Romancing the Past

by Darcy Burke

  “Could he have stored the art in a warehouse?” Harry asked.

  “We have found no record of your father leasing or purchasing a warehouse in his name,” Malik answered.

  “He could have used an alias.”

  “We cross-referenced all leases and purchases against similar names in your ancestry. There is nothing.” Malik shook his head with begrudging respect. “Whoever your father dealt with was bloody good at covering their tracks.”

  “What does that mean for us?”

  Malik smiled—the sort of smile a man did not want to be on the receiving end of. “I dig deeper.”

  “This might be more complicated than we first thought,” Harry warned. “Dangerous even.”

  Malik raised a brow.

  Right. The man could handle himself.

  “Very well,” Harry said. “Do what you must. Somewhere on this bloody island there has to be a clue to what happened to that deuced art.”

  “I’d also like to interview the servants in your employ, if you approve. They might not realize they witnessed or overheard something useful to us.”

  Harry nodded. Apart from interrogating his father’s solicitor, Harry hadn’t thought to question anyone else in the household. But Malik made sense. The servants might not know they carried knowledge about a valuable detail until asked the right questions.

  “Question my father’s man of affairs first,” Harry suggested, cursing himself for not thinking about that earlier. “He might know if something irregular happened in my father’s schedule.”

  Malik inclined his head. “Of course. And I suggest we expand our search across the country, specifically to the coast. All the small ports that one normally wouldn’t think to look at. What about your properties?”

  “We already searched all of them.”

  Malik nodded. “It cannot hurt to search again. You also haven’t questioned the servants and searched for a map there.”

  “Dammit, there is no bloody treasure map.”

  “But wouldn’t it be intriguing if there was?”

  Harry sighed.

  Yes, it bloody would.

  Chapter 7

  Ophelia turned down the one street that any respectable lady ought never to be seen strolling down, especially in a state of slight thrill and awe. This was St. James Street, the most infamous street in London. The entire avenue consisted of gentlemen clubs and gentlemen stores. On her left loomed White’s, the address of which she had discovered from Rochester a while back, and to her right sat a hat maker’s shop, the same shop Nash frequented for his top hats.

  As Ophelia passed Fenton’s at sixty-three, she drew to a halt, drawing in a breath of midafternoon air.

  Sound flooded her senses.

  The rattling of carriage wheels rolling over the road, still muddy from the early morning rain. The horses’ hooves hitting the ground might have been soothing, but the lull was broken by the cries of street vendors, dogs barking in the distance, and men whistling as they sauntered down the street.

  Ophelia glanced up the length of the surrounding buildings. Muffled music pulsed from their walls, and somewhere the chords of a violin sparked to life. Behind her, the bleat of a goat caused her to grimace, but when she turned around, there was no goat to be seen, leaving Ophelia to wonder if she had imagined the whine.

  All around her, the smell of dust, wood, and vermin polluted the air, but every now and then, the aroma of freshly baked bread and mutton pie would tickle her nose, cutting through the stench. Despite her nerves, excitement thrummed up inside her like the wild beats of African drums she had once read about.

  There was no street in London where secrets congealed as thickly as they did on St. James. And she was about to pluck one of those secrets right off the racks.

  She smiled to herself as she observed gentlemen entering and exiting buildings, shops, and clubs alike. Smiled even wider when nary a person paid her any mind. They considered her part of the scenery.

  And why wouldn’t they?

  Ophelia was dressed as a man.

  An impeccable one, she dared say.

  The only uncomfortable part of her disguise was the colored periwig she wore, tied at the nape of her neck. Her scalp itched incessantly, but scratching her head ran the risk of drawing attention to herself. Lord forbid should the perfectly arranged wig slant to the side. In any case, the wig combined with the fake sideburns and the high cravat disguised Ophelia’s face to the letter, courtesy of Charles, their beloved butler. He would do anything for Ophelia, and it hadn’t taken much to convince him to help her with her outfit.

