by Maya Rodale
She was alone.
Escape!
This was her opportunity.
She spied the door that surely led out of the flat, into the corridor then out onto the street and then . . . she did not know what then. Where was she? How was she to get back? Knowledge of how to get herself to Durham House required knowing where she was presently.
This was, she believed, a conundrum.
Take a deep breath.
Think logically.
Think of what a good story this will be in your diary later.
With a heavy, nervous heart, she made her way toward the door.
But it opened before she could reach it.
A man stepped over the threshold.
It was with some relief that she noticed he was handsome. As if that made him safe, which was ridiculous. But she had been expecting the very worst, straight out of a gothic novel. Missing teeth. Beady eyes.
And yet here was a handsome man gazing at her with warm brown eyes (that were not at all beady) and a kind smile (all teeth seemed to be present). He was breathing hard, as if he’d run here, and she noted the rise and fall of his broad, flat chest that tapered to a narrow waist and muscular legs and . . .
Oh God, was she really noticing such things?
Now?
Somebody ought to smack some sense into her.
“You’re still here,” he said, sounding relieved. “Good morning.”
English. Of course he was English. And his accent sounded more like their oh-so proper neighbor Darcy, an earl, than the accent of the grooms in the stable. Which meant that he might move in the same circles as the duchess, which meant that he was more “acceptable” though it also meant that she was at greater risk of discovery and ruination.
“Good morning?”
Because honestly, what did one say at a time like this? Was it a good morning? In the space of a few heartbeats it had gone from certain to disaster to . . . intriguing. Who was this man? Why was she in his flat? Was this even his flat?
Either way good wasn’t the right word for this morning.
“We have not been properly introduced.” So he was polite. And prone to vast understatements. “My name is Mr. Alistair Finlay-Jones, gentleman and rescuer of drunk ladies of Mayfair.”
Ah, so he possessed something like a sense of humor. But he could still be a blackguard for all she knew.
“I wasn’t drunk,” she said adamantly. “Nor was I wandering the streets of Mayfair alone. That is absurd.”
The duchess would kill her, for one thing. For another, she was barely able to use the necessary without a chaperone breathing down her neck. Wandering the streets of Mayfair. Drunk. Alone. In the dead of the night. The man was barking mad, clearly.
And yet, here she was. Alone with a gentleman to whom she had not been properly introduced. In his flat. With her dress partially undone. And no recollection of how any of these things came to be.
“Is it absurd?” He tilted his head. A lock of dark hair fell across his forehead.
“I think it is,” she said with less conviction.
She remembered the events at Almack’s, and winced. She remembered the horrid carriage ride home and had a vague recollection of shouting at everyone and flinging her hairpins around the foyer, which probably explained why her hair was a tangled, untamed mass of curls at the moment.
And after that—nothing.
Not. One. Thing.
She would have at least remembered starting in on James’s bottle of brandy in the library, if not finishing it. But the only thing she drank was a glass of water that Miss Green had given her.
“I don’t suppose you know how I’ve come to be here,” she said.
“You were wandering the streets of Mayfair alone, after midnight, in an advanced state of intoxication. Admittedly I was as well, though I am far more adept at holding my liquor.”
“Clearly I shall have to improve through practice. Though I wasn’t drunk.”
“Of course,” he replied, agreeable even though she was certain he didn’t believe her at all. “I couldn’t very well leave you on the streets.”
“You could have returned me to my home.”
“And where would that be? You were not very forthcoming with the information last night. When I asked, you said America.”
That is exactly what she would have said. Drat. Perhaps he was telling the truth.
“You brought me here instead.”
“I couldn’t very well leave you on the street.”
Amelia looked at him and around the room. The sparse collection of rooms that barely looked lived in. He must have only just moved or have been impoverished. Or both. Her gaze landed on the settee, which would barely seat two, and then her gaze shifted back to him, all six feet of him.
“You must have been awfully uncomfortable sleeping on that little thing all night.”
“Oh, it was nothing,” he said and she was sure he was lying.
“Especially while I enjoyed your large, comfortable bed,” she said, holding his gaze. She took a small delight in the way his cheeks pinkened slightly. “I’m not sure if you are a gentleman or a scoundrel.”
“Whichever the lady prefers.”
She took one look at those brown eyes and thought, Scoundrel. Definitely scoundrel.
“The lady prefers to return home. I have stayed long enough. In fact, I only waited because I needed to have my dress buttoned up. Would you mind helping me? I don’t suppose there is a lady’s maid about?”
“Would you believe that I’ve doubled as a lady’s maid a time or two?”
She looked him over: tall, with a broad chest tapering to a narrow waist, olive skin and dark hair, not to mention the kind of face that made even a nun simper.
“Yes, I would absolutely believe it.”
He burst out laughing. “Turn around then.”
He proceeded to do up the buttons, slowly, fingertips brushing against the soft skin of her back. He wasn’t rushing. She felt the warmth of him from standing so close. This was intimacy that was new to her.
