The rented hackney rolled to a stop. Lady Julianna Hawthorne leaned forward and stared out the carriage window, surprised by what she found. Instead of the average, unremarkable row home she'd been expecting, an imposing townhouse rose upward, its three stories nearly blocking out sight of the cloudless blue sky above. Clean and genteel, the Georgian residence boasted an elegant stone façade, a fine green iron railing, and a bright white door that appeared recently painted.
Perhaps the driver has mistaken the address, she mused. Surely this beautiful home could not belong to the man she had come to see. Hand trembling, she reached into her silk reticule and drew out a small square of paper inked with the financier's direction.
36 Bloomsbury Square.
Her gaze flashed back to the townhouse--the numbers three and six plainly displayed next to each other on the door.
Her heart sank. No, there was no mistake. Whether she liked it or not, this must indeed be the villain's abode.
She passed the driver a generous handful of coins, with the promise of more to come to ensure he would still be waiting once her business inside was concluded. In a quiet, residential neighborhood such as this, finding another hackney cab would be all but impossible. And she hadn't dared take her own private coach, the one with her late husband's family crest prominently emblazoned on the side. No one, absolutely no one of her acquaintance, must ever know she'd been to this place.
Before she had a chance to change her mind and let fear send her scurrying back home like some timid brown mouse, she forced herself to alight from the carriage.
She paused, brushing a nervous hand over the folds of her warm woolen pelisse and the cerise satin day dress underneath. Knowing she couldn't afford to delay further, she forced her feet to action. Climbing the stairs, she lifted the knocker and gave two smart raps.
At length the door opened on a set of silent, well-oiled hinges. Hard black eyes peered down at her out of a long, brutish face. As a woman of diminutive stature, Julianna was well used to craning her neck backward in order to look up at men. But this man, this towering mountain of flesh, was the tallest human being she'd ever seen. He reminded her of a tree. A very large, very dense oak that grew in the deepest, oldest woodlands.
But it was the gruesome, crescent-shaped scar bisecting his left cheek from temple to jaw that made her gasp, saliva drying in her mouth.
"Yeah? What d'ye wants?" he demanded, his bass voice as scary as the rest of him.
Her tongue, usually one of her most nimble allies, lay limp behind her teeth, failing to come to her aid.
The brute scowled harder as she fought for composure.
On a sharp inhale, she made herself begin. "I--I have come to speak with Mr. Rafe Pendragon. Might you be he, sir?"
Merciful God, she prayed, let this not be him.
The Tree scowled harder, thick black brows scrunching like a pair of angry caterpillars on his smooth, bald pate. "Dragon's busy and he don't have no time for no morts today, however tasty they might look. Take it somewhere else, ducky."
Then, in the most appalling display of rudeness she'd ever encountered, he slammed the door in her face.
Shivering from shock, she stood immobile, the cold February air creeping in and around her skirts. She drew her pelisse closer.
What was it that...
Tracy Anne Warren (Author)
Tracy Anne Warren grew up in a small central Ohio town. After working for a number of years in finance, she quit her day job to pursue her first love--writing romance novels. Warren lives in Maryland with a pair of exuberant, young Siamese cats and windows full of gorgeous orchids and African violets. When she's not writing, she enjoys reading, watching movies, and dreaming up the characters for her next book. Visit her website at www.tracyannewarren.com.