by Darcy Burke
“Not exactly.”
Ophelia pursed her lips. “Not exactly doesn’t fit into the categories of yes or no. Either you have something to discuss or you do not.”
“You are annoyed with me,” he stated.
Ophelia said nothing, merely tugged off her gloves and deposited them on the side table before entering the drawing room. It never once crossed her mind to ask Charles whether Rochester and Nash had come calling. She wished she had. Such was their friendship that they were practically family. As such, Charles treated the men as part of the household. Ergo, they came and went as they pleased without Ophelia being informed.
Aware of Avondale hot on her heels, she barely cleared the threshold of the drawing room before she whirled around, arms outstretched, ready to usher Avondale away. Too late. Avondale stood frozen, jaw slack and eyes riveted on the scene behind her.
Rochester and Nash, lips locked.
Ophelia shut her eyes as she heard the two men jump apart, the rustling of fabric indicating that they were patting their disheveled jackets into place.
If ever there was a reason to curse the devil, this would be the time. Ophelia didn’t much care about the various consequences her reputation would likely suffer from given all she’d done since she met the Earl of Avondale. But she would walk into the fires of perdition to keep her friends’ secret. She cursed her part for exposing it to Avondale.
But they should have known better.
“Rochester,” her mother’s voice chirped from the hallway. “Is that you?”
Ophelia’s eyes snapped open.
To her astonishment, Avondale suddenly pivoted on his heel, blocking the doorway and granting Rochester and Nash time to set themselves to rights.
She could have kissed him.
Yes, the irony was not lost on Ophelia.
“Lady Rhodes,” Avondale murmured. “A pleasure.”
“Avondale?” Ophelia heard her mother murmur uncertainly. “Have you come to call on my daughter?”
“I happened upon Lady Ophelia outside, my lady. She was gracious enough to invite me for tea.”
Ophelia rolled her eyes. For all her gratefulness, she could have punch Avondale too. This was yet another thing he could dangle over her head. She hurried to her friends, assisting Rochester with his cravat. He was terrible at it. She then smoothed over the hair that had escaped from their carefully styled mops.
She shook her head at them in disapproval.
“I shall leave you to your tea, then.” Ophelia heard her mother excuse herself and drew a deep breath. For once, she was grateful for her mother’s meddling ways.
Slowly, she turned to face Avondale.
Harry would have wagered his entire fortune, had he possessed one, on the guess that Lady Ophelia Thornton wanted to spear him with something sharp and pointy. She stood queenly in a position of defense, arms folded across her breast, chin raised, and eyes flashing.
Christ, she was beautiful.
That she appeared to defend her closest friends with her life made her even more alluring.
This visit had been enlightening in more ways than one. Her current behavior certainly explained why society thought her and Rochester to have an understanding, though, in Harry’s enlightened estimation, it would certainly never come to fruition. He’d also already made an internal note to never invite her to drive his horses. It seemed the one trademark of all gentlemen clawing for her fortune—a telling sign.
Eyeing her defensive stance, he made another note never to get on the lady’s bad side. It seemed to Harry that had Wellington enlisted Ophelia to fight at his side, they’d have won the war against Napoleon much sooner.
This certainly explained why Ophelia hadn’t been all that shocked when he had kissed her in the alleyway. She wasn’t unused to the idea of men kissing other men. Harry suppressed the smile at the humor he felt at the memory.
“Rochester, Nash,” Harry greeted, watching them stiffen as he strode to the sofa and flopped down. “Glad I caught you. We have a pressing matter to discuss—one Lady Ophelia refuses to see reason on.”
They all scowled at him, and Harry arched a brow. They had expected him to remark on what he had witnessed, not change the subject. Even though Harry had a thousand questions brewing in his skull, he’d not ask one of them. And he sensed they would not be welcome anyway. He had, albeit inadvertently, stumbled on a secret that these three had gone to great lengths to protect. The only way Harry knew how to alleviate their worries was to pretend he hadn’t discovered it at all. And hopefully, they would understand in turn that Harry did not judge their relationship.
“Have you not heard?” Harry continued into the silence. “The betting book of White’s has gone missing. The whole club is in an uproar. Soon they will be searching for one Sir Othello Roseton to question. I believe you are acquainted with him.”
All three of them blinked, then slowly lowered themselves to the settee.
“I believe you left with the fellow?” Rochester spoke first, some of the crimson color leaving his face.
Harry cocked his head in thought. “I don’t seem to recall that I did.”
“They will never find Sir Othello Roseton,” Ophelia said, back straight. “He has vanished into the wind.” She flicked a glance at the door. “So I’ve heard.”
Harry nodded. “But Cromby and Leeds can place him with Rochester and Nash, can they not?”
Both men cursed, verifying Harry’s concern. If they were going to protect Ophelia, they had to get their stories straight. Claiming ignorance of Sir Othello Roseton was not an option. If it had been just Cromby, it would have been fine. But the Marquis of Leeds was a levelheaded man, and even when he was in his cups, his memory was rivaled by few.
“If anyone asks, Roseton bid his adieu and left with another gentleman. You were too in your cups to pay attention,” Harry said. “Hopefully, no one will question that.”
