell laced his fingers together and tapped his thumbs as he considered his visitor and all that she had not told him. “Are you yet prepared to share the whole of why you’re here? I’ve had little enough sleep these three nights past and find I am weary of wondering. In truth, I am all for crawling back into my warm bed.”

      Restell had learned that silence was often the key to confession. When she did not respond immediately, he waited her out. He continued to study her as though he had long ago penetrated her veil and knew the nuances of her every expression, and when he had the urge to break the silence, he cautioned himself to wait that bit much longer.

      In the end, he was rewarded for his patience.

      She lifted the veil.

      Restell had seen men leave the boxing ring after three rounds of rough sparring with fewer bruises than this woman had. The evidence of her beating had faded, to be sure, but there was color enough remaining to determine where the blows had landed. Beneath both eyes she sported deep violet shadows, proof that her nose had been broken if not completely smashed. Her complexion was suffused with the yellow hue associated with jaundice. In her case it was further confirmation of the fists she had endured. Her left cheek looked to be more tender than her right one; faint swelling was still visible across the arch. A thin cut on her lower lip had not healed, most likely because when she spoke it was laid open again. He could make out the faint line of bruising along one side of her neck. The high collar of her walking gown obscured what had been done to her throat, but Restell imagined mottled thumbprints at the hollow between her collarbones as testament that she had been choked, probably within a single breath of her life.

      Restell took in the whole of her countenance in a single glance, then sought to see beneath it. The contusions obscured her features almost as well as the veil. Restell had to peel back every distended layer of bruising to find the true shape of her face.

      She had a fine bone structure: a pared nose that had been set straight by a firm and skillful hand, a high arch to her cheeks that was made more prominent by the hollow beneath, a slender jaw held firmly—perhaps painfully—in place. Her eyes had a vaguely exotic slant to them that Restell supposed she could use to great effect if she lowered her lashes even a fraction. What she did, however, was hold his stare directly and give no quarter. The consequence of such forthrightness