The Cinderella Countess

When she nodded he carried on.

‘I am Lord Thornton and I wish to employ your services in regards to my sister. She has been struck down with a wasting sickness and no physician in England has been able to find a cure for her.’

‘But you are of the opinion that I might?’

‘People talk of you with great respect.’

‘People you know?’ She could not stop the disbelief betrayed in her words.

‘My valet, actually. You were instrumental in allowing his father a few more good years.’

‘Yet more often I do not foil the plans of God.’

‘You are a religious woman, then?’

‘More of a practical one. If you imagine me as the answer to all your...prayers, you may be disappointed.’ She faltered.

‘I am not a man who puts much stock in prayers, Miss Smith.’

‘What do you put stock in, then?’

For a second she thought she saw anger flint before he hid it.

‘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?’