always tell… until now.
It would be easy to blame the crusting paste that coated her features, but he'd seen worse. In the past, men had lied to him while covered in mud, blood and even coal dust, yet Stanton had effortlessly perceived the truth written on their faces.
What sort of creature was she, to defy the ability that had brought kings to their knees? Her immunity to his talent did one thing that, if she had realized it, might have alarmed her considerably. He was now completely and totally focused upon her, like a hawk upon a rabbit.
As she went on, she told the story logically and with good detail. "Two of the men sounded well educated, one with distinctly highborn tones. That alone was surprising, at an establishment like the White Sow. The others didn't actually say 'my lord' but one could almost hear it in their pauses. The third still possessed a hint of Cockney, as if he were perhaps of the servant class. Without preamble, they began to discuss something I thought was a business plan. They spoke of
'arrangements' and 'schedules' and 'delivery.' I listened with only half an ear, for I was feeling more ill by the moment."
Her story was going to grow stomach-churning again, he just knew it. He was already regretting his large breakfast.
Fortunately, she went on without detailing her digestion further. "It was only when someone mentioned the Prince Regent that I realized what I was hearing," she explained.
Every fiber of Stanton's being was on full alert now.
"They spoke of Lord Cross's house party and of the Prince Regent's expected appearance there. There was speculation on how His Highness tends to dismiss his guard at such events and how one might take advantage of such moments to get close."
Now Stanton was doubly concerned. If what she said was the truth, the Prince Regent was in terrible danger.
If what she said was true.
Bloody hell. His instinct had never failed him before—yet it failed him now when faced with a potential disaster! He could not swallow this—this affront to his reliability. Admittedly, a lifetime of having the upper hand made such a humbling moment go down doubly ill.
Yet what truth could there be here? The girl was a known liar. She resided here in this rat hole, in a ruin of her own making, bored and doubtless resentful. Only someone desperate for attention and notoriety would have done what she did five years ago—and that desperation was merely erupting again, only this time she was trying to drag him into it.
That was another thing… why him? Her reasoning that he had proved himself to be open-minded was plausible enough. God knew he'd exercised the greatest breadth of his own tolerance when his very worthwhile cousin Jane had decided to wed that worthless, Jack-of-all-crimes gambler, Ethan Damont.
So to the outside world, Stanton probably did seem to exemplify the height of social tolerance—and who better to turn to when one was an outcast, exiled by one's own unseemly tendencies?
It wasn't true of course. Not only was Stanton not tolerant of such misbehavior, he was harshly judgmental of even the smallest weavings of untruth. He'd grown up in a house of lies, existing within such a morass of heaving untruth and secrets that he'd sworn never to believe anything he could not prove with his own observation.
However, he could hardly explain that to this woman. She was gazing at him now, waiting for his response to her story.
Damn. He would love to dismiss this insane creature, to get up and leave this hovel without a single doubt that this was merely a pathetic attempt to regain something of Society's regard…
But he couldn't. As long as there was some shred of possibility that she told the truth, he would be remiss in his duty if he did not investigate thoroughly.
He was never remiss in his duty.
"They spoke of another man with great respect. 'Monsieur' was how they referred to him. Apparently, Monsieur is ready to implement a plan that has been brewing for
Teresa Solana, Peter Bush