And then he was done, quickly. Gently. Her skin was tingly and she was feeling . . . feelings. He definitely had practice as a lady’s maid.
“Thank you,” she said softly, turning to face him. Perhaps they would meet again. Or perhaps it was best if they didn’t. So she enjoyed one long, last look at this handsome stranger. “I should go.”
“Allow me to walk you home.”
He smiled, and she was tempted, if only because she didn’t know which way to go. But being seen with the likes of him would only make things worse. The only thing worse than a lady alone was a lady alone with a man.
“I am perfectly capable of finding my own way, thank you.” She smiled to be polite and started for the door. Then the truth reared its head again: she didn’t know where she was or how far from Durham House, though she knew better than to ask him or mention the name Durham. He seemed like he could use ransom funds. “If you could perhaps lend me a few coins for a hack? I will see that the money is returned to you.”
“Of course.” He pulled some money out of his pocket and handed it to her. His bare hand brushed against hers.
“Mr. Finlay-Jones, thank you for not leaving me on the streets to a dire fate.”
“I could not do so and call myself a gentleman,” he said with a grin.
He stepped aside to let her go and after she stepped into the hall, she turned, and said, “If we should meet again—”
“I hope we do.”
“—we must never speak of this.”
He paused. “Speak of what?”
“Exactly,” she said with a smile. “Goodbye, Mr. Finlay-Jones.”
Chapter 6
In which the girl gets away.
11:07 in the morning
Alistair did not believe in luck. Anything that looked like luck in his life—like, say, being the son of a second son and yet finding himself heir to a title—came at too high a price to be called luck.
But finding that American girl had been lucky.
Finding that American girl and taking her home had been damned lucky. Leaving her alone in his flat and then returning to still find her there was even luckier still. He arrived, gasping for breath from sprinting, just as she was about to leave.
How. Damned. Lucky.
Especially after being ordered to marry her.
There was never any question that he was going to do his utmost to honor the baron’s request. The baron was a stuffy, proud man obsessed with prestige, privilege, and his lineage. He cared more about the circumstances of a man’s birth than a man’s character. He had barely tolerated his nephew, the product of a union between an Englishman and an Indian woman. He certainly ceased trying after that horrible accident with Elliot.
The sad fact was that Alistair would do anything for his approval. He felt he owed the baron a debt he could never repay because he took Alistair in, and raised him as a gentleman. He owed the man a debt he could never repay because Alistair was the reason the baron’s beloved son and heir died.
And so, if all the baron asked was that Alistair attend a ball and court a pretty girl, there was no question of saying no.
But there was also never any question that it would be easy to land one of these girls, even if they wore feathered headpieces, eschewed shoes at ton functions, and accessorized with riding crops.
He was just another impoverished, untitled fortune hunter who would be jockeying for attention with all the other impoverished, untitled fortune hunters, some of who stood to inherit loftier titles that his. At any given ball, there would be hundreds at least. He would have, at most, thirty seconds to make an impression during an evening that would probably consist of an endless stream of introductions.
He could not bet his redemption that a woman would look twice at him. He would not wager that he would come up with the perfect line to woo her and win her in the course of a polite introductory conversation. There was too much at stake to count on sparks flying.
So yes, finding that American girl last night had been lucky. Not that he’d realized what a treasure had stumbled into his arms—her words were so slurred it was impossible to understand what she was saying, let alone the accent with which she said it.
But this morning . . .
He came home to his sparsely furnished rented flat and there was a pretty girl there. Waiting for him.
That was when he realized that the moment of being welcomed home was everything he’d ever wanted. That was that indefinable feeling that had propelled him across continents, the fuel for his wandering. It was, simply, the feeling of having someone to come home to.
And then she opened her mouth to speak and there was no denying that she was American. Between the cartoon in the paper and the words she spoke, he was utterly, absolutely certain.
She. Was. The. One.
His heart had started to pound so hard it was a wonder she hadn’t heard it and asked about the noise. Given that he’d found her in Mayfair, not far from Durham’s place, meant that odds were high that she was one of those American girls. She could have been a servant brought over with them, but last he checked, servants in any country weren’t in the habit of referencing the Odyssey.
She was the one.
And she had just walked out the door.
She had just walked down the corridor, descended the stairs, and out the door onto the street. And just like that, she was gone.
11:13 in the morning
Amelia ought to be in a rush. She ought to launch herself at the first hack she saw and direct the driver to take her to Durham House. She ought to do her best to sneak in via the servants’ entrance and pretend that she’d slept late after the exhausting events of last night. She ought to be praying, fervently, that no one had noticed her absence. But the sun was too high in the sky for that.
She was out, at large, missing.
Her family would know.
What difference did one more hour make?
The more she remembered of the previous evening, the less she wanted to go home. The dreadful scene she had caused. The heartbreaking fight with her family.
The gossip columns would be endlessly discussing last night’s scandal. She knew enough of London society and the London press to know what they would say. “One of those upstart Americans” had been discovered shoeless at a ball “in a positively heathenish manner” and clumsily faking a faint when any English rose would know how to do so with grace and elegance.
