Lord of Secrets

by Erica Ridley

  It was fortunate that Nora had been employed to provide the baroness much-needed companionship, for Lord Roundtree certainly could not be bothered to do so.

  Attending to his vast wealth not only made him richer, but the baron also became ever more distant and irritable with his wife. This served to increase the baroness’s propensity to fly into a panic or spend unbroken hours prattling to Nora about aristocratic peccadillos in an obvious attempt to fill the silent, cavernous rooms of her home with something besides loneliness.

  Nora didn’t mind that accepting this temporary post had reduced her already-lowly status from poor relation to paid servant. Although she had never longed to define herself by some tenuous family connection to Someone Important, she was glad she could provide comfort to her cousin. Even if they never saw each other again after Lady Roundtree’s broken leg finally healed.

  With this post, the baroness had given Nora an advantage that would serve her the rest of her life. Not a letter of recommendation to future employers. Not just the money sent home to her grandparents. But the surprising realization that greenhorn, country-born Nora wasn’t missing anything after all. This life was not for her.

  The same pinch-nosed countess would have made the same belittling comments if Nora had been the baroness’s daughter rather than her distant cousin.

  Horse hooves clopped up to the carriage, followed by a concerned male voice. “I’m sorry it took so long to reach you. I thought I heard a scream. Is something amiss?”

  Mr. Grenville.

  Already his low, rich voice was imprinted on her soul.

  Nora gazed up at him, speechless.

  He was even handsomer than the last time she’d seen him. Chestnut hair, adorable tousled. Snowy white cravat against a dark blue waistcoat and dove gray jacket. He was Prince Charming astride a royal steed.

  And he wasn’t here for her.

  His hazel eyes were focused on the baroness.

  “No, nothing at all.” Lady Roundtree flapped a hand in apology for her earlier shriek. “Lady Pettibone’s companion is simply excitable. We didn’t mean to bother anyone.”

  “A lady as charming and elegant as yourself could never be a bother,” Mr. Grenville said with a wink. He turned his easy smile toward Nora. “You look lovely as well, Miss Winfield. Seeing the two of you has already made this afternoon’s promenade worthwhile.”

  Lady Roundtree giggled girlishly. “Stuff and nonsense. Every promenade must be a treat for you. Once you inherit the barony, you’ll have little time for such idleness.”

  Something dark flashed across Mr. Grenville’s hazel eyes and just as quickly vanished.

  Nora’s heart thumped. What had he been thinking just then?

  “I am certain I can break the mold,” Mr. Grenville protested with good humor. “Look about at all the titled gentlemen present. The dukes and earls outrank us, and they appear to have a surfeit of time to devote to their pleasures, do they not?”

  Perhaps that was why, Nora thought but did not say aloud. Bigger titles tended to correspond with bigger fortunes—vast estates and troves of gold passed down from generation to generation. They must have dozens of barristers, bankers, and paid managers to attend to every detail.

  Because baroncies were the least powerful of all the ranks, perhaps their owners were required to devote disproportionately more time to maintaining both wealth and appearances, lest their title become societally and financially worthless. It would be awful.

  Nora doubted such an opinion on the matter would be particularly welcome. She also felt a pang of empathy at the possibility that she was right. Mr. Grenville was so cheerful. So nice. The thought of him losing his happy demeanor because he’d chained himself indoors to mind his account balances…

  Well, she supposed she knew a thing or two about doing whatever it took to keep one’s family afloat. That kinship made her like him all the more.

  “Good afternoon, Mr. Grenville!” cooed a quartet of waving young ladies as their grand carriage drew close.

  Nora’s spine slumped. Liking him did not signify. She would never be one of those girls.

  Mr. Grenville greeted the young ladies by name, with a smile and a friendly compliment for each. When they inquired whether he would be present at this ball or that, he vowed his name would not be absent from their dance cards.

  What would it be like to be one of them? To hear him say such words to her, and to know that they were true?

