My Wicked Little Lies

by Victoria Alexander

  “My lord, if you insist on taking this ill-advised step ...” He pulled a nondescript key from his waistcoat pocket. “This is a master key. It will open the door to every room at the Langham.”

  Adrian took the key and turned it over in his hand. “Where did you get this?”

  “The night clerk has a sister who is in service—”

  “On second thought, it’s best that I don’t know.” He nodded and pocketed the key. “Thank you.”

  “Part of the job, sir.”

  Again Adrian started for the door. “Never mind the carriage, I shall take a cab.”

  “Sir,” Vincent called after him. “Do you really think this is wise?”

  “I don’t know. Probably not.” Adrian ignored the dreadful weight now settled in the pit of his stomach. “I do know the only thing worse than my suspicions would be confirming them.”

  “I am confident you are wrong, sir. Lady Waterston is not the type of woman to dally with another man,” Vincent said firmly. “I would wager a great deal on that.”

  “I do hope you win that wager as much as I hope I am indeed wrong.” Adrian pulled open the door and glanced back at the valet. “Pity, I am rarely, if ever, wrong.”

  It was a busy afternoon at Fenwick and Sons, Booksellers. Evelyn closed the shop door behind her and savored the warmth for a moment. She was glad to see that patronage had increased. She’d always been fond of the establishment, even though now she preferred to patronize Hatchard’s. It had been more than two years since she had crossed the threshold here.

  This morning she had sent Celeste to deliver a message for Max. Her friend had returned saying he would have new instructions for her this afternoon in the usual manner. The usual manner meant Fenwick and Sons. It struck her as rather silly. Couldn’t he have simply given Celeste the information to pass on to Evelyn? Although perhaps he wasn’t sure what she should do now and was trying to determine her next step.

  She glanced around the room. The place looked the same, as it had no doubt looked for the numerous decades of its existence. She suspected the only significant change through the years would be the names and number of Fenwick sons who chose to become part of Fenwick and Sons. Shelves lined every wall, filled to overflowing in a haphazard manner, which made it nearly impossible for a customer to find what she wanted without assistance from one of the sons. Evelyn had often wondered if that might be deliberate so as to justify the sheer number of sons employed.

  She approached the front desk and noticed that there had indeed been a change. The Ladies’ Reading Room, a mirror image of the main room albeit somewhat smaller and off to one side, now served refreshments. Apparently afternoon tea was most popular. Evelyn paused for a moment. Very nearly every table was occupied by two to four ladies, all chatting and obviously enjoying themselves. The oddest pang shot through her. She hadn’t had tea with friends in years. Indeed, aside from Celeste and Adrian’s sisters, she didn’t have any friends to speak of.

  When she’d worked for the department, she had played the role of Miss Evelyn Turner, which wasn’t a role at all but precisely who she was. It was assumed in society that she was an heiress as well. She’d never had to don a disguise, as Celeste often had, or pretend to be someone she wasn’t. No one ever imagined that the life of the orphaned daughter of a viscount was funded by a clandestine government department or that she was engaged in uncovering information and ferreting out secrets. While she would, on occasion, run into someone she’d been to school with, living a double life left no time to cultivate friendships. Nor did it seem especially wise. Now, looking at the friends sharing tea and gossip in the reading room, it seemed a dreadful pity. Perhaps, when this was at an end ...

  She approached the counter and smiled at the clerk.

  “Good day,” he said. “How may I—”

  “I shall handle this, James.” Thomas Fenwick, one of the younger sons, stepped up beside the clerk. “Miss Turner is an old and valued customer.”

  “Of course, sir.” James smiled at her. “Good day, miss.” He nodded and left her in the capable hands of this particular Mr. Fenwick.

  “Good day, Miss Turner,” Mr. Fenwick said with a smile. “It’s been quite some time. We have missed you.”

  “I can’t imagine why.” She glanced around the shop. “You appear to be far too busy to notice the absence of one customer.”

  “Ah, but none can compare with you.” A twinkle shone in his eyes. Thomas Fenwick had always been a bit of a flirt.

  She laughed. “And you are as charming as ever, Mr. Fenwick.”