  Ophelia wondered whether Rochester and Nash would recognize her if they passed her on the street. Sadly, they were not part of this mission. In fact, they weren’t aware of her plan. Not after they had displayed great horror upon her declaration three days ago to steal the betting book. A reaction Ophelia had found comforting. Their alarm meant they understood the consequences should that infamous book fall into the hands of a woman. So she had pretended to let the matter go.

  Ophelia huffed.

  They ought to know her better.

  A body suddenly hurled into her own—a young boy carrying a sack of potatoes. Upon their collision, the bag slipped from his fingers and crashed to the ground. Potatoes spilled out, rolling everywhere. Horrified, she scrambled to her knees to gather them into her arms.

  “My apologies,” Ophelia said to the boy, who appeared to be even more flustered than she.

  Ophelia glanced beyond the lad and inwardly cursed. They had attracted quite a lot of attention. Hopefully, the street vendors and onlookers wouldn’t pay her much heed. Once all the potatoes were accounted for, the lad bobbed his head and disappeared into the crowd.

  She peered beneath her lashes at the surrounding observers. Most had gone on their way, yet some still regarded her curiously. Ophelia had tarried too long in the street. Best be on her way to White’s to execute her plan.

  Keeping her head held high to avert any lingering suspicion, she turned on her heel to head back toward White’s and stepped right into the path of another man, her shoulder connecting with his chest.

  Startled, Ophelia lifted her gaze to a familiar set of bronze eyes. Her lips parted, and she stifled a gasp. He was the last man she had ever expected to run into.

  Avondale.

  Harry’s eyes were once again drawn to the lad who stood staring up at Fenton’s Hotel. Twice now he had noticed the gent, and even though there was nothing out of place with the fellow, Harry’s gaze kept drifting back to the young man.

  Perhaps the pure wonder on the lad’s face was what had caught Harry’s interest. The look of fascination carved on the boy’s features. Or perhaps it was the way his breeches hugged his body. No breeches should hug a man’s thighs in such a manner.

  Why the bloody hell am I noticing the chap’s thighs?

  A suspicion began forming in his mind. Never in his life had he noticed a man’s thighs. Or the sway of a man’s hips. Or the way men tilted their heads to the side in avid speculation. Or the line of a jaw so delicate it should belong on a woman.

  Harry narrowed his eyes on the fellow’s face.

  Then the young man smiled.

  Shock rippled down Harry’s frame.

  The lad gawking at his surroundings was no man but rather Lady Ophelia Thornton in disguise. For a brief moment, Harry questioned if he was imagining the vision. Surely his eyes were playing tricks on him. But no, they weren’t. He would know that smile anywhere.

  It was her.

  Astonishing.

  Absolutely astonishing.

  Lady Ophelia was walking down St. James Street in broad daylight as if she owned the block. He watched as she spun and headed toward Piccadilly, her slim, graceful legs owning the ground they trod upon. Shoulders set back, haute chin held up high. Her head swiveled from building to building, vendor to vendor, in what Harry could only describe as dazzled awe.

  So struck with wonder was she that she did
not notice the bedraggled lad hoisting a sack of vegetables over his shoulder. Harry winced as she collided with the boy; the vegetables scattered, and an apologetic Ophelia scurried to collect the wandering potatoes.

  Could it be that she’d just been curious about St. James Street and wished to stroll down its length without drawing attention to herself? It seemed rather bold. Reckless. Was she always so brazen? Harry did not know. But he wanted to learn the answer.

  He stepped into her path as she was about to pass him, and she nearly careened right into him also.

  Her startled gaze flew to his.

  A smile curved his lips.

  Her lips parted, drawing his gaze to their plumpness. An overwhelming urge to tease her pounced on him, and his grin turned wolfish.

  “Very well. I accept the offer.”

  Before she could question his statement, he grasped her by the arm and dragged her into a narrow side street. Pushing her against the wall, Harry caged her in with his arms. Those green eyes peered up at him, wide and shocked.

