by Darcy Burke
Harry looked at Rochester to find that his lips were pulled into an equally grim arch and that concern etched deep into his features.
Apprehension stole over Harry.
“What’s wrong?” Ophelia asked, facing the men.
Rochester held out his hand. “We need to talk.”
That blasted list.
Nothing else could inspire such fury and concern in Lady Ophelia’s friends. Harry watched as she abandoned all her enthusiasm for the race and hurried to the men, nodding her goodbye as she passed him. Harry inclined his head, wanting to follow but aware he would not be welcome. He watched as she left, rooted on the spot until he could no longer see Lady Ophelia, until the plum of her dress was nothing but a smudge in his vision.
Damn Cromwell.
Damn Warrick.
Damn them all for butchering his mother’s well-intentioned list.
Harry focused on the only small positive fact in this mess: there was no reason for anyone to suspect that he and his comrades were behind the creation of the content. He hadn’t changed his mind about marriage. He did not plan to wed for money. But as Harry stared sightlessly in the direction that Lady Ophelia had taken, he found it was an intention that he desperately wanted to believe would stay that way.
Chapter 6
“There is a list with my name on it?” Ophelia exclaimed, barely controlling the volume of her voice.
Rochester and Nash, who had delivered the shocking news mere seconds ago, reclined on a sofa in her drawing room with unrivaled poise. She stood in front of them, her eyes wide, certain the color had leached from her cheeks.
“Yes. And it is attached to the betting book in White’s,” Nash replied, his tone annoyingly calm.
Ophelia stared at her friends, not fooled by their composed demeanor. It was a tactic, nothing more. As if demonstrating an unflustered exterior would magically pacify her! She nearly rolled her eyes at the very thought. Then something else occurred to her.
“This is why you plied me with wine the moment we returned?” she accused.
Their cheeks stained with a telling red flush.
She decided to ignore their attempt to ease the way for the blunt edge of their announcement and tackled the next question.
“What kind of list exactly?”
The entire carriage ride back from Ascot, her friends left her stewing in curiosity and concern. She had just begun to have fun, had been looking forward to seeing whether her horse or Avondale’s won the race. For a moment, she wondered which had won, but then quickly shook off thoughts of Avondale and the race. She could not be distracted by a man at a time like this.
From the corner of her eye, she glimpsed Nash shooting Rochester a worried glance.
“Spit it out,” Ophelia snapped, dreading the answer yet terribly curious. “I am imagining all sorts of devilish things.”
Nash cleared his throat. “The origin and the purpose of the list are yet undetermined.”
Ophelia groaned, knowing he was prolonging the inevitable. “Will you tell me already?”
“It’s a list of heiresses, Ophelia,” Rochester announced without preamble. “I’ve never heard of anything so atrocious.”
“A list of heiresses,” Ophelia said slowly. She tilted her head. “And my name appears on this list?”
Nash and Rochester nodded.
Ophelia frowned. “While it is appalling behavior, to say the least, I fail to see how I should be concerned. I’m a rather well-known heiress.”
Rochester’s features darkened. “Your names aren’t the only thing listed.”
Her heart stalled a little. “There’s more?”
Ophelia then recalled this was the infamous betting book. Wagers would be rampant. And some of those wagers would be attached to her name. That was of concern.
Blast all members of that infernal club to perdition!
She glanced at Rochester and Nash. All but two. Her friends were forever the exception.
“Tell me,” she demanded.
Nash tugged at his cravat. “Beside each heiress’s name, her most praiseworthy feature, as well as her most regrettable flaw, is recorded.”
Ophelia’s mouth dropped open. She blinked at Nash for a moment. “Are you telling me there is a list in White’s with my name on it, along with what is thought to be my greatest feature and my worst flaw?”
Nash nodded grimly.
Rochester cursed and rose to pour them each another glass of port. “Whoever compiled that list should be flogged.”
The absolute horror of Nash’s statement washed over Ophelia like ice water. The blood in her veins frosted, and for a moment, she couldn’t move. All her life she had been dwarfed by the immense size of her dowry. She had put up with all sorts of remarks from gentlemen. But Ophelia had always held herself above the comments of others.
Not today.
She had been cataloged like one of her father’s racehorses. Weighed and judged in an utterly unforgiving manner for the world to see.
Ophelia could not recall a time in her life when she had ever felt so appalled at the actions of her fellow peers.
I will not stand for it.
Righteous fury exploded in her chest and spread outward, reanimating her. She paced the carpet back and forth.
It was beyond revolting that she and the other women on the list must be subjected to ridicule—to wagers!—in such a wretched way.
“What exactly are the men wagering on?” Ophelia asked. She pivoted to face her friends. “Which of us marries first? Last? What is the point of such a rotten list?”
“From what I gathered, several wagers are running off the list: who will fall to the parson’s trap first, yes,” Nash provided, “but also which heiress will remain unmarried, who possesses the worst flaw, who will be married off by their father, and who, exactly, compiled the list.”
Ophelia gnashed her teeth. “The last is a question I’d like answered too.”