  He leaned over the counter and lowered his voice in a confidential manner. “I read a great deal. It’s remarkable what one can learn if one is reading the right, or perhaps the wrong, books.”

  “Novels then? Romance and adventure?”

  “Yes, indeed.” He nodded. “I think it’s wise to be familiar with what our best customers like to read. Besides, I quite enjoy a good novel full of smashing adventure and a gallant hero who wins the heart of a fair lady.”

  “As do we all, Mr. Fenwick.”

  He grinned. “And how may I help you today, Miss Turner?”

  “It’s Lady Waterston now, Mr. Fenwick,” she said with a smile. “I believe a book has been reserved for me. A new edition of The Three Musketeers.”

  “Excellent choice.” He knelt to rummage on the shelves beneath the counter. If anyone at Fenwick’s ever wondered why one woman would need so many copies of The Three Musketeers, no one ever let on. Of course, she had only ever dealt with Thomas, who was, no doubt, associated with the department in some manner. She had never asked and he had never volunteered the answers. Which was, all things considered, for the best. Mr. Fenwick stood, wrapped package in hand. “Here it is.”

  She accepted the package, paid for the book, and chatted with Mr. Fenwick for another moment.

  “Will we see you again soon, Lady Waterston?”

  With any luck at all, her days of purchasing copies of The Three Musketeers would soon be at an end. Regardless. . . she glanced at the reading room and nodded slowly. “Why yes, Mr. Fenwick, I believe you may.”

  Chapter 8

  Adrian stared at the door to Room 327. Perhaps it would be wiser to knock rather than use the key Vincent had supplied. He had realized on the way here to the Langham, if Evie wasn��t here, as he prayed, he would be making an enormous fool of himself. Still, it was a risk he was willing to take. One could certainly recover from humiliation and embarrassment. If he had lost his wife, his heart would be shattered.

  He had wondered as well if an indiscretion on her part was something he could forgive. It would be difficult, of course, perhaps the most difficult thing he had ever attempted. But if the situation were reversed, wouldn’t he hope she could forgive him? Still, he wasn’t entirely certain he could.

  He turned the key over in his hand and debated the merits of using the key versus knocking. Knocking would be the proper thing to do. But bursting in unannounced had a certain dramatic appeal to a man in his turbulent state of emotion. Besides, due consideration did not seem to be something he cared for at the moment. No, rash, impetuous behavior was calling his name.

  He slipped the key in the keyhole and rather wished he could simply kick the door in with his foot. Now that would be dramatic and most satisfying.

  Adrian opened the door, stepped into a fair-sized sitting room tastefully appointed with a sofa, chairs, a fireplace, a small desk near the window, and a decorative dressing screen in one corner. He closed the door quietly behind him. He wasn’t at all sure it was necessary to be quiet, although if one was going to surprise one’s wife in the act of infidelity, one should ensure it was indeed a surprise. An opened bottle of champagne sat in a silver bucket on a cloth-covered cart in the middle of the room. And wasn’t that just the right touch for seduction? A distinct giggle sounded from the partially opened door on the right wall.

  A giggle? He was making her giggle? Adrian couldn’t recall the las
t time his wife had giggled. Bloody hell. He clenched his fists, stepped toward the door, and regretted he hadn’t brought a pistol.

  The door to the bedroom opened wider. “Excellent idea.” Radington laughed and backed into the sitting room, a sheet wrapped around him. His gaze still focused on whom he was addressing. Evie, no doubt. Fury flamed Adrian’s face.

  “I shall be—” Radington turned, grabbed the bottle of champagne, and caught sight of Adrian.

  In the tiny part of his mind that still retained a modicum of rationality, Adrian marveled that any man’s face could show so many emotions in such a short amount of time. Shock on Radington’s too handsome face shifted to disbelief, then became caution and curiosity.

  “Waterston,” he said carefully.

  Adrian’s jaw tightened. “Radington.”

  “I didn’t expect to see you again so soon.”

  Adrian scoffed. “No doubt.”

  “Why are you here?”

  “I’ve come for my wife.”

  “Your wife?” Radington stared in confusion. “Why would your wife want you to come here?”