  “What is the meaning of this?” She attempted to escape his cage. “Let me go this instant!”

  “Is this not why you collided into me?” Harry grinned down at her. “Everyone knows it’s the universal language of St. James Street that if you desire the kiss of a gentleman, you collide into him.”

  She stilled, her green eyes widening to saucers. “A kiss? Sir, I am a man.”

  “Indeed. Only a man would be walking down St. James Street.”

  “I—well, yes, I—”

  “Excellent. Now, to the business.”

  “What business?”

  “This,” Harry said, and he swooped down for a kiss. His lips merely brushed hers, gently at first, his tongue caressing her lower lip, testing for a response. For a fleeting moment she stiffened, and Harry thought she’d push him away. But instead, a small sound feathered over her lips before she melted against him.

  The world stopped.

  His tongue glided into her mouth in response as he deepened the kiss with a groan. Her breath hitched, and Harry was certain she had forgotten her pretense. But then, for a moment he had forgotten his teasing. And where they were—in a bloody alleyway off St. James Street. If any passerby recognized him and witnessed him locked in an embrace with what appeared to be a man, he would be defamed.

  Reluctantly, he tore his mouth from hers.

  She blinked up at him, dazed, blinked some more, and then leaped away from him.

  “What have you done?” she breathed, gloved hands lifting to cover her mouth.

  “I kissed you.”

  “Why?”

  “I told you, you collided with me.” He hid a smile.

  “I did not mean to!”

  “Then why did you return my kiss? Did you not mean to do that either?”

  “No!”

  Her affront made him laugh. “Allowing me to kiss you is the exact equivalent of kissing me back.”

  “I am a man,” she hissed, glancing around.

  “So?”

  “So!” she sputtered. “I prefer females! The opposite of male. Women.”

  “You do?” Harry asked innocently. “Are you sure? I couldn’t tell from your tongue in my mouth.”

  Her eyes widened, and her lips parted, an expression of pure, righteous indignation taking over her features. The effect was somewhat reduced by the ridiculous periwig perched on her head.

  With a dirty look directed at the length of him, she spun around and darted off.

  “I did not catch your name,” Harry called after her, chuckling.

  She ignored him and quickened her pace.

  Harry stepped onto St. James, watching her progress with mild amusement, when it occurred to him that Lady Ophelia would now believe he preferred the company of gentlemen. He scowled at himself. He hadn’t thought of that when he’d decided to tease her.

  Dammit.

  He did not want her to question his preferences. Because he suspected no other woman—on his mother’s list or not—would quite capture his interest the way Lady Ophelia had. She kept surprising him at every turn. A force of her own. And the extraordinary thing was, though their run-in today was only the third time they’d met, he found he had not once thought of her inheritance, in her presence or otherwise—or her supposed flaw, which he honestly could not call to mind.

  He watched as she strode down the street at a brisk pace. But instead of disappearing around the corner of Piccadilly and rushing home, as Harry had expected, Lady Ophelia stopped in front of White’s, tugged on her jacket, and marched up the stairs.

  His jaw nearly dropped into the paving.

  Had she just entered White’s?

  Something snapped in his mind, and an instant realization struck—the betting book.

  Bloody hell.

  How else to explain her behavior? Her presence? Did she want to see the list with her own eyes as proof? What the devil did she hope to accomplish?

  And that was when he knew.

  Lady Ophelia was not the sort of woman to sneak into White’s simply to confirm the existence of a list with her name scrawled upon it. No, by Jove, she’d not sneak in for a mere glimpse.

  Lady Ophelia had come for that damn list.

  Astonishing.

  The woman possessed a backbone of steel and nerves of flint. And Harry wouldn’t miss what she did next for all the world. Heart pounding, he headed to White’s.

  Chapter 8

  Ophelia stepped over the threshold of White’s, mildly surprised that no one immediately pointed a finger at her and cried, “Woman! Halt!” The scent of tobacco and roast beef hung in the air, and the instant warmth of the club heated her cheeks.

