Lydia decided the odd sensation she felt in response to that thought should be ignored just then.
“How is it you were at the garden party yesterday?” she asked after a few steps.
Adonis allowed a shrug. “I arrived uninvited, truth be told,” he murmured, finally meeting her stunned gaze with a shrug. “You mentioned you would be there, and I wished to see you again,” he said, rather matter-of-factly. “I am an acquaintance of both Lord Morganfield and Lord Torrington, of course,” he added quickly, quite aware of Lydia’s stunned expression.
“Are you always so bold?” she wondered, hardly giving any credence to his claim that he attended the garden party only because he wished to see her. The man had a cheque for Lady Bostwick’s charity in his coat pocket, the document already made out to the charity. Besides that, she hadn’t mentioned anything about the garden party when she met the man in the museum.
I never mentioned the garden party because I hadn’t yet received the invitation!
For a moment, Lydia wondered if she had lived an entire day and had no memory of it.
“Never, my lady!” Adonis responded with a shake of his head, his face suddenly breaking out into a huge smile.
Lydia blinked. She was quite sure she had never seen a more beautiful man in her entire life. She was seeing the left side of his profile, of course, which meant his scarred cheek was hidden from view. But even the evidence of a bayonet wound did little to lessen his overall pleasing appearance. His dark blonde hair, far too wavy to work in the popular Titus style, was trimmed a bit long. Longer sideburns framed a face that probably wouldn’t give away his age for many years to come. She had determined his eye color—brown—during the garden party, but she hadn’t yet figured out his age.
“How is it you know of my knighthood?” Adonis asked, his arm stiffening beneath her hold. At Lydia’s look of surprise, he added, “You’ve called me ‘Sir Donald’ several times today, which implies you know I was knighted.”
Lydia wasn’t about to tell him Lord Chamberlain had informed her, especially since he wasn’t the first to say anything about it. “Lady Torrington mentioned it when she introduced us at the garden party yesterday,” she responded with a grin. “I believe she learned of it from Lady Chamberlain. Actually, I wasn’t positive it was you at first—I haven’t been introduced to any men named ‘Donald’.”
Adonis seemed to think on her response for a time before allowing a nod. “She’s a fine lady,” he commented.
“Indeed. I often wonder how she and Lord Chamberlain ended up married …”
“She was a war widow, and he needed a wife. Her brother encouraged the marriage,” Adonis stated quickly. “Not exactly a love match.”
Lydia heard the hint of disapproval in his voice and wondered at it. She had heard Caroline Fitzsimmon’s first marriage was to a military man—a man who had been killed in a battle before the two had been married even a month—and she wondered if that one had been a love match or simply a marriage of convenience.
The thought had her thinking on her own marriage. Why, she had barely known Jasper for a fortnight before he informed her they were to be married. As to whose convenience the marriage served, she could only guess that her father saw it as an opportunity to rid himself of a daughter past six-and-twenty. Jasper hadn’t displayed any sign of affection during their brief courtship, but he had certainly been keen to her traits of noticing small details and her inquisitive nature.
She never expected to feel affection for the man who seemed so serious about his business. Secretive and yet friendly. He was good company if only because he was smart, and he could follow her line of reasoning whenever they discussed matters of importance.
“I know nothing about you, and yet I’ve allowed you to take me from my home to spend a rather cold and gray afternoon in your company,” Lydia accused after a time, her head angling to one side. She was sure the man blushed at her words. “Why is that, exactly?”
Adonis once again seemed to grow a few inches taller with her words, his limp nearly disappearing as they walked. Another few steps, and his cane was resting over his shoulder. “I am an agreeable sort,” he replied lightly. “Given the right company.”
Lydia allowed a mischievous grin. “I hardly know how it is you can believe I am good company. I have offended you, wounded you, aimed a gun at you …”
“Honored me, and humbled me,” he broke in, finally daring a glance in her direction when he was aware she was staring. “Perhaps I’m of the opinion that any of your attention is preferred over none at all. There are probably others who are of the same opinion,” he hinted, hoping she would tell him about the man who had paid a visit to her townhouse earlier that day. “Oliver Preston, perhaps?”
Gasping at his comment, Lydia nearly stopped in her tracks, but her pony seemed intent on keeping up with the larger Cleveland Bay. “Mr. Preston was a friend of my husband’s. He … stops by on occasion to check on me, although he’s to be married soon, so I rather doubt I will see him again,” she explained, wondering what had Adonis mentioning the operative.
“Do you consider him … a friend?”
Taken aback by the question, Lydia angled her head. “Not particularly,” she stated, remembering how ill at ease she had been in his company only a few hours ago. “What about you? Is he a friend of yours, perhaps?”
