If His Kiss Is Wicked. Jo Goodman
he said again, softly. “But then you know that.”
She nodded. “Indeed.”
“You are not alone, though. I believe you mentioned family. Brothers? Sisters?”
“Neither. I live with my uncle and cousin. Uncle Arthur is my mother’s brother. My aunt died many years ago and he never remarried. Marisol is also their only child.”
“She is of an age with you?”
“There are four years between us. She is eighteen.”
Restell realized that Miss Hathaway was even younger than his second estimation of her age, and he was not successful in keeping this revelation to himself. The tiniest lift of his left eyebrow gave him away.
“You are surprised,” she said. “When you remarked that I was so young, where did you place my age?”
Recovering his misstep, Restell said, “I do not think it would be politic to answer that.”
Her slight smile communicated an appreciation for his response and that no offense had been taken. “You thought I was still older than you, I’d wager.”
“You won’t wheedle it out of me.”
“It is a common enough error. I am judged by most people to be an ape-leader, a term generally assigned to a woman some seven to ten years my senior with no prospects for marriage. I mention it lest you think that it is my recent experience that has aged me. I assure you, that is not the case. I have always been accounted to be older than my years.” She shrugged lightly. “A consequence of a serious temperament, I suppose, and an application of one’s mind to study.”
“No ape-leader, then, but a bluestocking.”
“If I were a man, you would call me a scholar.”
For all that her rebuke was softly spoken, Restell felt its sting sharply. “You are quite right. It was a fatuous comment and wholly undeserved. I beg your pardon.”
“You needn’t fall on your sword, Mr. Gardner. You have not scarred me.”
Restell felt the tug of an appreciative smile and gave into it. “You are a singular piece of work, Miss Hathaway.”
“Am I to take that as a compliment?”
“I certainly meant it as one; how you take it is entirely up to you.” When she offered no rejoinder or gave an indication of the bent of her mind, Restell continued his questioning. “Your Uncle Arthur is well set up?”
“You are referring to his finances.”
“Yes.”
“He lives quite comfortably. Is it important? You are concerned about your fee, no doubt.”
“We will discuss the matter of my fee if I decide to accept you as my client. It has no bearing on my question. I was wondering if your abductors could have had reasonable expectation of a ransom.”
“A ransom? For me?”
“Your uncle would not have paid for your safe return?”
“Yes…yes, of course he would…it’s just that…”
“Yes?”
“There is much I don’t remember about what happened.”
Restell watched her suck in her lower lip and worry it until she bit the tender spot. He almost winced on her behalf. She made a moue of apology and pressed his handkerchief against her lip. “Is there some question in your mind that there might have been a demand of ransom?” he asked.
“There’s never been any hint of it, at least to me. Neither my uncle nor Marisol have indicated that they knew of such.”
Restell marked the hesitation in her speech as signifying she was mulling over some aspect of her answer even as she gave it. “There is something more,” he said, “something you are perhaps only now considering. Tell me what you’re thinking.”
Pulled abruptly to the present, she blinked widely as her chin came up. “It is just that I should have wondered about a demand for money myself. It fits with what has occupied my thinking of late, so I am disappointed that it didn’t occur to me.”
Sighing, Restell picked up the letter opener again and beat an absent tattoo against the edge of his desk. He felt rather like his childhood tutor who marked time with a ruler while he waited for a proper answer to his question. Glancing sideways at the letter opener, he wondered if it was as threatening as the ruler had been. He supposed that depended on whether Miss Hathaway thought he could be moved to rap it sharply across her knuckles.
“That is rather less information than I expect from a scholarly mind, Miss Hathaway. The whole of it, please.”
“I am coming to that, Mr. Gardner, only you must stop banging the desk. The sound is like a timpani inside my head.”
Restell hit it once more before stopping. He kept the letter opener in his hand, suggestive of a warning, then used it as a conductor might use a baton to encourage her to begin again. Her perfectly splendid eyes narrowed slightly, and Restell counted it as a good thing that she was not easily managed.
“I have had the suspicion for some time that the attack against me was not one of impulse and opportunity. I believe that Marisol may have been the intended victim.”
“Your cousin?”
“Yes. Miss Marisol Vega.”
“Your uncle is Arthur Vega? Pardon me, I believe he is now Sir Arthur.”
“Yes. He is greatly honored by the crown’s recognition. Have you met?”
“I have been privileged to view several of his paintings, but we are not acquainted. If I am not mistaken, my mother recently purchased one of his recent works.” It reminded him that he must needs pay more attention to Lady Gardner when she rattled on about her views concerning art, fashion, and the theatre. It was too depressing for words.
“You’re frowning,” she said. “You don’t find my uncle’s work to your taste?”
“What I have seen I like well enough. I have not called upon Lady Gardner this past fortnight, so I cannot render an opinion about her latest acquisition. Although I generally take the time to form a well-reasoned position regarding matters of style, color, and brushstrokes, it is of no account to anyone but me. The sad fact of it is that I am a philistine, Miss Hathaway.”
“You are kind to warn me.”
Restell slid the letter opener aside. “Your uncle is comfortably set then.”
“I believe I have already said so. His paintings command a goodly sum.”
He waited to see if she would say that her uncle was also an inveterate gamer. Restell had had occasion to see his distinctive signature in the gaming books—and recently. One did not necessarily have to meet a man to know something about him, especially in the circle of the ton where gossip was the currency of exchange.
“Do you have any doubt that he would have met a ransom demand for his daughter?”
“Not one. Marisol is everything to him.”
“Even if the demand was more than he could properly afford?”
“There is no such amount. He would have found the means to do so. She is beloved.”
“Do you believe there would have been a demand for money if she had been taken?”
“It seems possible, though that supposes she was indeed marked for the abduction.”
“It’s your contention that she was,” he reminded her. “Tell me why.”
“I went to Madame Chabrier’s in her place. I borrowed her bonnet and her favorite pelisse. Marisol and I are not so dissimilar in height or frame or coloring, and I have heard it