by Erica Ridley
He hid his impatience as much as possible as he suffered through an abbreviated version of his valet’s primping, then had his driver take him straight to Fairfax’s residence.
The doorkeeper was not at home. He and his new wife were promenading in Hyde Park.
Blast.
Michael would never be able to find them whilst ambling slowly along in his stately coach, so he requested his driver take him to the mews instead, where Michael forwent the ponderous carriage in favor of his fastest black steed.
As soon as he had mounted, he raced the stallion through the streets of Mayfair and into the cavalcade of Hyde Park. In haste, he nudged his horse between this landau and that curricle until at last he spied a shiny black barouche with Fairfax and his wife at the reins.
Michael dashed forward on his stallion. “Fairfax!”
“Wainwright.” The doorkeeper’s hallmark smile was even brighter with his wife at his side. “Heading to a ride on Rotten Row?”
“I no longer care about such distractions.” Michael waved away the idea. He didn’t have time for such nonsense. All he cared about was finding Lady X. “You must tell me who the divine creature was in the emerald dress. The one in the scarlet-plumed mask with the diamond eyeholes. I am desperate.”
Immediate recognition flashed in Fairfax’s eyes, but he shook his head firmly. “I am afraid I cannot help. Privacy is paramount.” He hesitated, as if sensing Michael’s pain. “If you need to contact a partygoer, you could consider speaking to the party’s host.”
Michael rubbed the back of his neck and sighed. “He won’t tell me. He said you wouldn’t either, but I had to try.”
Fairfax’s gaze was sympathetic, but his stance did not change.
Michael steered his black steed toward the park exit and rode hell for leather toward the Cloven Hoof.
Not because he thought anyone inside would know Lady X’s identity. But because he didn’t have anywhere else left to go.
He tied his stallion at one of the metal horse posts lining the cobbled street and stalked into the gaming den. This time, Lord Hawkridge did not appear to be present.
Good. Michael could only imagine what the morning caricatures looked like after last’s night debacle. Losing the wager, however, paled against losing Lady X. Now he had nothing.
Nothing but one more sordid scandal for the papers.
Michael propped his elbows against the bar and glared at the festive rows of sun-faded caricatures overhead.
Gideon selected a bottle of brandy. “Interesting night?”
“You heard.” Michael turned toward the counter with a grimace. “How bad are the scandal columns?”
“Devoid of your name. For now.” Gideon pushed a glass of brandy across the bar. “But I run a vice parlor. People have been known to talk.”
Michael was less surprised that the owner of a gaming hell had overheard whispers about the events of the masquerade, and more shocked that it wasn’t already common knowledge amongst the ton.
Mrs. Epworth must have kept her promise not to breathe a word about the incident. The widow possibly presumed that by having ruined Michael’s chances with Lady X—yet taking care not to ruin his chances of winning his wager—Michael might agree to sample more of her charms. He would have to disabuse her of that notion.
In fact… perhaps it was past time to dispel several pernicious rumors at once. He drained the rest of his brandy. This plan would require courage. Or at least the brandy-laced equivalent.
He furrowed his brow. “You say my name wasn’t in the papers?”
“Not this morning.” Gideon arched a dark brow in question.
Michael sighed. “It will be.”
He donned his beaver hat and turned toward the door, head held high with determination. He might be on a fool’s mission, but there was nothing left to try. He was a man in love. Lady X ought to know.
She was about to find out.
Chapter 23
Camellia was apprehensive of joining her sisters for supper. She had spent the entire morning cooped up in her bedchamber with the curtains drawn closed, fearful of what fate the morning’s scandal columns would bring. Her heart pounded with nerves as she presented herself in their private parlor.
Nothing. Not a peep. For the moment, her double identity seemed to remain a secret.
“How is your school?” she asked her sister before the subject could turn to the masquerade.
Dahlia’s face brightened. “Afloat, I’m happy to report. We received an anonymous donation nearly equal to the one that was lost when Lord Wainwright interrupted the charity meeting.”
