'Til Death Do Us Part (3 page)

“No,” she said. “The last thing I need is a professional fortune hunter trying to make me believe that he is still in love with me after he abandoned me to marry another woman. I would remind you that I am not alone in this house. My housekeeper and butler may be elderly, but I assure you they are still quite capable of whistling for a constable if necessary. Yes, Nestor, I will scream bloody murder if that's what it takes to remove you from the premises.”

It was the startled look on his face that made her realize they were no longer alone.

“
Can I be of any assistance?”

The dark, masculine voice came from directly behind her. The words were spoken in a chillingly polite manner that could have been mistaken for aloof disinterest if not for the razor-sharp steel edge just below the surface.

She spun around and saw Mrs. Sykes, wide-eyed with shock, in the hall. The housekeeper was accompanied by the man who had just alighted from the hansom.

Her heart sank. This was not an auspicious start to what she had hoped would prove to be an excellent business relationship.

Her first thought was that, fine clothes aside, the caller bore a striking resemblance to the sort of individual one might expect to encounter in a dark alley on a moonless night.

It was not the ragged web of scars on the left side of his cheek and jaw that made him appear dangerous—it was something about his eyes. They were a startling blend of green and gold and infused with an implacable will.

Nestor was at last stunned into silence.

It was Mrs. Sykes who, no doubt calling upon years of professional training, shattered the crystalline atmosphere.

“Your ten o'clock appointment is here, Miss Langley,” she said. “Mr. Hastings.” Then she immediately spoiled the effect by lowering her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “The
author
, miss.”

“Yes, of course.” Calista collected herself and gave Trent her best client smile. “You must be Eudora Hastings's brother. A pleasure to meet you, sir.”

“I apologize for the interruption,” Trent said. He continued to watch Nestor with a detached curiosity that was more ominous than anything he might have said. “I trust my arrival is not a problem for you.”

“Not at all.” Calista stepped back, and motioned with her hand to invite him to enter the study. “Do come in. Mr. Kettering was just leaving. Isn't that right, Mr. Kettering?”

Nestor shot her a furious glare, but it was obvious to all of them that he was trapped. Nevertheless, he rallied for one last strike.

“You're Trent Hastings, the author of the Clive Stone detective novels?” he asked with a deceptively lazy air.

“That is correct,” Trent said.

“Pity about those scars. No wonder you felt the need to seek out the services of an
introductions
agency. It must be rather difficult to meet respectable ladies with that face.”

“Nestor,”
Calista gasped, horrified.

Mrs. Sykes stared at Nestor, appalled.

Satisfied, Nestor gave Calista a thin smile.

“You must excuse me, Calista,” he said. “I'm a busy man.”

He brushed past her and moved out into the hall where he paused with a dramatic flourish and looked back at Trent.

“Read the latest chapter of your new book in the
Flying Intelligencer
, Hastings. This one isn't shaping up to be your best work, is it? The plot is quite weak. I already know the identity of the villain and you're only halfway through the story. I do hope you're going to kill off Wilhelmina Preston. Can't abide that character.”

Nestor did not wait for a response. He went down the hall, his footsteps ringing on the hardwood floor.

“I'll see him out,” Mrs. Sykes said.

She hurried after Nestor.

Very deliberately, Trent removed his leather gloves, revealing more scars on the back of his left hand.

“I do apologize,” Calista said.

“There's no need,” Trent said. “I have been a writer for several years now. I learned long ago that everyone's a critic.”

“E
VERYON
E
HAS
SCARS
,
Mr. Hastings.” Calista looked up from her notebook and gave Trent a reassuring smile. “Some are more visible than others, but that need not present any great problem.”

Much to her relief, Trent had not attempted to invade her privacy by inquiring about Nestor's presence. Instead he had surveyed her study with the same detached curiosity he had applied to Nestor and then he had accepted her invitation to sit down.

Relieved that the unfortunate scene was concluded, she had hurried back behind her desk, sat down, and opened her notebook. She was prepared to conduct a standard client interview. But it was Trent who had asked the first question and it had caught her off guard.
Do you think my scars will be an issue?