Nash’s brows pulled together. “And you will keep Roseton’s true identity a secret?”
Harry gave a solemn nod.
“Why?” Rochester frowned. “What do you gain by helping us?
Harry’s eyes flicked to Ophelia. “My life, I suspect.”
Her cheeks flushed. And her friends turned to her, brows raised.
“I have no idea what he could mean by that,” Ophelia muttered, and Harry hid a grin.
“Mmmhm.”
She swatted Rochester.
“What about,” Nash cleared his throat, “the other matter?”
Three pairs of eyes swung to Harry.
“What other matter?” Harry asked. “I know of no other matter that requires clarification.”
Three sets of shoulders relaxed.
“I am, however, curious about one thing,” Harry said, directing his question to Rochester. “Did you know I was aware of Roseton’s identity when you sent him off with me to the tavern?”
Crimson returned to Rochester’s cheeks.
Ophelia’s head swiveled to the earl. “I would very much like the answer to that as well.”
“I suspected.”
Ophelia gasped. “I thought your stunt with Kirkwood was bad enough, but this is on another level, Rochester.”
Harry scowled. “Kirkwood?”
“I was merely attempting to help you find a gentleman to court, Ophelia. Kirkwood is a puppy; you were always in safe hands.”
Harry’s scowl deepened. “You are searching for a gentleman to court?”
Ophelia flicked a hand in the air. “It was Rochester’s idea.”
“So Ophelia could find a respectable husband, not one sniffing around her skirts for her fortune,” Rochester explained.
“I never approved of it,” Nash piped in.
“Yes, well, it’s a moot point now,” Ophelia muttered. “That damn list got in the way.”
Harry shook his head. What other interesting gems would he discover about Lady Ophelia? She was a woman with many layers, each more interesting and beguiling than
the next. But if she wanted to court a man—and he couldn’t believe he was breathing life into this thought—she had to look no further than him.
But there was another reason Harry had followed Ophelia into her residence—one that might hold the answer to all of Harry’s problems.
“About the betting book,” Harry said, drawing Ophelia’s gaze to him. “You said my father placed the same wager each month like clockwork.”
She nodded. “Every first Monday of the month.”
“May I see it?” Harry asked.
Her eyes narrowed in suspicion. “So that you can steal the book from under my nose again?”
“I have no use for the book.”
“Then why steal it in the first place?”
“Do you really wish to know the answer to that?” Harry asked.
Rochester’s head perked up. “He stole the book from you?”
“Yes, but I stole it back.”
“When?” Nash asked. “And where?”
Ophelia silenced them with a wave of her hand. To Harry, she said, “Yes, I wish to know the reason you pinched the book from me.”
“An excuse,” Harry admitted.
“For what?” she demanded.
Harry shrugged. “To see you again.” When her lips parted and no sound escaped, he went on, “I knew you would seek me out and demand the book back. I wished to discover your intentions.”
“You could have asked me directly.”
“Where would the fun in that?”
For a moment, she merely looked at him. Then she spoke. “You are truly an incorrigible rogue.”
Harry flashed an unrepentant grin.
“Very well. You can take a peek at your father’s wager. But the book stays with me.”
Harry took a deep breath and inclined his head. It might be a long shot, but it was the first clue—first potential clue, Harry amended—that he had found in days. Malik had no luck so far either. The sooner this business with the art took its course, the sooner Harry could move on with his life.
And if the clue—the clue Lady Ophelia discovered when she combed through the betting book she’d stolen because of his list—did lead him to his father’s art, Harry would fall at her knees. Because if that did not cry fate, Harry did not know what did.
Chapter 14
Ophelia fiddled with a long-stemmed rose, reflecting upon how tragic it seemed to separate such a beautiful flower from its stem. Her mother took great joy in decorating each room with fresh flowers. But all Ophelia thought of when she observed the poor dears was what a pity it was—that, and how it seemed that the countess had an infinite number of hours to decorate their entire house with roses and peonies three times a week while also attending balls, managing household accounts, and still finding the time to shop.
What was her mother’s secret to managing time?
Ophelia, in contrast, never seemed to have enough hours in the day. She could not even manage to figure out what to do with a single betting book. Though perhaps that had less to do with her management of time than with the Earl of Avondale, who thoroughly occupied her thoughts day and night. It was difficult to get anything done when her mind thought of nothing but the rogue.
She wondered if the wager of the late earl helped Avondale with the matter he was looking into. What an odd turn of events that the book was turning out to be a fountain of information and mischief.
A footman entered the drawing room to announce Lady Leonora, who breezed past him, a troubled look stamped on her features. Ophelia rose.
“Leonora, what’s wrong?”
“You don’t know?” Leonora asked, a bit peeved. “Well, I’m just happy to discover you have not succumbed to grave illness.”
Ophelia’s brow furrowed.
“You missed luncheon with Mother and me two days past,” Leonora clarified, and Ophelia’s eyes widened.
Her mind raced. “I did?” She thought back to her adventure down St. James Street, White’s, and all that followed. She had meant to meet up with Leonora, but after she had discovered the book gone, she had marched straight to Avondale.