Camellia’s answering smile was brittle. She was thrilled that the school for wayward girls was solvent for the moment. Less thrilled that Lord Wainwright’s unintentional gaffe still entered the conversation. The grudge-keeping was wearing thin.
Shock froze her teacup halfway to her lips. Dear heavens, had she just sided with Lord Wainwright instead of her own sister? A horrified gasp escaped her throat.
When had she undergone such a radical change of heart? It certainly hadn’t been last night, when his buttocks turned out to be as infamous as the rest of him. She had felt more inclined to a truly biblical smiting than to turning the other cheek.
It must have happened much earlier. Far before she’d discovered Wainwright was Lord X. Camellia returned her teacup to its saucer without taking a sip. Seen with objective eyes, rather than protective sister eyes, were his crimes against her family so grave?
He had apologized to Dahlia wholly on his own, and had seemed truly dismayed he had caused such harm with a careless word. The sole occasion in which he had purposefully spoken ill of her sister, Dahlia had provoked his remark by insulting him far more rudely than any person could be expected to bear in silence.
Not that Dahlia would see things that way. She had always viewed the world as black and white. Her strong constitution allowed her to cleave to a moral compass that perhaps wasn’t completely aligned with that of society, but always had the greatest amount of good at heart.
No matter his motives or lack thereof, Dahlia was unlikely to forgive the earl for jeopardizing the futures of two dozen indigent girls.
Just like she would never forgive her sister if she ever found out Camellia had compounded the earl’s villainy by sharing a bed with him.
“How was the masquerade?” Bryony asked, eyes sparkling with interest.
“Fine.” Camellia’s voice cracked weakly on the lie. She shoved a lemon cake into her mouth to prevent any unanswerable questions.
After all, what could she say? She now lived in a glass house. There was no honor in criticizing the earl’s nocturnal proclivities when she herself was no better. Camellia’s chin lowered. She’d engaged in the most salacious activities with him.
They were exactly the same.
A footman swept into the parlor bearing the afternoon paper on a silver tray.
“Thank you, John.” Bryony accepted the offering and shook out the paper.
Camellia tried not to sink through her cushioned stool.
“Well?” Dahlia leaned forward. “Anything interesting happen?”
Bryony scanned the pages. “Not really. Waterloo Bridge still isn’t open. Parliament is debating the reintroduction of the sovereign.” She glanced up. “There was another Princess Caraboo sighting.”
“Bah.” Dahlia wrinkled her nose. “Who cares about foreign princesses when there are more pressing concerns closer to home?”
“Here’s something.” Bryony folded the paper to highlight a section of classified advertisements. “Look at this poor bastard.”
“Bryony Grenville,” Camellia admonished, while her sisters still believed her in possession of the moral high ground to do so. “A lady doesn’t curse.”
Dahlia let out a slow whistle. “She does when she reads this.”
* * *
My darling Lady X,
You know who I am. I cannot claim the same. But I want to know
you. I need to. You have stolen my heart. It is my fervent wish that you keep it, for I will be forever yours. Please meet me, if only for a moment.
I will be on Vauxhall Bridge at dusk. Wear your mask if you must. I won’t turn around unless you grant me permission.
The stars simply aren’t the same without you beneath them.
Yours ever,
W
* * *
“‘W?’” Bryony exclaimed. “Who on earth could that be?”
“Wainwright,” Camellia choked out before she could stop herself. Her heart pounded as she reread the words. It had to be him. It had to be for her. Light-headedness assailed her. There was no other explanation.
“Wainwright?” Dahlia repeated in disbelief. “Lord Wainwright? The heartless, emotionless rakehell?”
“Smitten with a mystery woman,” Bryony crowed in glee. “The Lord of Pleasure himself. How rich! It’s positively delicious.”
“Positively,” Camellia echoed, her throat suddenly dry. A desperate, humorless laugh bubbled within her. Lord Wainwright had written her a love letter.