Trent leaned back in his chair and fixed her with a considering look. “You don't think my face will get in the way of finding me a wife?”

“You appear to be under a misapprehension concerning the nature of my business,” she said. “I do not promise that my introductions will end in matrimony, sir. I endeavor to promote associations between
like-minded individuals who find themselves single for one reason or another—
respectable
, like-minded people. Not everyone seeks marriage. Some hope for friendship and companionship.”

“Why do I have the impression that you are one of those who doesn't seek marriage?”

Her day was not improving, she reflected. First, Nestor had stormed back into her life expecting to take up where they had left off, and now the excellent prospective client she had hoped to attract was proving difficult.

She reminded herself to be patient. Trent Hastings was certainly not the first wary individual she had dealt with. In spite of the fact that she conducted her business strictly on the basis of word of mouth and confidential referrals, more than one person had entered her office with some trepidation. Few arrived knowing exactly what to expect from an introductions agency.

None, however, had referred, even obliquely, to the fact that she was not married. At her age, her status was clear to one and all—she was a spinster.

“If we might return to the subject at hand,” she said. “I can assure you that I have several very respectable ladies among my clients who are possessed of the sort of discerning intelligence that enables them to look beyond the superficial. Their first and most important requirement in a friend—or a husband, for that matter—is strength of character.”

“And just how do you go about ascertaining a client's character?”

She tapped the tip of the pencil against the blank page of her notebook. She was supposed to be conducting the interview, but Trent was the one asking the questions.

Earlier that morning she had looked forward to the prospect of meeting him. She had recognized the name that Mrs. Sykes had written in the appointment book for two reasons. The first was that Trent's
sister, Eudora Hastings, was a client. The second reason was that, until approximately five minutes ago, she had considered herself a great fan of his mystery series.

The prospect of adding the highly successful but notoriously reclusive author to her roster of satisfied customers had elevated her spirits for a time. But now she was starting to have second thoughts—and not because of the scars that marred his striking face.

“I have discovered that one can determine a great deal about character by conducting an extensive interview,” she said. “My father was an engineer and my mother was a botanist. I learned the techniques of research from them.”

Trent glanced at her bookshelves again. “Yes, I can see their influence. I am honored to have my books shelved between Mrs. Loudon's
Botany for Ladies
and the
Building News and Engineering Journal
.”

She cleared her throat. “Yes, well, I am a great fan of your novels, sir. So is my brother, my housekeeper, and my butler. Indeed, you are quite popular in this household.” She paused. “Actually, now that I think about it, I do have a question for you concerning the story that is currently being serialized in the
Flying Intelligencer
.”

Trent exhaled deeply. “I was afraid of that.”

She ignored the comment.

“My question concerns the introduction of Miss Wilhelmina Preston. She is a most interesting character in part because of her many scientific interests. I can see where she might prove quite helpful to Clive Stone in his investigations. Indeed, I am wondering if you are about to introduce a romantic relationship between Clive and Wilhelmina.”

“I never discuss a story in progress.”

“I see.” Chagrined, she returned to her notes. “In that case—”

“My sister tells me that you have tried to adapt scientific methods to your matrimonial business,” he said.

“That is true.” She tightened her grip on the pencil. It was time to
take control of the interview. “Today I propose to ask you a few general questions. I will also explain the process I employ to match my clients. If we are both satisfied with this initial discussion I will schedule another, more lengthy appointment. During that session we will prepare a comprehensive list of the qualities you seek in a relationship, whether that be companionship or matrimony, and itemize what you have to offer.”

“Money,” Trent said.

Calista paused, her pencil poised above the blank page. “Excuse me?”

“My single, most sterling quality is that I possess a rather comfortable income. I have done rather well by investing the money from my books in properties. The question is, do I have enough money to persuade one of those intelligent, discerning lady clients you mentioned to overlook my scars?”

Another man might have tried to grow whiskers or a beard to camouflage the scars in question, but Trent Hastings made little effort to conceal the damage that had been done to the left side of his face.

