by Tanya Wilde
Cromby laughed. “Couldn’t do the math, eh?”
“Too many brandies,” Rochester replied.
“Then shall we wager upon the width?” Cromby asked with a grin. “Five guineas that Willoughby’s waist measures at fifty-four inches.”
Rochester ground his teeth but nodded. “Fifty inches.”
Cromby motioned to Ophelia. “What say you?”
“I’m not—”
“Of course you are,” Rochester said, clapping Ophelia on the back so that she almost lurched forward. “Was it not your curiosity that prompted the calculation?” Rochester handed her the quill, his brows raised.
“Fifty-two inches,” Ophelia said weakly, deciding a number between theirs would be less suspicious than the first random figure that jumped into her head.
“Well, write it down,” Cromby said on a guffaw.
Ophelia’s fingers constricted about the quill. She wanted to poke Lord Cromby in the eye with the sharp end of the nib but instead scribbled the wager into the book, right beneath the atrocious bet Cromby had made. Fortunately, after today, the book would be gone from here.
Ld. C. bets Ld. R. that a certain Ld. W.’s waist measures at fifty-four inches to fifty. Sir R. bets fifty-two.
The men all peered at the entry; Ophelia could feel the waves of fury rolling off Rochester.
“Gentlemen,” Leeds murmured, breaking the silence. “If you will excuse me, Wellington just arrived, and I must seek his counsel on a matter.” With that, he trailed off, Cromby following Leeds with a departing nod.
“Bloody hell,” Rochester muttered. “What the hell are you doing here, Ophelia?”
“Roseton,” she corrected. “And I’m not planning on burning your precious club to a crisp, if that is what you are worried about.”
“I believe,” Nash drawled, sauntering over. “She is here for the book.”
Ophelia grimaced. “You saw straight through my disguise as well?”
He smiled. “Of course. You thought we wouldn’t?”
“I hadn’t thought you would be here,” Ophelia rejoined. “But I am thrilled that you are.”
Rochester’s features turned stern. “I would drag you out of here, but now we have no choice but to get rid of this blasted book.”
Nash turned to Rochester. “Why are you agreeing with—” He glanced at Ophelia and raised a brow.
“Sir Othello Roseton,” Ophelia offered.
“Roseton,” Nash muttered with a shake of his head. “Why do you agree with him when you were against something like this from the start?”
“We don’t have a choice anymore,” Rochester growled low, indicating to the book.
Ophelia turned to Rochester, sensing that his fury extended beyond her presence or plan. “What’s wrong?”
Rochester clenched his jaw. Hard. “Do you know how powerful Willoughby is?”
Ophelia frowned.
Rochester jabbed a finger at the book. “You wrote down my name for all to see. A certain Lord W? Christ, my life is ruined.”
“Cromby’s name is on the entry as well.”
“Cromby is a bloody fool. I, on the other hand, have a promising seat in the House of Lords, right next to Willoughby.”
“Oh dear.”
“Yes, oh—bloody—dear.”
Nash’s eyes swept over the entries and whistled. “Willoughby grinds axes with those who dare comment on his weight.”
“I did not know . . .” Ophelia said softly.
Rochester cursed again. “The man is going to give me hell if he ever learns of this wager.”
“He is going to destroy you,” Nash said, brows drawing together in concern.
Ophelia swept the room with a cautious glance. No one seemed to pay them any mind, and Cromby and Leeds had disappeared to another chamber. How many chambers were in White’s? What kind of rooms were they? Did they entertain women in the club?
Not important, Ophelia!
She stifled her curiosity.
After one last sweep of the room, she reached out, snatched the book, and tucked it into the band of her breeches covered by her black wool coat.
She cleared her throat, interrupting her friends’ hushed bickering. “Have you seen the infamous betting book I keep hearing tales about? I am awfully curious.”
Rochester’s gaping mouth opened and closed. His gaze flicked between the empty table and her. She blinked innocently as Nash turned to her wide-eyed.