How could he ever believe she would answer such a publication? How could she possibly keep herself from trying?
Bryony chortled in delight. “What woman would be powerful enough to bring down a prize stud like that?”
“I would love to meet her!” Dahlia agreed.
Hands trembling, Camellia refrained from participating in speculation. Her sisters would kill her if they found out the truth. Which of course they would, if she were to answer the advertisement.
After all, the earl had been recognized. There were witnesses to her ruin. Linking Camellia’s name to such a scandalous affair would destroy the reputations of everyone in her family… and the trust of her sisters.
Dahlia would feel personally betrayed. Camellia’s parents would be even more disappointed. She was the good girl. The one they could count upon to do as she was told. To stay out of trouble. To marry a stranger. To never say no.
And yet… She couldn’t help but read the romantic words again and again. Could it possibly be true? Could Lord Wainwright mean even a fraction of what he had said?
“What time is it?” she asked as casually as she could.
Bryony glanced over Camellia’s shoulder at the clock on the mantel. “Half seven. Why, have you an assignation?”
Half seven. The sun was already setting.
“I’m… late for a fitting with my modiste,” Camellia lied and pushed to her feet. “For my… wedding.”
The one that would never happen.
Dahlia set down her plate of biscuits and brushed the crumbs from her hands. “I’ll go with you.”
“No,” Camellia said quickly, then blushed. “Not this time. It’s…”
“Intimate apparel?” Bryony guessed with a flutter of her eyelashes. “I would love to have intimate apparel of my own.”
“Not with Mr. Bost, you wouldn’t,” Dahlia muttered under her breath.
“I’m standing right here,” Camellia reminded them, then slid her arms into her warmest pelisse. “And now I’m gone. Be good, please.”
She slipped from the room before God could strike her down for hypocrisy.
By the time her hired hack reached Vauxhall Bridge, the sun had disappeared. She stared out through the dusty window at the tall figure standing alone amidst the cast-iron arches.
Lord Wainwright. He was here. Staring out at the soot-stained horizon with an expression of utter despondency.
He must have been here for hours. Waiting for Lady X. Hoping she might see his paid advertisement. Praying she would answer his plea.
Camellia remained in the hackney, her hands shaking with uncertainty.
She could end this farce right here. But should she? What good could come of confronting him? Of divulging who she was? Explaining why she had never been available?
Would he even be interested if he knew she wasn’t a mysterious lady in emerald silk, but mousy old Camellia Grenville, spinster sister to the hoyden and the termagant? No one would ever mistake her for a countess.
From the safety of her hackney prison, she watched him for the better part of an hour. He never strayed from his watch post against a stone pier. She gave the driver an extra shilling and pressed her face against the dirty glass.
Her heart twisted as an hour bled into the next. The earl stood handsome and stoic and utterly alone. Waiting for a woman who would never arrive… because she had never existed. Lady X was a fantasy. Wainwright lived in his world and Camellia in hers. The distinction was best for everyone.
When the night turned too dark to make out his outline, she gave the driver another shilling and bade him return home.
Tonight had been a mistake. Just like all the others.
She would not return.
Chapter 24
Despite the early sun streaming through Michael’s study windows the following morning, the day didn’t seem as bright as it had the week before. Nothing did. Though he tried to focus on the documents his man of business had delivered, his mind kept returning to Lady X.
She hadn’t come. He’d stood alone on the iron bridge until even the waxing moon could no longer penetrate the sooty sky, and still she had not come.
Perhaps Lady X hadn’t seen his advertisement. It was possible. But she knew his name. She didn’t need an advertisement to know where to direct a letter or send a footman. If she wished to resume communication with him, she could.
But she did not.
Michael set his jaw. Somehow, he would have to go to her. He had been the one to botch the affair. He would have to be the one to fix things. But how?