  Though, admittedly, the club’s temperature wasn’t the only reason her cheeks were warm. She could still taste Avondale’s kiss on her tongue, was still reeling from his shocking actions and what they meant.

  The Earl of Avondale preferred the company of men.

  Nothing could have stunned Ophelia more. Had she not been the recipient of that kiss, she’d never have thought it could be true. Of course, Ophelia was not ignorant in such matters, but Avondale had not struck her as a man who preferred men.

  Nothing about him or their interactions had suggested that he did. In fact, she’d felt quite differently whenever she had been around him. Yet now that she pondered the matter . . . had he not all but declared he was not pursuing her? After which he had introduced the idea of another sort of man: a friend.

  Ophelia had been utterly wrong about him.

  For heaven’s sake, Rochester should have warned her. How could Rochester leave out such a pertinent detail of the earl? Was he not more versed in these matters?

  The clinking of crystal brought her back to the present. Ophelia would dwell on the matter later. She had a mission to accomplish. One that would most certainly end in scandal if she did not keep her wits about her.

  She glanced about the room, startled when she spotted Nash and Rochester sitting in a corner right by the window. They had not noticed her and remained deep in discussion, nodding toward another table every two seconds or so.

  Ophelia followed their gaze to a pair of men bent over a table, scribbling away in a book.

  The book, Ophelia realized.

  She headed straight for them, feet a little unsteady beneath her. Ophelia knew that the club may have specific protocols, but she also had no way of knowing what they were. So she decided a bold approach was the best approach. It was too late to turn back, in any case. She was here. And she was not leaving without that book.

  Ophelia smiled as she reached the two lords.

  “Gentlemen,” she greeted in a practiced low drawl. “Is that the infamous betting book I’ve heard so many tales about?”

  They straightened and turned to her, and she recognized them as the Marquis of Leeds and Viscount Cromby. Both notorious gamblers.

  “I say, do I know you?” Viscount Cromby asked, brows puckering. He studied her face. �
�I do not believe we have been introduced.”

  “Sir Othello Roseton,” Ophelia announced, her confidence growing now that the book was in sight. “I am visiting from Wales.”

  “Wales, you say?” The Marquis appraised her from head to toe. He gave a slow nod. “You are here on a visitor’s pass, then.”

  Ophelia nodded, praying his question not a trick and this visitor’s pass did in fact exist. She motioned to Rochester. “My friends are calculating Lord Willoughby’s waist size for a wager, I believe. While I am dying of curiosity as to the answer, the actual math bores me to tears.”

  Cromby laughed. “There are more interesting subjects to wager upon today, Roseton.”

  “Yes, like the wager we were just placing ourselves,” Leeds said.

  “Oh?”

  Cromby dragged the open book to the edge of the table and tapped on the page.

  Heart in her throat, Ophelia peered at Lord Cromby’s entry.

  Ld. C. bets Ld. L. five guineas that Lady O. has a child born out of wedlock ten months from this day 20th June 1819.

  Ophelia stifled an outraged gasp.

  What an atrocious wager! Lud, she wanted nothing more than to rip out the page and tear the entries to shreds. That, however, would be senseless. Instead, with herculean effort, she managed to curve her lips into half a smile. The flush of anger that spread across her cheeks was impossible to keep at bay.

  “I say, Roseton,” Lord Cromby drawled. “Are you offended at the wager?”

  Ophelia forced more of a smile. “Not at all, gentlemen. Merely scandalized that a lady would birth a child out of wedlock.”

  The Marquis of Leeds nodded. “Quite agree.”

  Lord Cromby scoffed. “The Ice Queen will be thoroughly compromised this time, I tell you. Mark my words, with her dowry and this list, fortune hunters and rakes alike will double their efforts.”

  Ice Queen? Is that how men perceived her? Cold?

  Double their efforts?

  Noting the confusion on her face but interpreting her expression as another kind of bewilderment, the marquis clarified, “You must not know of the list.” He reached out to flip six pages back.