Adonis shook his head. “Perhaps at one time. A long time ago,” he replied.
“Do you consider me a friend?” He had proposed the friendship yesterday, when they were about to drink their champagne.
Nearly stopping in his tracks, Adonis turned to stare at her. “Of course, milady,” he stated, apparently stunned by the question.
“But, why?”
Blinking at her question, Adonis considered how to respond. “You’re a rather lovely woman,” he said finally. “Not at all what I expected.”
Lydia blinked. Expected?
Well, this is rather unexpected, she considered. “How is it you had any expectations of me at all?” Lydia queried. A raindrop landed on her cheek, and she blinked before daring a glance up. “Oh, dear,” she murmured.
Adonis was quicker in his response as he suddenly lifted her onto her pony. His hands continued to hold onto her waist as he stared up at her. “My apologies. I was supposed to warn you before I did that,” he said.
Lydia blinked as she moved a gloved hand to cover one of his. “Apology accepted,” she murmured, rather startled at how her body reacted to being held by him. Jesus! It hadn’t been that long since a man had shown her any kind of attention, so why was she reacting so to Adonis Truscott?
The knight nodded and suddenly seemed conscious of where his hands were. He quickly pulled them away from her and retrieved his cane before mounting his bay in a practiced move. “Are you up for a race, my lady?” he shouted when a boom of thunder could be heard in the distance.
“Oh, if I must,” Lydia replied with a sigh, rather disappointed the rain had begun to fall just as she was sure he was going to answer her question about how he had any expectations of her.
Using the riding crop to swat the right side of her pony, she kicked her left heel at the same time. The pony surged forward a few steps before she could get him turned around to come alongside Adonis and his mount, both horses easing into a gallop as they made their way back to town.
By the time they reached Bruton Street, Lydia’s hat was soaked, but the superfine of her habit had shed most of the rain that pelted them.
“Come inside until the rain quits,” she insisted as they pulled up in front of her townhouse. She issued the invitation even before she considered the ramifications. Her neighbors—at least those who had nothing better to do than to watch the traffic that passed by—would be well aware she was in the company of a gentleman. They would even pay witness to him entering her home, which probably meant a mention in the next issue of The Tattler.
Damn gossips, she thought.
Perhaps Adonis was aware o
f her immediate regret at having made the invitation, for he gave a quick shake of his head. “Thank you, my lady, but my sister is expecting me for dinner this evening,” he replied as he dismounted. He was next to her horse in an instant, his limp having disappeared at some point during the afternoon. He reached up and, with his hands at her waist, he lowered her to the pavement just as the groom appeared from the mews behind the townhouse.
Lydia managed a curtsy and offered her hand when she noticed his raised brow. “Are you a wicked man, sir?” she asked in a quiet voice, wondering how he might respond. He was such an enigma, at once seeming to behave as an innocent when his actions suggested otherwise.
Adonis angled his head to one side and finally shook it. “I may have been at some point in my past, my lady,” he said before lifting her gloved hand to his lips. “But I am no more.” He bestowed a kiss on the back of her knuckles, completed his bow, and quickly remounted his horse. “Thank you for a rather pleasant afternoon. Despite the rain, I will do it again whenever you wish.” He tipped his hat and then was off in the direction of Curzon Street.
Lydia watched as he made his way, wondering why he might ride in that direction just as the groom appeared to retrieve the pony. She gave him the reins and headed for the front door.
Lord Craven’s residence is in Curzon Street, Lydia realized, remembering Adele’s comment about his sister being Lady Craven.
Persephone Truscott.
Well, if their mother had named him ‘Adonis’, then it stood to reason she would name her daughter after a Greek goddess. Too bad Persephone didn’t seem happy with her lot in life, but then her oldest, Elizabeth, had died of pneumonia on the Continent. Elizabeth’s husband, Andrew Burroughs, was seeing to the three grandchildren with the help of a nanny somewhere near Geneva. Her two sons were away at school, leaving just Persephone with her husband, Robert Craven, Viscount Craven, in their townhouse.
Lydia had already determined there were no other Truscott family members—she had spent an hour the day before perusing her copy of Debrett’s in search of information on Adonis—so she could understand Persephone’s concern over her brother’s behavior.
Given Lord Craven’s reputation as a gambler, Lydia wondered if Persephone had married the viscount in an arranged marriage, or if perhaps she had been discovered in a compromising position and had been forced to marry him. Or perhaps she merely married him for what some said was a rather large fortune. She would no doubt outlive the man given his late nights spent in gaming hells.