  “No.” Adrian glared. “I haven’t come in place of my wife! I have come here to find my wife.”

  Radington stared as if Adrian was mad. “I don’t—”

  “Good Lord, Derrick, don’t be an idiot,” a female voice sounded from the other room. A voice not Evie’s. Relief rushed through him, embarrassment right on its heels. “He thinks you’re here with Lady Waterston.” Beryl appeared in the doorway, tying the sash of her wrapper. “Don’t you, Adrian?”

  Adrian pointed at a very confused Radington. “He had a note from my wife last night arranging a meeting in your library.”

  Beryl turned narrowed eyes on the other man. “Goodness, Derrick, can you not be content with just one woman at a time?”

  “I ... I ...” Radington had the look of a man who wasn’t entirely innocent.

  “Did you or did you not receive a note from Lady Waterston last night?” she demanded.

  “I received a note,” he said slowly. “It was not signed, and when I saw her in the library, I assumed ...” He glanced at Adrian. “Only for a moment, mind you, that it was from her.”

  “Ah-hah!” An odd sort of triumph rang in Adrian’s voice.

  “One would think you would recognize my hand-writing by now.” Beryl sighed. “The note, you silly man, was from me.”

  “Ah-hah!” Radington smirked.

  “Oh.” Adrian drew a deep breath. “It appears I have made a mistake,” he said with all the dignity he could muster.

  “I should say so.” Indignation colored Radington’s voice.

  “Outrage is not as effective, Derrick, when one is not appropriately dressed. Or dressed at all.” She rolled her gaze toward the ceiling. “Do put something on.”

  Radington stared at her. “Lest you forget, this is my room.”

  She raised a brow.

  “Very well.” Radington huffed and returned to the bedroom.

  Beryl crossed her arms over her chest and studied Adrian for a long moment. “I must say this is turning out to be a more interesting afternoon than I had expected.”

  “My apologies,” Adrian said in a gruff manner. “I thought ... that is to say, I assumed ... well ...”

  “You thought your wife was having an affair with Derrick.”

  “Obviously a mistaken assumption on my part. After last night ...” Adrian squared his shoulders. “Apparently I leapt to an inaccurate conclusion.”

  “Goodness, Adrian, I can’t imagine your wife meeting a man in a hotel. It’s far too daring for her. And I daresay your wife is too dull to have an affair.”

  “She is not the least bit dull.”

  “Not to you perhaps,” Beryl murmured.

  “I don’t think she’s dull,” Radington called from the other room.

  Adrian ignored him. “And she can be most daring.” Was he actually defending his wife’s capacity for unfaithfulness? “Too loyal perhaps but she is not the least bit dull.”

  “And with Derrick?” She shook her head. “I would think she had better taste.”

  “I can hear you, you know.” Radington stepped into the doorway, now wearing a dressing gown, and frowned. “Exactly what do you mean by better taste?”

  “My dear man, you are quite delightful and I enjoy being with you immensely. I only mean that Lady Waterston would choose someone far more discreet.”

  “I am most discreet.” Radington glared.

  “Hardly.” Adrian snorted. “An afternoon meeting in a hotel is scarcely discreet.”

  “Well, it certainly wouldn’t do to have anyone see her going into my house,” Radington said firmly.

  “The Langham does have a wonderful afternoon tea,” Beryl murmured. “It’s a perfect reason for being here.”

  “If one stays in the tearoom. Any number of ladies of your acquaintance frequent the tea. You could be easily spotted coming upstairs rather than to the tearoom.” Adrian pinned her with a hard look. “You, of all people, know how quickly gossip of this nature can spread. In spite of your claim that you and Lord Dunwell pursue your own interests, I doubt very much that you would like him to become aware of”—he glanced pointedly at Radington—“your companion for afternoon tea.”

  Beryl grimaced. “That would be best, I suppose.”

  “A meeting like this is not without the danger of discovery,” he added. Good God, he sounded stuffy. When did that happen?

  “Oh my, yes.” Sarcasm rang in her tone. “Who knows how many other husbands might come barging in?”

  “That would be even more awkward than this.” Radington shuddered.