  If Nora were a debutante and there was the slightest chance Mr. Grenville would stand up with her to dance, she would be first in line at every ball. She’d curl her hair for hours if need be, embroider flowers and beads onto the finest crepe she could afford.

  Once she was there amongst the musicians and the chandeliers and the magic, Nora would not hang back with the wallflowers and risk there being no room to add her name to his list. She would be first to smile at him, to speak with him, to inform him he was in luck because there was still a spot for his name on her dance card.

  And then, once she was in his arms…

  A few of the debutantes shot suspicious glances over Mr. Grenville’s shoulder at Nora, as if desperate to know her identity, but unwilling to break protocol by asking their questions outright. Who was this freckled stranger in a pale pink muslin day dress stealing Mr. Grenville’s precious time away from debutantes who deserved him?

  Nora looked away. Their jealousy was misplaced. Yet a small part of her was pleased she had the power to engender it, no matter how briefly.

  She straightened her shoulders and did her best to project a confidence she did not feel. They didn’t know she was no one. All their worried eyes could observe was handsome Mr. Grenville tarrying at a landau containing a Society matron and an unknown young woman near their age.

  Perhaps they were even beginning to wonder whether distressingly red hair had become all the crack overnight, and their perfect blonde ringlets horribly out of fashion.

  A giggle escaped Nora’s throat as she imagined painting such a scene. The soft watercolor of the debutantes’ pastel dresses, the strong, red brush strokes of her hair flailing in the wind, the charming prince smitten at first sight.

  Mr. Grenville swung a quizzical gaze in her direction. “Have I missed something humorous?”

  “I was just imagining red hair as something fashionable,” she stammered.

  His eyes heated as he gazed intently at her person.

  “Fashions come and go,” he said softly. “But lustrous hair as glorious as yours will be beautiful forever. Why else would great masters such as Titian become obsessed with painting goddesses with flowing locks the same color as yours?”

  “I…” Nora’s throat dried as she gazed back at him wordlessly.

  She had expected him to laugh off the idea, perhaps tease her good-naturedly about her unfortunate coloring. Instead, Mr. Grenville had compared her to a goddess. Someone important men could become obsessed with. Someone worthy of being remembered.

  Her heart skipped. She had never received a better compliment.

  “Don’t start again with your Italian painters,” Lady Roundtree said with a flutter of her gloved fingers. “I swear you’d be just as happy to spend a sunny afternoon cooped up in a museum as out here in Hyde Park.”

  “Both are filled with beauty,” Mr. Grenville agreed. But his gaze did not leave Nora.

  She tried to tamp down her runaway pulse. It refused to slow.

  He was simply being kind, was he not? From the moment they’d first met, she’d quickly deduced that kindness was Mr. Grenville’s signature characteristic. He was kind to ladies young and old, to rakes and dandies, to maids and footmen, to completely out-of-her-element country greenhorns like Nora. He meant nothing flirtatious by it. She should not read more into a simple comment than the politeness he had intended.

  And yet, Mr. Grenville had accomplished a seemingly impossible feat.

  He saw her.

  Not as an unimportant servant, or a poor relati
on, or a romantic rival, but as a person.

  A woman with Titian hair.

  “Thank you,” she whispered.

  “For having the same exquisite taste as a Renaissance master artist?” he asked with wide-eyed innocence, clearly misconstruing her words on purpose. “’Tis I who should be thanking you. Should you wish for me to continue my observations on your divine tresses one day, simply send a note to—”

  “Grenville!” called out a well-dressed, raspy-voiced man in obvious desperation. “I must speak to you. That matter we discussed? The newest development must be handled at once. May we converse privately?”

  “Of course. Do try to calm yourself. I will work it out.” Mr. Grenville turned back to Lady Roundtree’s carriage and managed to sweep Nora and the baroness a half bow from atop his horse. “A thousand apologies to the loveliest ladies in Hyde Park. If you’ll forgive my hastened departure, I promise to make it up to you in the future.”

  Lady Roundtree wagged a finger. “Duty must come first. Go rescue the earl before he has an apoplexy and falls off his horse.”