The marks looked as if they had been etched into the skin by acid or flames. They ran down the side of his jaw, disappearing beneath the high, crisp collar of his white shirt. She had no idea what had happened to brand him in such a manner but she was certain that it had been horribly painful. Mercifully his eyes had been spared.

Some might pity him or avert their gazes, she thought. But a person who possessed any degree of insight would surely conclude that a man who had survived the experience that had scarred him, and learned to deal with its effect on others, was a man of strong character.

Such a man would make a very good friend or a very dangerous enemy. She was starting to think that such a man also would be very difficult to match. It was not his scars that would complicate the process, she decided. The challenge would be finding a lady who could stand up to such a strong-willed male.

“Finances, of course, must necessarily be a consideration for both parties when it comes to marriage,” she said.

“According to my observations, it is usually the primary consideration.”

“Forgive me, sir, but I am gaining the impression that you are somewhat cynical when it comes to the matter of marriage.”

“I am realistic, Miss Langley.”

She put down her pencil, closed the notebook, and clasped her hands together on the desktop.

“I don't deny that when it comes to marriage, there is an element of practicality that cannot be overlooked,” she said. “But if I know that a client is seeking marriage, I take precautions to verify the finances of both individuals.”

For the first time, Trent actually looked interested in her matchmaking process.

“How the devil do you do that?” he asked.

“I employ an assistant who conducts a bit of very discreet background research to ascertain the truth regarding the financial status of the clients. Not everyone is forthright about that aspect of their personal life.”

“Huh. Interesting. Who is this assistant?”

“My brother.”

“I see. I find your emphasis on financial matters intriguing.”

“You are the one who raised the subject,” she said.

“Probably because I made this appointment to discover whether or not you are attempting to defraud my sister.”

“What?”

“Eudora is one of your clients. Naturally I have some concerns.”

For a few seconds Calista was speechless. She finally managed to pull herself together.

“Yes, Miss Hastings is a client. But I assure you, sir, she is in no
danger from me. Indeed, she appears to be enjoying my weekly salons. She is a very intelligent, well-read lady.”

“My sister may be intelligent and well-read, but she is a spinster of a certain age who has very little experience of men. She is also quite comfortably positioned in terms of her finances.”

“Thanks to your fortune?”

“Yes. That makes her vulnerable to the sort of unscrupulous men who prey on single women who possess a good income or a healthy inheritance.”

For the first time she glimpsed some fierce emotion stirring beneath the surface of the man. A shiver went through her. He wasn't angry at her—not yet, merely suspicious—but she was willing to wager that at some time in his past he'd very likely encountered a fortune hunter who had taken advantage of someone he cared about.

“I thought I made it clear,” she said, striving for a calming tone, “I am alert to the type of person who might attempt to take advantage of my clients. I would not dream of introducing your sister to a gentleman who was anything but respectable and entirely honest about his finances.”

“It strikes me, Miss Langley, that there might be a financial incentive for you to provide certain clients with introductions to other clients who are wealthy or well-connected.”

“That is quite enough.” For the second time that morning she found herself on her feet and furious. “You insult both your sister and me, sir. I must ask you to leave at once.”

For a heart-stopping moment she was afraid he would not allow himself to be kicked out of her office. She reached for the bellpull behind her and prepared to tug on it.

To her overwhelming relief, Trent got to his feet. He went toward the door without a word. She released the bellpull, gripped the back of her chair, and held her breath.

Trent opened the door and paused. He turned to face her.

“One more question before I leave, Miss Langley,” he said.

She swallowed hard. “I am not in the mood to answer your questions, sir.”

“I understand, but curiosity compels me. Do you really think you could have found me a suitable wife?”

“I very much doubt it, Mr. Hastings. I'm afraid you just failed the interview.”

He inclined his head a scant half inch. “Yes, I can see that.”

He let himself out into the hall and closed the door in a deliberate manner that said more than words.

He did not intend to return.

Just as well, Calista thought. But the atmosphere in the study suddenly felt several degrees colder than it had a moment ago.