  “Difficult to believe,” Adrian said wryly.

  “Bloody hell, Waterston, you have become pompous.” Radington shook his head. “If this is what marriage does to you, it is yet another reason to avoid it.”

  “I am quite happy in my marriage,” Adrian said firmly.

  “Tell me, Waterston.” Radington considered him curiously. “You were quite the rogue in your day—”

  “My day was not so very long ago, Radington.”

  Beryl smiled in an oddly wistful manner. “Not long ago at all really.” She sighed. “Although it does now seem a lifetime.”

  Radington met his gaze directly. “A few years ago, you were exactly like me.”

  Beryl coughed.

  “Hardly.” Adrian scoffed. “I never carried on with ladies who were married.”

  “Someone has to,” Radington said in a lofty manner. “But as you are older and wiser and more experienced, if not a hotel, then where?”

  “My husband has a flat he thinks I don’t know about,” Beryl said with a shrug.

  “A flat?” Radington’s brows drew together in thought. “What an interesting idea.”

  Adrian met Beryl’s gaze. “I am sorry.”

  “You needn’t be,” she said with an offhand shrug. “I’m not. We each get precisely what we want from this marriage. I have made my bed, so to speak.” She flashed him a wicked grin. “Well, one of them.”

  “You deserve better,” Adrian said quietly.

  “I doubt that. But thank you for saying so.” She studied him for a moment. “Even at your most scandalous, you were a good man, Adrian. You still are. Only a fool would risk losing you, and I daresay your wife is no fool. You certainly don’t need to worry about her turning to a man like Derrick.”

  Radington’s brow rose. “Because she has better taste?”

  “Because if she were so stupid as to have an affair, it would be with someone who had less of a reputation.” Beryl cast the man an affectionate smile. “Someone no one would suspect. Someone, oh, safe.”

  Radington grinned. “I am not the least bit safe.”

  “Precisely why I am here.” She returned his grin.

  Adrian stared. “What do you mean—safe?”

  “I mean someone who has as much to lose as she does.” Her brow furrowed. “Although I can’t im
agine her having an affair at all. She’s quite obviously head over heels for you.”

  “I thought so,” Adrian muttered.

  Her eyes narrowed. “Then why are you here?”

  “Why?” Adrian winced. “There was ...” Evidence? Hardly, at least not when one looked at it rationally. He drew a deep breath. “I blame it all on the weather.”

  Her brows drew together. “The weather?”

  “I don’t know,” he continued. “I believe I put one and one together and got fourteen.”

  She stared, then her expression cleared and she gasped. “Dear Lord, Adrian, you’re in love with your wife.”

  Radington snorted. “Nonsense. No one is in love with his own wife.” He paused. “Someone else’s wife perhaps but not his own.”

  “Well, there you have it.” Adrian shrugged. “I am in love with my wife.”

  “Love does lead men to do ridiculous things.” Sympathy sounded in Radington’s voice.

  Beryl cast him a skeptical look. “How would you know?”

  “I have been in love.” Radington huffed. “More times than I can say.”

  “In lust perhaps,” Adrian said under his breath.

  “Love,” Radington said firmly, then shrugged. “It simply has never lasted.”

  “There are reasons for that,” Beryl murmured.

  “I should be on my way.” Adrian edged toward the door. “Once again, my apologies.”

  Beryl and Radington traded glances.

  “I say, old man,” Radington began. “I do hope you agree that the account of this afternoon shouldn’t go any farther than the three of us.”

  “You have my word.” The last thing he wanted was for his absurd jealousy to become common knowledge and, worse, for Evie to hear of it. He threw a last cautioning look at Beryl and took his leave.

  On his way home he couldn’t help thinking what a narrow escape he’d had when he’d realized long ago that Beryl was not the right woman for him. Not that he had ever led her to believe otherwise. She had wanted marriage to suit her own ambitions. Or so he had thought at the time. But time did have a way of coloring things. Radington’s charge that he was exactly as Adrian had once been struck rather unpleasantly close to home. He had never had any illusions about his behavior, but he’d always thought he had not abandoned principles in pursuit of pleasures.