  Nora nodded quickly. “Please help your friend.”

  “Until we meet again.” Mr. Grenville lifted his reins and galloped down the path after the panicked earl.

  Nora forced herself not to stare after him. The ill-timed interruption had been a boon. She had been so enraptured by Mr. Grenville’s meaningless compliment that she’d forgot for a moment the power—and the danger—he represented.

  He uncovered people’s darkest secrets.

  She needed to keep hers at all costs.

  A flirtation with him, no matter how brief or innocent, could only invite disaster. Mr. Grenville was not her beau or even her friend. He was a member of the ton. Fully capable of destroying her reputation, her position, and her best chance at improving her grandparents’ lives if he ever found out the truth.

  With luck, they would not meet again.

  Chapter 8

  As Heath handed off the reins to his landau in front of the Roundtree residence, he could not help but wonder if today’s unusual summons was at all related to the Hyde Park encounter with the baroness and her lovely companion earlier in the week.

  Try as he might, Heath had been unable to cease thinking about Miss Winfield. How much simpler it would be to put paid to this obsession if he could simply spend more time in her company!

  Had the two of them been traversing Hyde Park from the relative privacy of an open carriage, he and Miss Winfield could have conversed without witnesses eagerly spying upon every word. A nice long conversation would instantly clear up the question of whether their personalities actually suited, or if the intense longing to pull her into his arms and kiss her was nothing more than meaningless chemistry.

  Heath tried to push such thoughts from his head as he loped up the stone steps. So what if the chemistry between them was electric? He was not going to kiss her. So what if their personalities suited? He was not going to court her. No matter how many sparks sizzled between them, she would remain in her place and he in his.

  Although, the summons here today made him wonder what else might be going on.

  Because Heath and the Roundtrees resided on the same social plane, he frequently came across the baroness at various Society events. However, this occasion marked the first time he had received an invitation to their home. He frowned in concern. As much as he enjoyed helping others, Heath was fond of the baroness and hoped he had not been summoned to prevent some personal tragedy from becoming a public scandal.

  Before he could rap the brass knocker, a stately butler swung open the large door and ushered Heath inside.

  Upon presenting his card, Heath was quickly escorted to a sunny salon in the front of the town house, where Lady Roundtree reclined upon a stuffed chaise. A modest blanket covered any fear of exposed stockings due to her splinted leg resting gently on a truly mountainous pile of cushions.

  Heath swept a deep bow. “Lady Roundtree.”

  “Thank you so much for your prompt attention, Mr. Grenville.” She waved a fretful hand toward the chair opposite. “I hope you are not offended by my lack of curtsey.”

  “I shall only be offended if you fail to accompany me in a lively Boulanger the very moment your surgeon pronounces you healed,” he teased, knowing full well the baroness preferred to oversee country dances from the sides, in order to note every detail.

  The baroness harrumphed, her eyes twinkling. “We shall see if Lord Roundtree allows me to dance with a pup a decade younger than myself.”

  “A pup!” Heath clutched his hands to his chest in mock agony. “Now you have offended me, and grievously. Have I been summoned to this beautiful salon only to bear witness to grave assaults against my character?”

  “Quite the opposite.” The humor disappeared from Lady Roundtree’s countenance. “I’d like to discuss details of someone else’s comportment with you.”

  At the implication, a cold knot formed in Heath’s stomach. “Miss Winfield?”

  “What?” Lady Roundtree stared at him in bafflement before she burst out laughing. “No, my companion pleases everyone but Lady Pettibone, and that is only because the ‘old dragon’ is impossible to please.”

  Heath did not join in the laughter. He had never run afoul of Lady Pettibone, nor was he wont to find witticism in cruel nicknames. Yet the emotion in his chest was not outrage on the absent Society dame’s behalf, but rather an intense relief that Miss Winfield was not involved in any scandal.

  By the sound of Lady Roundtree’s description, her companion was just as unlikely to find herself in an imbroglio as Heath himself. That spoke highly of her character. Despite their class differences being impossible to overcome, sharing a strong sense of personal ethics only made him like Miss Winfield more.