He drummed his fingers atop the mahogany desk and stared at the bookshelves lining his office wall. Hawkridge! Didn’t the marquess have a cousin or some such who was a Bow Street Runner? Mr… Spaulding, if Michael wasn’t mistaken.
Perfect. He leapt to his feet. A chap like that would be well experienced in apprehension and investigation. Finding Lady X would be easy. Mr. Spaulding would have the matter sorted in no time at all.
Michael hurried to fetch a hat and coat. There would be plenty of time later for business, once he’d at least had the opportunity to address Lady X in person. It was the not knowing that had him so tied up in knots. The wondering, the wanting, the waiting. He just wished to speak with her. To explain he wanted her for her, and no other reason. To make her realize she possessed his heart.
If, after that, Lady X still wished nothing to do with him… well. As much as he would hurt, he respected her too much to force her to wed him if that was not what she wished. If he was not who she wished.
He loved her. He wanted to share a lifetime of happiness, not a loveless marriage rife with resentment.
All he could do was state his case. Try to convince her of his sincerity. Hope to win her affection, or at least an opportunity to court her properly. No masks, no subterfuge. Just a love-struck earl with his heart on his sleeve.
When Michael’s coach arrived at the Magistrates’ Court at 4 Bow Street, the sight of the wide, three-story structure filled him with hope—and a much-needed sense of confidence. With luck, he would be able to pay a formal call on Lady X this very afternoon.
He strode through the front door and presented himself to a ruddy-cheeked fellow at the main desk. “Good morning. My name is Lord Wainwright. I am here to see Mr. Spaulding.”
“I am Mr. Spaulding.” A swarthy, dark-haired man with wide shoulders and a casual posture leaned against the doorway to a rear office. He did not glance up from the papers in his hands. “I do not know a Lord Wainwright, nor have we an appointment.”
“True on both counts.” Michael doffed his beaver hat with a smile. “Allow me to put you at ease. I am good friends with Lord Hawkridge—”
“Ah,” Mr. Spaulding interrupted softly. “My half-brother. Now I am certainly at ease. Has your marquessate also misplaced its fortune?”
Taken aback, Michael narrowed his eyes at the Ru
nner. Perhaps this was not the easiest path to success. “Earldom. And, no, I’m afraid my finances are fully in order.”
“Then why are you here? Let me guess.” Mr. Spaulding lifted his brows. “A woman?”
Michael gave a self-conscious cough behind his gloved fist. “Your powers of deduction are quite astute.”
“Nonsense,” the Runner said briskly. “Amongst my half-brother’s set, the primary problems are lost money or insubordinate ladies. Is yours being too amorous or not amorous enough?”
“I’ll thank you not to make light of my concerns,” Michael said stiffly.
Mr. Spaulding returned his gaze to his papers. “I’ll thank you not to waste my time.”
Michael refrained from curling his fingers into fists. “If you don’t wish to help people, why become a Runner?”
“I am not Cupid. I do not make love potions or settle wagers. I solve crimes.” Mr. Spaulding made a point of glancing at his pocket watch. “Unless you’ve a theft or a murder to report, our business is concluded.”
Michael felt the last vestiges of hope slipping away. “I’ll pay.”
“Still not interested.” The Runner returned his gaze to his papers. “Adieu.”
Of all the insolent, high-handed—Michael choked down his anger. Losing his temper would not solve any of his problems. “You…”
Mr. Spaulding gazed back at him blandly.
Michael forced his tight shoulders to relax. The Runner was right. Michael’s situation with Lady X did not fall under the city’s jurisdiction. There had, however, been a crime he had not previously thought to report. Since he was here, he supposed he ought to mention it.
“A few weeks ago, an item was stolen from my—” He shook his head. The harp necklace had been lost and found. What was the Runner meant to do about it now? “Never mind. I shan’t waste any more of your time. Good day.”
He turned toward the door.
“Wait.” Mr. Spaulding stepped forward. “I presume you live in Mayfair?”