“And I as well,” Rochester said, handing Ophelia her glass of port. “From what Nash discovered, the Earl of Chatteris and his friends found the list in White’s. It all went to hell from there.”
“Could he have been the one that compiled the list?”
Nash shook his head. “He just got engaged to Lady Pippa Averly. Unlikely he’d be making a list of potential matches.”
“Reportedly, Cromwell got hold of the list after Chatteris. He took it to the book.”
“Dear Lord!” Ophelia exclaimed, sinking down onto the sofa beside Rochester. “So any one of the fortune seekers out there could have created the list?”
“I’m afraid so, my dear,” Rochester said, patting her knee. “But Nash and I will be more militant in protecting you from that lot. Other than that, there is not much we or anyone can do. We must wait for the novelty to pass. And it will.”
Ophelia leaped up. “No, I refuse to sit idly by while men snicker behind my back!”
Both men zealously inspected the port clasped between their fingers in response.
“What aren’t you telling me? Nash? Rochester? What did the list say about me?”
“Ophelia,” Nash started, “I did not get that far—”
“Are you telling me you did not go up to the book and sneak a peek?” Disbelief threaded down her spine.
“The book was crowded with gentlemen.”
“And you did not wait?”
“I did,” Nash insisted. “For three hours.”
“Let me guess,” Ophelia said dryly. “You got pickled while waiting.”
“Three hours, Ophelia. I waited three hours.”
“And yet, even without approaching the book, you discovered I was on the list,” Ophelia said, studying his features closely. “Surely you must have heard more.”
The flush on his cheeks told her all she needed to know. There was something he was holding back from her.
“Tell me this instant, Oliver Moore,” Ophelia demanded, setting her port aside. “Or I shall inform Phillip tha
t we are no longer in need of the sandwiches when he arrives.”
Nash groaned. “Have a heart, Ophelia. I need sustenance.”
Pressure mounted in her skull.
“You should have thought of that before getting foxed,” Rochester muttered beneath his breath. His gaze darted to the door. “Where is Phillip with the sandwiches? It’s been ages.”
“How can you think of food at a time like this?” Ophelia exclaimed. “What are we going to do about the list?”
“Can’t think on an empty belly,” Nash grumbled. “Must eat.”
Rochester nodded. “I’m famished.”
Ophelia glared at her friends. “The two of you are exasperating!”
“Who is exasperating, dear?” The Countess of Rhodes breezed into the room, a smile forming when she spotted Ophelia’s guests. “Rochester, Nash, what a pleasant sight you are. I gather you are the ones exasperating my daughter?”
Both men leaped to their feet and bowed.
“Countess, your beauty remains unrivaled,” Rochester drawled.
Ophelia shot the trio a look of impatience.
“Oh, sit down,” the countess murmured, cheeks pinkening. “Your tongue is from the devil. Now tell me what you have done to make my daughter irate?” the countess asked.
“They have done nothing,” Ophelia replied. “But some misguided gentleman has made an atrocious wager in the betting book of White’s about m—” Ophelia cut herself off at her mother’s rounding eyes. “My friend.”
The countess frowned. “Who? Leonora?”
Ophelia nodded, somewhat weakly. She hated using her friend in the lie. Chances were slim that Leonora’s name was on the list as she was no longer considered a marriageable match after the scandal. Still, Ophelia couldn’t be certain. However, the look on her mother’s face . . . it had demanded she obscure the truth. Ophelia just prayed her mother did not pry any further.
“Someone ought to burn that book to ashes,” her mother said, breezing out of the room as Phillip entered with a tray of sandwiches.
Ophelia blinked after her mother.
Her exit should not have come as a surprise. The countess had never been one to linger but swooshed in with lively energy—imparted snippets of wisdom, wit, or commentary—and swooshed back out.
Ophelia darted a glance at Rochester and Nash and rolled her eyes at the sight of them attacking the tray of heaped sandwiches like wild beasts. Her mind drifted to her mother’s parting words: burn the betting book. The thought held appeal. Sage advice.
But why stop there?
“We should burn White’s to the ground.”
Two sets of bewildered eyes swung to her, and their mouths suspended midbite.
Rochester finished his bite and shook his head. “No.”
Generally speaking, Ophelia preferred the word no to the word yes. Her life was all about agreeing with people of superior birth, with gentlemen, with her parents, and with her governess. She relished when she was able to use no. She liked it less when it came from others.
“I agree with Rochester,” Nash said, chewing and swallowing. “Let’s not burn down White’s.”
“We are not burning White’s to the ground,” Rochester reiterated.
“Of course not,” Ophelia said, enjoying how he considered himself part of whatever she planned. While she would never truly consider burning down an establishment, Ophelia was not about to agree to do absolutely nothing. This was a negotiation of sorts. “There are easier ways.”
Rochester’s eyes widened. “We are not reducing the betting book to ash either.”
“Would never dream of such a thing,” Ophelia murmured. She resumed pacing back and forth, her mind spinning. No, burning the book would be so final. So undeserving of its worth. Such a wretched book deserved a wintrier fate. The sins of its pages deserved illumination.
“I don’t like her smile, Rogan,” Nash said to Rochester, calling him by his Christian name—a sign that he was truly uncomfortable. “I don’t like it at all.”