Oh, dear Lord.
She had completely forgotten!
“I’m so sorry, Leonora,” Ophelia said, motioning for her friend to sit. “Please forgive me. I have been terribly distracted as of late.”
“Does your distraction have anything to do with the Earl of Avondale?”
Ophelia’s lips parted. “How did you—”
“Know?” Leonora arched a brow. “A rumor is circulating that the two of you were seen in private tête-à-tête on your doorstep. And,” Leonora held up a single finger, “I saw him slobbering over your hand at the Radley Ball.”
Ophelia sighed. If Leonora, who was usually not as observant when it came to other’s lives, had noticed Avondale’s interest—or was it fairer to call it their interest in each other?—it was only a matter of time before the tongues started to wag in earnest.
But in the wake of that thought came a most surprising feeling: Ophelia found that she did not mind the gossip. She also did not mind Avondale’s interest.
Strange, since the man seemed to annoy her more than anything else.
“The earl did come to call on me,” Ophelia admitted.
Leonora nodded. “I thought there was truth to the rumor, but that is not why I came calling today.”
“Leonora, I’m truly sorry about lunch—”
“Good, though that’s not why either.”
Ophelia’s brows puckered as she waited.
“I’ve heard the most distressing news,” Leonora said. “Lady Harriet Hillstow has been married off to the Marquis of Leeds in a hushed ceremony by way of special license.”
Ophelia’s mouth dropped open.
No! It can’t be!
Harriet was on the list. And now she’d been married off? To the Marquis of Leeds? Who Ophelia had seen in White’s right beside the betting book mere days earlier?
What a horrid turn of events!
A breath of air rushed from her lungs, and dread spread through her heart. If that could happen to Lady Harriet, what could not happen to the rest of them?
“Are you sure?” Ophelia asked.
Leonora nodded. “I heard from Louisa today. Her father is making her wed as well, though she would not say to whom.”
“Lady Louisa too?” Ophelia exclaimed. “But Louisa is always boasting how her father agreed to let her choose her own husband.”
“I don’t know why all this is suddenly happening,” Leonora said, her features drawn in concern. “Louisa mentioned that her father said something about a wager but would not elaborate when she asked him about the details.”
“Leonora,” Ophelia said, her hands starting to shake. “I need to tell you something.” She still hadn’t decided what she was going to do about the book, but if the result of that list was so disastrous, Ophelia couldn’t do nothing. She refused to let whoever compiled the list and partook in the wagers get away with what they’d done. “I know about the wager or rather about the list that inspired the wagers. I am mentioned as well. Quite a few women are. All heiresses.”
“List? What list?” Leonora questioned. “I asked around, but no one will tell me anything except that the wagers are unflattering.”
“Rochester informed me of them all. It’s a list of the six wealthiest heiresses in London,” Ophelia muttered darkly.
“To what end?” Leonora asked, the same horror reflected on her face as on Ophelia’s when she had first learned about the list.
“I’m not sure. Probably some fortune hunter created the thing. But he didn’t stop there. Whoever created the list then proceeded to list the women’s attributes and flaws next to their names.”
“How awful,” Leonora gasped.
“Yes,” Ophelia agreed. “But whoever compiled the list remains a mystery. Rochester and Nash have tried to put an ear to the ground, with no result.”
“Whoever compiled it must know they will be loathe
d should their identity be revealed.”
Ophelia nodded. “At this point, I don’t believe anyone will confess.”
“They are probably too ashamed,” Leonora remarked. “I would be.”
“I’d have thought someone would boast about being the creator. The list is quite the on dit among the men of White’s, but no one has. Then again, perhaps they’ve been distracted by the theft of the betting book.”
“The betting book was stolen?”
Ophelia hesitated. Should she confess to her friend that she’d been the one to steal the book? Keeping it a secret from Leonora seemed silly given the circumstances. The consequences of that list had proven to be dire; something had to be done.
“I stole the book,” Ophelia confessed. She watched her friend’s eyes round at the disclosure. “I snuck into White’s and took the book after Rochester informed me I was on the list.”
“Dear Lord,” Leonora said, starting to fan her face. “What are you going to do with it?”
“That is the conundrum I am facing. I do not know.”
“Who else is on the list besides you, Louisa, and Harriet?” Leonora asked. “You must inform them at once.”
Ophelia sighed. “I know. I should have told them the moment I had the book, but I got grossly distracted.”
Leonora nodded. “Avondale.”
Ophelia nodded. “He knows I stole the book but hasn’t done or said anything yet.”
“Ophelia,” Leonora started, sitting straighter. “I married a man I fell in love with who I believed loved me back. In the end, he was nothing but a greedy bastard who ruined my future and broke my heart. Not knowing is always worse than knowing.”
Ophelia could not agree more.
“Harriet has already been married off to Leeds,” Leonora continued. “Louisa is soon to follow in her footsteps if something is not done. Inform them of the list. They cannot fight for their happiness when they do not understand what they are fighting against.”
“I know,” Ophelia murmured softly. “I will invite them to tea.”
“Good,” Leonora said with a nod and rose. “I must go. I promised Mother I would attend the Williams tea party with her. Are you going?