“Do not look at me like that, Rochester. It will be fine. The waves of brandy emanating from Cromby were making me foxed.”
Nash frowned, and drawled low, “You cannot steal the betting book.”
“Why not?” Ophelia asked. “Surely the men will start another one once they realize this one is missing.”
“That is not the point,” Nash said. “They will want to know what happened to this one. Money is at stake here.”
“Well, they will never guess a woman snuck into White’s and stole their precious book, will they?”
Rochester rocked on his heels and cleared his throat in warning.
Ophelia turned to him to ask what was wrong when her gaze fell on a newcomer who approached their circle.
Avondale.
Her breath hitched.
Of its own volition, her mind circled back to their kiss. Her first kiss. In a darkened alleyway. A kiss she had found beyond thrilling. Which was wrong in so many ways. Because Avondale believed her to be a man. How was she ever going to face him again as Ophelia Thornton?
Which begged other questions: Had he followed her to White’s? Sought her out? What did Avondale want? Another kiss?
Her cheeks warmed at the idea.
Zeus and Jupiter! How had a simple excursion become so complicated?
Ophelia had to leave before he saw through her disguise as Rochester and Nash had. She could feel the blush spreading across her cheeks and the book burning holes in her chest. The edition weighed a full hundred pounds in the expanse of her breeches. A hundred pounds of chaos if she got caught.
Unfortunately, there was no way to simply bow out of the conversation without raising suspicion. She was certain that Rochester and Nash would demand answers later, but for now, they were her only hope to exit White’s without getting caught.
Ophelia inwardly groaned.
Chapter 9
Harry smirked as Lady Ophelia’s eyes rounded to a set of twin moons. His lips curled into a smile. By the look of shock reflected on her beautiful features, he imagined their kiss sat at the forefront of her mind. The betting book was suspiciously absent from the table. He had no doubt that it was burning a hole through Lady Ophelia’s clothes at that moment.
Her brazenness astonished him.
Intrigued him.
Satisfaction trickled down his spine when her eyes dropped to his lips, ever so briefly, before they met his again. He wasn’t the only one intrigued, it seemed. Her taste had left him off-kilter. Dazed. And he wanted to kiss her again.
But with the book now in possession of the mischievous lady, Harry couldn’t help but dwell on the reason they were all gathered at that spot: the list. He hadn’t expected to feel anything for any of the women his mother had chosen. He had merely indulged her. But with Ophelia, it felt as if all the cords of his nerve system had been pulled tight.
He should’ve been wholly focused on finding his father’s purchases. That was his first and only priority. Yet instead of digging up patches of ground for treasure, he was canoodling with Lady Ophelia.
“You!”
His grin widened. It was worth it, he decided.
“Did you miss me?” he drawled. He nodded to her companions. “Rochester. Nash.”
“Avondale,” Rochester greeted, peering at him with speculation. “You have met Sir Othello Roseton?”
Harry nodded. “Indeed, I have.” He gazed at Lady Ophelia with bemusement. “Most interesting run-in we had.”
“How so?” Nash asked, brows creasing.
Harry shrugged. “We met on St. James after Roseton careened into me.”
“I hardly grazed you,” Lady Ophelia said sourly.
“Of course,” Harry returned. “My compliments to your tailor, Roseton. The cut of your waistcoat flatters the curve of your waistline.”
Harry watched as a deep flush crept across the line of Ophelia’s jaw.
Rochester coughed behind his hand.
“I, eh . . . Thank you.” She cleared her throat. “Now if you will excuse us, we have—”
“About that, Roseton,” Rochester cut her off. “An urgent matter has come up. Nash and I cannot escort you to the tavern you wished to visit.”
“But—”
“You see, Avondale, Roseton is only in town for today,” Rochester interrupted. “We were supposed to keep him company.”
“Where are you from, Roseton?” Harry asked Lady Ophelia, who spared a sharp, fleeting glance to Rochester.
“Wales,” Rochester interjected before she could answer. “Roseton visits London once a year.”
“Wales?” Harry drawled. “That is a stretch to travel for only one day in our city.”