It would anger her family all over again.
No, Amelia was not in a hurry to go home.
And then, as she looked around the bustling streets on a rare blue-sky day, Amelia realized the following:
She had no idea where she was.
She had no idea how to return home.
This was a part of London that she was unfamiliar with—the houses weren’t as grand, the people weren’t dressed as fancily. They didn’t stroll by idly on display; they rushed about with a purpose. This was the London she wasn’t allowed to explore, and especially not on her own.
And this was everything she ever wanted.
This, she realized as she strolled down the streets, was a chance to explore. A chance to just be without the duchess reminding her to stand tall or wear a bonnet. Not that she had a bonnet. Or even a hairpin. Her hair was a vexing, tangled mess falling around her shoulders and falling into her eyes.
Perhaps she wouldn’t go home just yet, she thought, weaving her way through the throngs of pedestrians. She’d take an hour, just one hour, to explore. After all, what difference could one hour make at this point? Perhaps she could find her way to the British Museum or the Tower of London. As long as there was no damask wallpaper or disapproving old dowagers, she would consider herself happy.
It was then that she spied a sign for a wigmaker. Amelia grabbed a fistful of her hair—thick curls that plagued her to no end and that foolish women with straight hair always claimed to envy—and didn’t think twice about what to do next.
She slipped into the shop and spied a stout older woman at work. Her face was deeply lined. Her gray hair sprung from her head in a frizzy mess.
“Good morning,” Amelia said. “Will you cut my hair?”
“Cut your hair?” she looked up, perplexed. Then she looked at Amelia’s hair. The gleaming dark curls, cascading down to the middle of her back. “No.”
It was a no that suggested Amelia was insane to consider such a thing, and this woman was doing her a favor by refusing the request.
“Yes,” Amelia said firmly.
“No.”
“Please.”
“Perhaps the lady would like a wig instead,” she said, gesturing to the ones available for purchase.
“Perhaps you can see that the lady has absolutely no need of a wig and would like you to cut her hair instead,” Amelia said, as sweetly as she could manage.
“You are mad.”
“Perhaps. Then you wouldn’t wish to cross me, now would you?”
“Sit down,” the old woman barked.
Amelia sat.
A fierce debate regarding how much hair to cut ensued. The wigmaker was aghast. Amelia was determined. She wanted it all gone—all of it!—and the old witch tried to persuade her to lop off just a few inches. Amelia insisted the scissors go higher and higher. The old woman muttered “madness” all the while.
To Amelia, it felt more like liberation. With each snip of the scissors, with each lock that fell, she felt as if she were letting go of her past—think of all the things she had seen and done with those curls falling in her eyes, or tumbling down her back. Now they were an ever-growing pile in some shop in London, and who knew where they would end up next?
“You must be an actress,” the old woman said as she reluctantly chopped off most of Amelia’s long curls.
“Perhaps.”
“You are cutting all your hair off the better to wear wigs for your performances. That is the only logical conc
lusion as to why you would do such a hideous thing as cut off all this beautiful hair.”
“It’s possible,” Amelia murmured.
“One of my wigs is used at Covent Garden for the production of The Return of the Rogue. You must go see it. Everyone is raving about the leading actress.”
This was true; it had been mentioned in the gossip columns and in conversations at soirees. It wasn’t clear which was more scandalous—the story or the lead actress. Amelia wished to see it but the duchess had forbidden it.
But the duchess wasn’t here now, was she? Amelia bit her lip, smiling. What if this was her chance to see the play and this amazing actress?
Opportunities like these . . . Isn’t that what she and her siblings said about the journey to England? It was. This seemed like yet one more opportunity she would be foolish to pass up.
When she reemerged from the shop a short while later, she felt the sun on her neck and a weight lifted from her. Her head felt lighter. Her very being felt lighter. She felt renewed.
Her long hair would now be made into fashionable wigs, perhaps worn by actresses or even members of the haute ton who snubbed her, while she had a daring, scandalously short haircut that would give the ton something to talk about other than her shoes. Or lack thereof.
11:42 in the morning
Alistair followed a safe distance behind, newspaper in hand, as she wandered blithely through the busy street. He watched her peer in shop windows and examine the wares of street vendors. She moved at a slow pace at odds with everyone else’s frantic bustling.
He saw her duck into the wigmaker’s shop. What did she fancy, a disguise? It wasn’t the worst idea.
He stood outside, pretending to read the newspaper, waiting for her. He learned that the ton had been beside themselves when it was discovered that Durham’s heir was a horse breeder in the colonies. The haute ton’s worst fears were realized when the family arrived and showed very little inclination to assimilate. According to this gossip rag, it sounded like they didn’t even try.
As someone who spent a decent portion of his existence trying to make everyone in the haute ton forget (or at least overlook) his origins, let alone desperately hoping for their approval, this struck Alistair as foolish and arrogant. Or perhaps it was brave.