  And doubt very much that anything good would come of his summons here today.

  His shoulders tensed.

  “I hope you did not invite me here to pry for secrets about my clients,” he said stiffly.

  “Pry?” Lady Roundtree flapped her hand excitably. “A baroness would never do such a thing!”

  Balderdash. The baroness was infamous for engaging in precisely that sort of behavior, and they both knew it. Yet Heath believed her when she claimed pumping him for information was not her aim.

  Lady Roundtree was a known gossip, although not a malignant one like that rotter Phineas Mapleton. The baroness did not use her knowledge in an attempt to ruin others, but she did like to know every possible scrap of gossip. And this wouldn’t be the first time someone had tried and failed to wheedle a secret or two from him.

  “How can I be of service?” he asked cautiously.

  She pointed at a stack of letters on a silver tray. “I presume you’ve heard of the new caricaturist?”

  He could not prevent his lip from curling in distaste. “Who has not?”

  “Indeed.” Lady Roundtree sniffed. “I, for one, do not allow such filth into my home. This sanctuary is free of gossip at all times.”

  Heath slid a doubtful look in the direction of the silver tray, with its towering pile of caricatures and scandal columns.

  Lady Roundtree colored when she saw the direction of his gaze. “All those go straight into the fire before anyone but myself has a chance to see them.”

  The tension in Heath’s muscles eased when he realized this would include her companion. Miss Winfield was unlikely to have seen such rubbish firsthand. He was strangely pleased by the idea that being on the outskirts of Society meant Miss Winfield could remain unspoiled by it. Pure.

  “What do you know about the artist?” he asked Lady Roundtree without changing expression.

  She hesitated before responding. “He is not your client, is he?”

  “I should think not!” Heath reared back at the insult.

  If anything, he found each caricature more reprehensible than the last. The anonymous coward mocked and taunted the very society he should be striving to uphold, not to break down. Each
stroke of ink caused more gossip in a single day than all the scandal sheets put together.

  “These caricatures are a scourge,” he said with feeling. “This alleged ‘artist’ should be dethroned. I hope you do not count yourself among his fans, Lady Roundtree.”

  “A fan?” She leaned closer. “Exposing ton foibles is uncouth and wrong. I wish to be the one to unmask the blackguard. I shall be famous!”

  He cleared his throat before responding. “You want…”

  “To employ you, of course. Secretly.” Lady Roundtree frowned. “That’s what you do, isn’t it? Keep secrets for people? If I pay you to discover the identity of this villain, you won’t tell anyone how I discovered the man’s identity?”

  Heath narrowed his eyes.

  He was indeed a secret-keeper, and if he accepted a client, complete and utter confidentiality was immediately understood. But thus far, all his effort had gone toward keeping scandals in the dark, not bringing even bigger ones to light.

  Yet truly, what claim to privacy held a smug coward who sold other people’s private humiliations for profit? Putting a stop to it was the only ethical course of action.

  Fewer scandals disrupting Society would create a better environment for everyone.

  Lady Roundtree’s voice took on a wheedling tone. “I suddenly realize that unmasking this cretin will reduce the amount of gossip about everyone else overnight, thus imperiling your livelihood. Perhaps you condone—”

  “I’ll take the case,” he said abruptly. “My ‘livelihood’ does not depend on encouraging gossip. I’ve chosen the path of scandal-fixer out of a passion for helping those in need, not out of some desire to pad my purse. I don’t need the money. My clients need me.”

  “Now I’ve offended you,” the baroness said fretfully. “Let us dispense with the formalities and move past all this ugliness. You’ve said you will take the case. I suppose your services operate on retainer, like a barrister. Let’s make it official. Will five hundred be enough to start? Six? Seven?”

  Heath blinked.

  While he had genuinely meant every word about not pursuing his career out of any need for money, the outrageous sums the wealthy baroness tossed out without a second thought would be enough to sustain a non-aristocratic bachelor for a year.