A Waltz in the Park by Deb Marlowe Page B

dark, intent gaze.  “Such beautiful fabrics,” she added belatedly.
    Stunning, in truth, although perhaps not up to her breathless state of enthusiasm.  But better admit to a fabric-induced excess of delight than the truth, for the room was small and once inside, she stood disturbingly close to Vickers.
    “Thank you, Newman,” he said.
    “Of course, sir.  Call if you need aught.”  He swung the door shut.
    Leaving her alone and in intimate proximity with—Vickers’ neck cloth. 
    A wonderful creation, crisply creased and intricately folded, functioning as the perfect compliment to the hard edge of his jaw and the strong angle of his cheekbones.
    And the only safe place for her to look, for below sat the shoulders she’d gripped when last she saw him and atop sat that lovely, determined mouth that had plundered her own.
    “Come in.”
    A small round table sat in the middle of the space, partially covered in designs and swatches and accompanied by two chairs.  She took one, and he the other—and here they were again, close, isolated . . . nervous.
    “Hestia charged me with a delivery.”  He handed over a large packet.
    “Thank you.”  She pulled out a neat, detailed description of several rooms in London, each furnished and as inexpensive as could be had without sacrificing respectability.  The distance to Crawley from both was also marked.
    “Another note with a similar report on Sussex leases will come soon.”
    “Thank her for me?”
    He nodded.  “I wanted a chance to talk to you, thus—”  He waved a hand.
    “However did you arrange it?” she asked, taking in all the wonderful sarcenets and silks.
    His mouth quirked.  “I’m the Wicked Vickers.  I know every pretty nook and cranny in London.”
    She grinned.  “Then I look forward to seeing more of them.”
    His half-smile faded.  “We must speak of that.”
    “Yes,” she agreed eagerly.  “I’ve news!  I’ve found a way to help you.”
    In the same instant he said, “We must put an official end to our agreement.”
    “Wait,” they both exclaimed at once.  “What?”
    “Hestia’s right.  You must take care of your reputation.  Especially if you wish to take that course,” he pointed at the packet.  “After last time . . .”
    “Forget last time.  Please, listen?  I’ve finally found a way I can be of real use to you.”  Hestia’s comment about Vickers having no friends to turn to had haunted her.  “Hear me out.”
    He sat back with a resigned look.
    “It’s true, you scared Rosamond.  She doesn’t wish to talk to you.”  She held up a hand at his protest.  “However, she does seem inclined to talk about you.  She’s worried, and she’s fretting out loud.  She’s begun talking of her . . . friendship with your father.”
    “To you?” he scowled.
    “Yes, and I’m happy to tell you what you need to know, as long as we follow the parameters of our original agreement.”
    He shook his head.  “It’s not a good idea.”
    “Really?  Because she told me that a mutual acquaintance paired them together.  She didn’t say whom, but the way she spoke implied that it was someone with influence.  She agreed to spend time with your father, act as his hostess as he held entertainments, and to be sure certain of her friends became acquainted with certain of his.”
    “She told me nearly as much already,” he said dismissively.  “It’s not worth the risk.”
    “Perhaps she did, but I’m convinced I can persuade her to reveal more.  I have time and circumstance on my side.”
    “Why?  Why would you go to such trouble?”
    “Because you did me such a good turn, and you didn’t even realize it.”  She fiddled with a swatch.  “I told you how important my stories are to me?  Well, they were lost to me for a good while.  Grief killed the words and scenes and people of my inner world.  Eventually time passed and we all began to live again, but I couldn’t find them.  Then I met