Ophelia knew she had their full attention then.
“Ophelia,” Rochester drawled in warning, sending her a look of solemn reproof.
“Settle your feathers,” Ophelia replied. “We are not burning the book or White’s.”
Nash expelled a breath of relief. “Good,” he said, his shoulders relaxing. “I thought I was going to need something stronger than port.”
“You are,” Ophelia announced. “Perhaps some of my father’s cognac?”
“Why?” Rochester asked. “What can you possibly be considering other than burning everything to a crisp?”
“So much more, Rochester,” Ophelia answered with a grin. “We are going to steal the betting book of White’s.”
Harry sank into his chair behind his desk with a heavy thud. He had left Ascot shortly after Lady Ophelia had been whisked off by Rochester and Nash. His mind remained stubbornly occupied by their grim faces upon setting sight on Lady Ophelia. He couldn’t even muster up a reaction when Evening Star had lost for the first time—though it was not to Poseidon as the lady had predicted.
Harry was sure they had discovered the list in the betting book of White’s, and any moment now, so would Lady Ophelia. And by the end of the week, so would every woman on the list and beyond. The repercussions spun in his mind.
What the hell had they done?
At the time, it had seemed like harmless fun. Women compared men’s attractive and unattractive features all the time. The list hadn’t seemed all that different. But that had been on the assumption of privacy, on the assumption that the list and their notes would never see the light of day.
Harry groaned into the palm of his hand.
Women’s reputations were far more delicate than men’s, and he had a feeling that the consequences of that deuced list could not yet be grasped.
Damn Warrick’s inebriated hide for losing the sheet.
Curse Harry for not taking better care of it.
The fault lay at his feet. He should not have left the list with Warrick.
Harry sank back into his chair, pressing the heel of his palms into his eyes. How had his life come to this? The combination of the missing art, the public display of his list, and his sincere attraction to Lady Ophelia—whose name was on that bloody list—seemed too ludicrous to be true. A plot that belonged in the theater.
What was it about Lady Ophelia that called to him so?
Clearly, she was not your average lady. She raced horses, refused a supposed nineteen offers of marriage, and enjoyed a questionable relationship with a man. What other secrets did she possess?
He couldn’t recall the specific features the men had given her, but he knew that whatever they were, the lady possessed no flaws. Not for him.
That damn list. Harry wanted the word purged from existence. This all began with that infernal little word. Lists of debt he had to pay. List of lost art pieces. And the troublesome list of marriageable heiresses.
Jones wrapped on the door, breaking his train of thought.
“My lord, Mr. Malik requests an audience.”
Harry nodded. “Send him in.”
Andrew Malik, tall, imposing, and disheveled as hell, entered the study. He was the sort of man one never tangled with, and he vaguely reminded Harry of a tiger.
But Malik was the man you approached when you wanted to find things—rare things, dangerous things, impossible things—and had come at the high praise of his mother.
“Avondale,” Malik said, sinking down into a chair, his every movement controlled.
“Malik, I take you have news?”
“Yes and no,” Malik answered. “Do you know a man by the name of Ryo Chellars?”
“Ryo Chellars?” Harry’s brow drew together as he racked his brain. “The name does not ring a bell.”
Malik nodded. “I thought as much.”
“What does he have to do with my father?”
“I’m not sure, but a source of mine discovered that
your father met with Ryo Chellars on numerous occasions. Other than that, I cannot find a stitch of information on the man. It’s like he is a ghost.”
“No one can be that much of an unknown.”
“I’m telling you, this man is air.”
“Hell and damnation.” Harry curled his fingers into a fist. “We find no trace of the art, and now we find no trace of this man? What the hell was my father doing?”
“Have you considered the possibility that your father was swindled?” Malik asked, tone grim. “That before the art swapped hands, he died, and the broker kept the pieces to himself?”
Harry hadn’t considered that, but now that Malik had planted the seed, fury tightened his gut. Could this all be because a bloody art broker got greedy? “I want the man found.”
Malik nodded. “We are investigating every avenue. No stone will be left unturned. Have you searched every inch of the house for a map?”
“A map?”
“Perhaps the late earl thought it would be fun to leave a treasure map with an X crossed over the missing art.”
Harry shot Malik a glare. “That is not funny.”
The corner of Malik’s lips lifted. “Maybe, but it’s still a possibility, is it not?”
“No.” His father was not the sort to bury treasure or draw a map. He wasn’t a damn pirate.
The late earl, an intellectual, had always possessed a scattered mind and was forever lost in thought. But he had been a man of high social standing. Respected. Loved.
Only in the last year of his life had he started to retreat into a shell. Drink more. Make fewer appearances in society. Interact less with Harry. Almost as if he wanted to shield his son. But from what?
Unfortunately, it had been, as always, impossible to tell what went on in his father’s mind. The man was a conundrum, his mind a vast wasteland of undecipherable elements.
Still, the art could not have vanished into thin air. Such transactions always left a trail of bread crumbs. They needed to find the first crumb and fast. Somewhere, someone had the answers. Harry just needed to find the person.