The Wilder Wedding. Lyn Stone
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out this way. I’m Lambdin Middlebrook.”
“I am no longer with the Yard,” the man corrected quietly.
“No, no, of course you aren’t. Should have paid more heed. I thought Father said…well, you were to uncover something havey-cavey about the shipping, weren’t you?” Lambdin probed.
Lord, Laura wished Lambdin would stop nattering, pay the man and send him away. She needed desperately to learn more about Dr. Cadwallader’s predictions for her.
The visitor shifted his leather case to his left hand. “Yes. My business, Wilder Investigations, is an individual concern. Your father’s aware of that, if you are not.”
“Ah, yes, that’s it!” Lambdin gushed. “A private enquiry agent! Of course, I remember now. Well, come in, come in!”
The guest entered and shook Lambdin’s outstretched hand. Even as he did so, the man’s piercing green gaze fell on her. Dimly Laura registered the impression of emeralds set in gold. Golden skin, sun kissed, as though he dwelt in warm, southern climes. Soft, dark and wind tossed waves framed his strong features.
The stranger projected a gilded warmth that drew her, as though somehow he might banish this frightful coldness if she let him. Then, suddenly, he deliberately did something to shutter all that, and the intensity of his regard made her uncomfortable.
Laura sucked in a deep breath and tried to muster what composure she could. He made her feel like a bug pinned to a collection board. Pinned by those eyes. Eyes that seemed to ferret out everything. Once again, something flickered briefly in their jeweled depths. Compassion?
Could he see at a glance that she was doomed? Dying, even as he watched? She couldn’t bear it.
With a sob she couldn’t contain, Laura took to her heels and clattered up the stairs.
The upper hallway had never seemed so long. When she finally reached her room, Laura slammed the door behind her, turned the key and threw herself across her bed.
She was not going to die. She wasn’t! There was some ghastly mistake here. The doctor was old, confused. Or Lamb and Charles were playing some horrible joke on her. They knew she was eavesdropping and were teaching her a lesson. Perhaps she had imagined it all. Or her ears had deceived her.
Oh God, she couldn’t be dying. She flatly refused to die!
Sean Wilder looked a question at his host, though he didn’t bother to ask who the scurrying little rabbit might be. He didn’t usually affect women quite that profoundly. And—modesty aside—when he did so they usually ran to him, not away. True, his size intimidated some. That must be the case. She was a wee mite of a thing.
Pretty, too, he had noticed. Petite and curved in all the right places. He would bet the hefty fee from his last case that her shape was natural, and not the result of fashionable underpinnings. That umber hair of hers gleamed like flawless satin against her well-shaped head. Made a man wonder what it would look like loosened from that untidy chignon and swinging free about her shoulders. He recalled then that those wide gray eyes had already been wet when he first saw her. She hadn’t run from him, then. Perhaps she had just received a dressing-down from Middlebrook for shirking her duties.
“My sister,” the fellow explained, summarily dashing Sean’s theory about a rebuked servant. “Been off her feed here lately. Sorry if she seemed rude.”
“She seemed upset,” Sean said bluntly.
Middlebrook shrugged. “Oh, you know, women suffer these megrims time to time. Had the doctor to her just this morning.”
“Nothing serious, I hope?” To his surprise, Sean found himself wishing very hard that the man’s answer would alleviate his worry. Why the hell should he care one way or the other? The girl meant nothing to him. God only knows he had seen scores of women in straits far more dire than this pampered pigeon’s worst nightmares. But for some reason, he needed to know what was wrong.
Middlebrook obviously took Sean’s question as a polite response and ignored it as he led the way into a well-appointed study. The young man introduced his friend who was busy pouring drinks. “This is Mr. Sean Wilder, James. Sir, my neighbor, James Maclin.”
Sean noted Maclin’s hands tremble on the decanter and glass and the fellow’s dawning expression of awe. So, this one was no stranger to London’s gossip mill. Affecting his most enigmatic smile, Sean slowly inclined his head in greeting. He rather enjoyed Maclin’s discomposure. Fostering his black reputation remained one of the small pleasures Sean allowed himself.
“Don’t mind James,” Middlebrook said. “He’s only hanging about to see my new foal when it arrives. Interested in breeding, sir?”
“Not at all,” Sean declared abruptly. He had little use for horses other than their getting him from one place to another. They were fractious beasts at best, and he had never had the slightest desire to own one. Besides, distractions from business at hand always bothered him and he did not intend to encourage this one. The lovely watering pot dashing up the stairs had proved distraction enough already. He could ignore fury, petulance, even outright seduction, but a woman’s tears stopped him in his tracks every time. What in the world could have set her off like that?
Middlebrook looked miffed at Sean’s disinterest in his stables. “Very well, then. Have a seat if you will. You have the information my father requested before he left? I recall I’m to forward it to him as soon as he sends word where to post it.”
Sean shook off thoughts of Middlebrook’s sister and drew the documents out of his case. He hadn’t the time or the inclination to get involved in anyone else’s problems.
Still the young woman had looked so confoundingly tragic, clutching that stair rail. He could still envision the white of her knuckles and the trembling of her full lower lip. Damn! He shook his head to clear it of the troubling image.
He knew better than this. Once a man let a woman get close enough to make him worry about her, he might as well go ahead and lift his chin for the throat-cutting.
No, a real attachment didn’t bear thinking about. He had already traveled that scenic route twice with young ladies of good name. The first time proved devastating. The second had only pinched his pride, of course. One learned.
If he had any driving ambition at all, it was to avoid any emotional entanglement with another female. Now, a physical entanglement would be welcome as hell, he thought, repressing a smile. But Miss Middlebrook was not that sort.
Best get his business completed and remove himself from the vicinity before the idea of seducing her took root.
“You should pass these reports along as soon as possible so your father can take action on them. He is losing a fortune even as we speak,” Sean advised the lad.
A pair of old Middlebrook’s shipping managers were skimming funds on both sides of the water. Middlebrook had specifically asked him not to kill anyone involved. Some wag or another must have added “paid assassin” to Sean’s list of dubious talents. The thought prompted a grin. Fear certainly had its uses.
“I assume he left instructions as to my remuneration?” Sean asked politely.
Sean had sensed the fear underlying the elder Middlebrook’s disdain the day he had hired him. But only once in this business had someone tried to cheat him. One of his clients—a banker, ironically—had refused to pay once Sean had completed a job for him. A neighbor discovered the man dead of knife wounds the very next day. Never mind that Sean had spent the entire evening with the chief inspector of Scotland Yard. Never mind that the real culprit had been caught and punished by hanging. The gossips would have it that Wilder “had his ways.” Sean didn’t mind. Reputation was everything in this business.
“Oh yes, of course. I’m to see to it.” Middlebrook stashed the folder of facts in the desk drawer and handed over an envelope containing a presigned cheque. Sean verified the amount and they shook hands. “Tea’s in one hour. You’ll stay,