But the more he enjoyed her company, the more he wanted to be with her, the more his conscience nagged at him. He hadn’t been honest with her, and he couldn’t ignore a growing sense of unease. Guilt probably. Certainly all he was really hiding was his uncle’s involvement in searching for Lady Heloise. Of course, Derek had sent her luggage astray in an effort to lengthen their stay in Paris, which probably was unforgivable. As much as his conscience might bother him, he vowed never to let her know about that. As for the rest, Aunt Guinevere was family and as such was his responsibility. Until India’s cousin was found safely, his great-aunt’s future was at stake. Keeping India in Paris—and away from the authorities—was still an excellent idea. Besides, when one really considered everything, he was doing nothing more than extending a lady’s stay in one of the most exciting cities in the world. Pity the one woman in the world who wouldn’t appreciate that was the one he needed to keep here.

Even as he dressed for dinner, he couldn’t get his mind off this new India. Would she be wearing the purple dress again or did Estelle have something else in mind for her? He rather hoped so. He did like surprises. Good ones anyway.

Bloody hell. He paused in his efforts to knot his necktie and stared in the mirror. He was beginning to like her. Perhaps more than like her. This was certainly a surprise and he wasn’t sure if it was good or very, very bad.

India Prendergast was the exact opposite of everything he’d ever wanted in a woman. She was soundly practical, terribly sensible and horribly annoying. She knew everything, or at least she thought she did. She was stubborn and determined and overly concerned with propriety. And he had serious concerns over whether she ever indulged in anything he would consider fun. In very nearly every way he could think of, she wasn’t at all his type of female, not the type he was usually attracted to. The type he dreamed about. The type he fell in love with.

This was not, by any means, love. The very idea was ridiculous. He’d been in love several times, and whatever he was feeling now was nothing like that. No, love in his experience was swift and all-consuming and, for good or ill, brief.

One did not fall in love with the indomitable India Prendergast. Even if she was clever and independent and self-assured. Even if her smile seemed a reward for good behavior. Even if the best moments of the day were those spent with her, especially those when he was driving her mad. And hadn’t the thought of kissing her lingered in his mind? He grinned at his image. It made no sense, but there it was. In a few short days, she had become a part of his life. Filled a hole he hadn’t known was empty.

Had he already lost his heart to India Prendergast? It was an interesting question. A question fraught with both excitement and terror. A question that, at the moment, he couldn’t answer. Not really. Even more interesting was whether it was even remotely possible that he could win her heart. Finding her cousin and keeping Aunt Guinevere and her friends out of prison paled in comparison to that.

But there was no question about one thing.

In more ways than he had imagined, India Prendergast was the biggest challenge of his life.


CHAPTER THIRTEEN


One should prepare oneself for travel by investigating in advance the places one intends to visit through lectures and books and the experiences of friends. It is always wise to know which places in a foreign locale are welcoming to visitors and which are hostile. Which are suitable and respectable for lady travelers, and which to avoid at all costs. Not availing oneself of such information in advance can be at best awkward, at worst scandalous, even dangerous.

—The Lady Travelers Society Guide


A SHARP RAPPING like the sound of a small, determined bird sounded at her door.

“Come—”

“India, I need your assistance.” Estelle burst into the room. “Or possibly your advice. Although I’m not certain I will listen to it. I wouldn’t have bothered you, but this is most concerning. There are consequences and repercussions, and, well, you understand.”

“Not in the least, but please, come in.” India waved her into the room. She’d been reading Mr. Bazalgette’s Agent and was nearly ready to put the book down and prepare for bed. It had been an exceptionally trying day.

Still, there was nothing better than lending assistance and giving advice. Why, those were two of the things she did best and among the reasons Martin valued her so highly. Resolving Estelle’s difficulty—whatever it might be—was just the sort of thing India needed to feel more like herself. Besides, Estelle had helped India when she needed it. India could do no less for her. “How may I help?”

“I’m not sure, but you are so terribly competent and rational and sensible.” Estelle pressed her lips together in a determined manner. “Competent, rational and sensible are exactly what is needed at the moment.”