“Oh, this is but one stop. Roseton here likes to travel to foreign places,” Rochester piped up again.
“I’m sure someone as prominent as Avondale does not wish to hear about my travels,” Lady Ophelia retorted.
“Don’t be absurd, Roseton. He wouldn’t have asked if he did not find it of interest,” Rochester claimed. To Harry, he said, “We were going to take him to The Crown for a pint, but as I’ve said, an urgent matter has come up.”
“I’d be more than happy to accompany him in your stead,” Harry replied, watching Ophelia’s sharp eyes shoot to Rochester in protest. “The Crown, you said?”
“There’s no need,” she quickly added. “I believe I shall rest before my return home.”
“The Crown is a small tavern on the docks,” Nash joined the conversation.
“Roseton has been expressing interest in the tavern for some time now,” Rochester added.
“I shall visit on my next trip,” Lady Ophelia bit out. “No need to trouble Avondale.”
“I don’t mind at all.”
“Hear that, Roseton?” Rochester said with a grin. “Avondale doesn’t mind at all.”
Harry bit the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing. Lady Ophelia could scarcely hide her annoyance.
“No, no, no,” Lady Ophelia said before collecting herself. She cleared her throat. Twice. “I assure you it’s not necessary to trouble yourself.”
“No trouble,” Harry said, peering down into the green verdurous depth of Ophelia’s eyes.
From the first time he had heard her laughter, Harry could tell there was something special about Lady Ophelia. And now, even with a periwig and sideburns, she was a sight to behold. A goddess wary of fortune hunters. No, a goddess wary of nearly all men because of the hordes of ill-intentioned suitors after her.
Now, for reasons unknown, Rochester had presented him with a rare opportunity. He could engage with Lady Ophelia without her instantaneously putting up her guard. She might relax if she thought that he bought into the ruse of her disguise.
Evidently, both Rochester and Nash knew this was Ophelia Thornton and not Sir Othello Roseton. He simply didn’t understand why they’d throw him and Ophelia together. Did they believe he did not see through her disguise?
Whether they did or not, Harry was more than happy to oblige. Not only for the chance to spend time with her but also to discover just what, exactly, she planned to do with the betting book.
“That is still not necessary,” Lady Ophelia pressed. “I have had plenty of adventures on this journey to tide me over until next year.”
“I insist,” Harry said, and when her eyes narrowed, he knew he had her. She could refuse him politely, but it appeared she did not know what custom called for in such a situation, and Harry, watched her steam over her friends’ mischief.
“With all due respect,” she bit out, “We met only moments ago.”
“I vouch for Avondale, Roseton,” Rochester announced. “He is a responsible chap.”
Nash nodded.
Ophelia’s lips pursed.
“What say you, Roseton?” Harry grinned.
“Very well,” Lady Ophelia said with a tight nod. “I suppose I have no choice but to carve time into my schedule to visit the tavern.”
Harry almost laughed at her put-out expression. The chit was outnumbered and outmaneuvered. Whatever reason her friends had for showing no mercy, they’d be on the receiving end of her temper later.
“Are you sure you cannot join us?” she asked her companions. “It will be more fun with you there.”
Harry arched a brow but said nothing.
“Unfortunately, no,” Rochester said. “Avondale is good company, Roseton. Give the man a chance. You might like him.” He nodded to Harry. “Do not do anything I would not do.”
Harry caught the glint in the man’s eyes. Did Rochester suspect that Harry knew this was Ophelia?
A fact he would ponder over later.
For now, Harry simply grinned.
***
Nash crossed his arms over his chest and stepped up beside Rochester, observing Avondale and Ophelia make an awkward exit. He shook his head.
“You encouraged her to go with Avondale to a tavern? Are you sure that is wise?”
“I admit I’m not,” Rochester acknowledged. “But everyone knows Ophelia and I are close. Everyone knows she’s on that list. And by tomorrow, everyone will know a rather feminine-looking chap left White’s the day the book went missing.”
