Sapphire. Rosemary Rogers
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almost at once, startling her.
“May I help you?” a slender, middle-aged footman in a spotless black coat inquired, looking down at her through the lenses of his eyeglasses.
“Yes, thank you, sir.” Sapphire felt as if she couldn’t breathe as she stepped into the front hall without waiting to be asked. “I’m here to see Lord Wessex.” She was amazed how true and clear her voice sounded; it was without a hint of waver.
“And may I ask who is calling?”
Sapphire could tell by his tone of voice that he did not approve of her arrival without a proper invitation. In the day they had been in London, she had learned that English society life was quite different from the laissez-faire existence in Martinique among the wealthy French and English landowners. Here, there were rules concerning proper etiquette for visiting involving calling cards, morning invitations and evening invitations and even the length of sleeve appropriate. It was her lack of a proper calling card, presently at the printers, that probably made the footman suspicious of her.
“His daughter.” She smiled sweetly.
The footman could not hide his surprise. “Miss?”
“You ask who calls on Lord Wessex. I am his daughter.” She plucked off a glove, amazed at how easily she could fall into the role of Lady Sapphire Thixton. “Please tell him that I’m here. I haven’t but a moment.”
The butler gave a half bow, still looking as if he did not believe her. “Would you care to sit down while I see if his lordship is available?” He indicated a row of white and gold brocade chairs along one wall of the large, ornate receiving hall.
“No, thank you.” She hoped he would interpret her smile to mean he should hurry along.
“One moment, miss.”
He bowed again and disappeared through an arched doorway. The town house did not appear especially large from the outside, but she could now see that it was immense. Her father was not only titled, but obviously quite a wealthy man.
Sapphire exhaled slowly, pressing her hand to the knot in her abdomen, staring at the huge formal portraits of balding men that lined the walls.
Only a moment more, she told herself, and we’ll meet face-to-face.
Blake heard the first knock at the door to the study but ignored it. The knock came again and he peered up irritably from behind the desk that had belonged to the late Lord Wessex. “Yes, what is it that is so urgent?” he barked. “Did I not say less than half an hour ago that I did not wish to be disturbed unless the house was aflame? I don’t care what color livery the footmen wear today and I don’t care if we have the eel pie or the tripe soup because I will not be dining in this house tonight! Not if it were the last table of food on God’s earth,” he finished.
The paneled study door opened and the butler, Preston, stood at attention, his eyes downcast, until Blake completed his string of insults. “My lord.”
“Yes?” Blake groaned.
“There is someone to see you here, my lord.”
“Who?” He half rose from the chair, pressing the heels of his hands into the polished wood of the desk.
“A young lady, my lord, who says…”
“She says what, Preston? Come, now, I grow old before your eyes.”
“She says she is your daughter, my lord.”
“My daughter?” Blake exploded. “I haven’t got a damn daughter. What in God’s name—” He broke off before completing the sentence when he realized what was going on.
Word apparently spread fast in London when it came to inheritances, and people had been pouring out of the woodwork all week, claiming the previous earl owed them money. Perhaps a few were owed, considering the state of Edward Thixton IV’s accounts, but mostly these scavengers were on his doorstep hoping to take advantage of a grieving widow or an aged, addlepated heir. “Would you like me to turn her away, sir?”
Blake thought for a moment as he tightened the tie of the silk dressing gown he wore over a pair of silk trousers. The earl’s daughter? At least this claim was more inventive than an unpaid receipt for a wig or an evening coat. “No, no, Preston, I’ll take care of this one myself.” He wasn’t properly clothed to receive a caller, but he didn’t care.
“Right this way, miss,” the footman said as he led Sapphire down a hall and into a receiving parlor.
She couldn’t help but take in the room, the walls painted a pale green, the heavy drapes in stripes of a complementary hue. The furniture was old but well kept and far more attractive and elegant than some of the newer styles she had seen in the Carlisles’ home. She sighed, then whispered to herself, “I’m here, Mama, at last.”
“His lordship will be in directly,” the footman said, backing through the doorway and closing the double pocketed mahogany doors behind him.
Sapphire turned toward one wall to study a large seascape hung in a gilt frame. She could just make out the name E. Thixton scrawled in the bottom right corner of the painting. It was really quite good. Had her father painted it? Taking a step closer, she admired the bold strokes of blue and green that seemed to bring the sea pounding against the rocky shore to life.
The doors behind Sapphire slid open and she turned.
For a moment, Blake found himself speechless. Preston had said it was a girl come to call, claiming to be the daughter of the Earl of Wessex, but he had fully expected a malnourished chit with bad teeth, dressed in a cheap gown and ugly hat.
But standing before him was a full woman with glossy dark red hair, an expensive, fashionable gown and eyes he would fantasize about for many nights to come. She had the creamiest, most luscious skin, with a sprinkling of freckles across her straight nose and a charming chin with the slightest cleft. But it was her mouth, even more than her shocking eyes or lustrous hair, that mesmerized him most. Hers was the mouth of a courtesan—perfectly shaped with a thin upper lip and a full, sensuous lower lip, a mouth his own suddenly ached to taste.
Only when she blinked was Blake jolted back to reality.
“What do you think you’re doing?” he demanded.
“Pardon me?” she replied angrily, her mind racing in confusion. He was young, certainly too young to be her father, who would be close to fifty. Who was this rude man and what was he doing in her father’s house?
“You heard me,” he said as he strode in. He was a shockingly handsome man, perhaps ten or twelve years older than she was, with a shock of ebony hair and the most intense brown eyes she had ever seen.
“I suppose I should ask you the same thing.” She took a step toward him, lifting her chin as she crossed her arms over her fitted jacket.
“I don’t know who you are or what you want but I will not tolerate any false claims from fortune hunters or thieves. Now, whatever you might believe is owed to you will be paid, if it is indeed owed to you,” he said. “I will provide you with the name and location of my barrister and all bills will be submitted to him and only him. I’ll not pay a pence until your claim is investigated.”
Sapphire stepped back. The man’s words didn’t make sense. Who was he calling a fortune hunter and what bills was he talking about?
“What have you to say for yourself, young lady?”
The stranger strode across the room. He was so close, she could smell his shaving lotion and the masculine scent of his skin.
“Who are you?” she asked. “I’m looking for Lord Wessex, the Earl of Wessex who owns this house.”
“I am Lord Wessex, and I am the owner of the property, young lady. Now I suggest you remove yourself from said property before I call the constable.”
Sapphire made a sound of protest but it caught in her throat. “No, you can’t