“You have always struck me as extremely rational and sensible,” India said although Estelle seemed neither rational nor sensible at the moment.

“That seems to be eluding me tonight.” The older woman blew an annoyed breath. “It’s about Frederick.”

“Has something happened to him?” Concern squeezed India’s heart. “He seemed fine at dinner. Is he ill?”

“No, no, it’s nothing like that. I almost wish it were.”

“Then what on earth is the matter?”

“Frederick and Lord Brookings have gone to...well, I don’t know how to put this delicately.”

“Nor is it necessary,” India said firmly. “When one is as distraught as you are, the time for delicacy has passed.”

“You’re right of course.” Estelle adopted a resolute expression. “They’ve gone to an...establishment. In Montmartre.”

India stared. “I have no idea what that means.”

“You really need to do at least a modicum of inquiry before you travel again, dear,” Estelle said in a chastising manner. “Montmartre is a district of Paris known for its less-than-respectable entertainment. Cabarets and dance halls and the like. Some of which feature women clad in most suggestive costumes or even none at all. The area is frequented by artists and writers and students and is considered quite Bohemian.”

“I see.”

“Frederick is unfailingly cognizant of proper behavior, but we are in Paris, after all.” Estelle turned on her heel and paced the room. “I assure you this is not at all like him. He does not usually frequent that sort of place.”

“What sort of place?” India asked, although she was beginning to have her suspicions.

“I suppose it’s to be expected. What man wouldn’t seize the opportunity to relive a few moments of his lost youth? I certainly wouldn’t mind reliving a few moments of my younger days. That’s how it all began, you know. All that talk at dinner with Frederick going on and on about his time here when he was a student.”

“Yes, of course.” In truth, India had paid no attention whatsoever.

“It’s not as if I don’t trust him,” Estelle continued. “I do. Implicitly. After all, if we don’t have trust between us after all these years, what do we have? Trust between a man and woman is everything, and we have trusted one another from the beginning. I’m not sure love is possible without trust.”

“Probably not.” India had no idea what to say. “I’m afraid I’m not sure what the problem is. If you are not concerned about this outing with Lord Brookings—”

“I’m concerned about who might see him and his lordship.” She paused. “Although I daresay, Lord Brookings won’t be. He does seem to be that sort of man, doesn’t he?”

“If you mean the sort of man who doesn’t care about appearances, who is self-centered, irresponsible and entirely too arrogant? Then yes, that is an accurate description of his lordship.”

“You don’t like him, do you?”

“Oddly enough, I think I do like him.” India shook her head. “It’s hard not to like him.”

“As do I—where was I?”

“Your concern about someone seeing the professor at this establishment.”

“Yes, well, it seems every time we turn around here, we are running into someone we know. Frederick has quite a respected reputation in certain circles, academic for the most part, and of course he’s a member of the Explorers Club and various other organizations.” She shook her head. “I had no idea Paris would be so crowded with subjects of Her Majesty although I suppose it is a world exhibition, isn’t it?”

“Go on.”

“Just this morning, we crossed paths at the Louvre with several ladies I know from London, and I joined them for refreshments while Frederick examined a display of medieval manuscripts. The ladies were bemoaning the fact that their husbands were determined to visit Montmartre. The group included Mrs. Marlow, the wife of George Marlow.” Her eyes narrowed. “If Frederick has any sort of rival, George Marlow would be it. He’s always been envious of Frederick’s accomplishments.”

“I still don’t understand.”

“If Marlow—if anyone from London—sees Frederick there...” She shuddered. “They will deny it, but men gossip far more than they would have us believe. Mark my words, in less than a day after they return home, everyone will know Frederick was spotted at highly unsuitable places. That beastly Marlow will make certain of it. You know how these things are—the gossip will grow out of all proportions. It will ruin him.”

“But won’t these gentlemen be tarnished with the same brush?”

“Frederick is held to a higher standard. This is a very delicate time. I’m not supposed to say anything—” she glanced from side to side as if to make sure they were alone and lowered her voice “—but there is talk that the queen is considering a knighthood for him. And you know how Her Majesty is about things like this.”