“Ah.” Nash paused. “So simply protecting Ophelia, are you?”
“Why do you say it like that?” Rochester demanded with a level look at Nash.
“You are forcing proximity on those two.”
“Avondale didn’t seem to mind.”
Nash snorted. “That is because Avondale knows who the real Othello is. What if he takes advantage of the situation? He could ruin her.”
“He won’t.”
“But how do you know?” Nash insisted.
“I’m an excellent judge of character, Oliver.” Rochester’s lips quirked. “And I have a spectacular sense of chemistry. Whenever those two meet, sparks ignite.”
Nash shook his head. “You’ve gone mad. One of these days, Rogan, you are going to fall into your own trap.”
“I don’t set traps.”
“Mmm,” Nash murmured, his voice trailing away. “Whatever you say.”
Chapter 10
Ophelia had been claimed by madness. Why else would she feel a flutter of excitement in her breast as she was led into a dim tavern filled with rough-looking characters by a man who had kissed her because he thought she was a man?
She should have been frightened to death. Scandalized beyond belief.
Yet, she could not be entirely unsurprised at her reaction. This was, after all, the third time in her life she had acted so indisputably brazen. Kissing a man on St. James Street. Stealing White’s betting book. And now sitting in a tavern with a man.
Avondale motioned to a table at the far end of the room, tucked away in a shadowed corner. The perfect spot to observe the occupants and remain shielded by curious eyes.
Almost as soon as they settled down, a barmaid appeared at their table, a sweet smile plastered on her face. “What can I get ye gentlemen?”
“Two pints,” Avondale ordered, casting the barmaid only the briefest of glances before she marched away with a nod.
Ophelia drew her brows together, observing Avondale carefully. Even she had noticed the barmaid’s generous charms on pert display, and yet Avondale’s eyes hadn’t so much as lowered to sneak a peek. No, his eyes were on Ophelia, or rather Othello, keen interest ablaze in their depth.
What have you gotten yourself into, Ophelia Thornton?
The look furthered her theory: Avondale preferred men and not women. Lud, was that why Roche
ster and Nash had not seemed concerned to leave her in the presence of Avondale?
Ophelia swore that if this was punishment for the Willoughby wager, Rochester would get an earful.
While Rochester and Nash had seen through her disguise instantly, they were her dearest friends and knew her better than anyone. Leeds and Cromby, a fairer barometer, had thought her a man. So she was sure Avondale must as well.
“A pretty girl,” Ophelia remarked, nodding after the barmaid.
“I suppose, if you are into such things.”
Ophelia narrowed her eyes on Avondale.
“Such things?” she inquired.
He leaned forward and whispered. “Women.”
Her eyes widened. He was not even going to deny it? But why would he? He must believe Sir Othello Roseton preferred men as well! Of course he would. Ophelia, Roseton, had kissed him back. Ophelia nearly groaned aloud at the predicament.
The barmaid appeared with their beers, setting them down on the table, careful not to spill a drop.
Ophelia reached for the ale and took a long, hearty sip.
Avondale raised his glass, bemused. “Cheers,” he said before he took a swallow.
“Cheers,” she murmured, gulping down another sip. Ophelia had never tasted beer before. It was quite bubbly on the tongue, somewhat bitter, but not unpleasant.
Avondale regarded her over the rim of his mug. Ophelia stared back, unsure of what to say. This was a part of men’s pastimes women rarely got to glimpse. What do men talk about when drinking ale together? Especially a man who had kissed her not an hour ago.
Ophelia tore her gaze away from Avondale and glanced around the tavern, spotting a portrait of a woman titled The Duchess. She peered at the piece, which seemed too impressive a piece of art to belong to such a shabby place. She shrugged and turned her attention back to the bubbly ale.
“There is something I must admit, Roseton, for I fear you might get the wrong impression of me if I do not.”
Ophelia looked up at Avondale. “Oh?”
He leaned forward, sending her a sly, conspiratorial wink. “I know you are not Sir Othello Roseton.”
Every single hair on Ophelia’s body lifted.