Lydia shook the thoughts from her head, giving Jenkins a nod as she made her way into the vestibule. Her maid was already there with bath linens.
“Oh, you’ll catch your death, my lady,” Rachel murmured.
Wiping her face and the tops of her shoulders with the linen, Lydia shook her head. “I rather doubt a bit of rain will be my Waterloo,” she murmured with a shake of her head.
The word was out of her mouth before she had a chance to consider its importance.
Waterloo.
Her husband hadn’t lived long enough to help in the defeat of Napoleon at Waterloo. Jasper had died two days before, somewhere near Ligny.
Reminded of how Adonis had acquired the scar on his cheekbone, Lydia suddenly wondered if perhaps Adonis had been in one of those battles. He had admitted to being on the Continent.
In Hell.
“Are you all right, my lady?”
Rachel’s words had Lydia giving her head a shake. Goodness, if she wasn’t careful, she would have her maid thinking she was a candidate for Bedlam. “Of course. I was merely woolgathering,” she replied as she moved to make her way to the stairs.
“I cannot blame you, my lady. Given the cold and rain, we can use all the wool we can get.”
Lydia managed a giggle as they made their way up to her bedchamber and a change into dry clothes, wondering the entire time when she might next find herself in the company of Sir Donald.
Chapter Sixteen
Deductive Reasoning Returns
Meanwhile …
Adonis paused his horse at the end of Bruton Street, half-tempted to turn back and beg for shelter from the rain. He gave a glance back to watch Lydia as she made her way into her townhouse, rather surprised at how his body reacted.
I’ve been too long without a woman, he reasoned at first, and then decided he was merely lying to himself. He had recognized his attraction to Lydia the moment he approached her in the museum. The moment he said the words that had him wincing and that immediately put her on the defensive.
I’ve been told I look exactly like him.
Or perhaps it was merely because he was standing so close to her. Close enough to sniff her perfume. Close enough to notice the soft curls at the back of her neck, and the whorl of her ear beneath her hat. Her perfect posture. Her elegance.
She wasn’t supposed to be like this, he thought in dismay. He had imagined her a hag. Imagined her a prune-faced wretch. Imagined a shrew.
But she was none of those. Damn Jasper Barrymore. Damn him all to hell!
Well, he supposed his commander was already there. As many times as he had remembered that afternoon and night on the battlefield, Adonis felt as if he were there, too.
This afternoon’s outing had certainly changed his outlook, although something niggled at him. Made him wonder. Reminded him that he needed to study details, listen for tells, and watch for incongruities. If he had any hope of securing a real mission for the Foreign Office, he needed to prove he could still perform spy craft. It had been a year since his last mission, after all.
She lied to me.
Or did she?
Having spent the day watching her townhouse from a coach a few houses down from hers, Adonis knew Lydia hadn’t paid any calls—she hadn’t left the house the entire day—but someone had visited her.
This is most distressing, he considered as he allowed the Cleveland Bay to continue a slow walk, his thought of returning to her townhouse forgotten. He ignored the ever-increasing rain as he contemplated Lady Barrymore’s answer to his query.
Why would she lie to me?
When he had asked her if Oliver Preston was a friend, she failed to mention the man had paid a visit to her just that afternoon. The man was due to marry in a few days. Why ever would he pay a call on Jasper Barrymore’s widow unless they were friends?
He blinked, considering another alternative.
Lovers?
The thought nearly made him sick to his stomach. He had spent every night for four nights in her bedchamber, though, and on none of those occasions had she welcomed a visitor to her bed.
He shook his head, realizing he was allowing his imagination to get the better of him.
Tit for tat, I suppose, he considered then. He was sure she had caught his fib. The one where he claimed to have learned of the garden party from her. Or did I simply imagine it so many times that I thought it was real? Well, he was quite sure she realized she hadn’t told him of the garden party—they hadn’t been in one another’s company for her to do so. He had merely read the invitation he had discovered on the hall table before he crept up to her bedchamber the night after they had met at the museum.
He hit himself upside the head, cursing when his gloved hand nearly crushed the brim of his dripping top hat. A shout from the driver of a dray cart brought him out of his reverie only to discover his horse had come to a complete stop in the middle of Green Street, not far from his bachelor quarters, but still out of sight of the mews and the stable hands who worked inside. Giving the bay a swift kick with a heel, he held on as his mount lurched forward.
Within minutes, a stableboy saw to his horse. “Are you aw’ right, Mr. Truscott? Did he give you trouble?” the youth asked as he took the reins and offered the horse the stub of a carrot.
Adonis regarded the boy for a moment, wondering what had him asking. “No trouble,” Adonis answered with a shake of his head, which sent a shower of water pouring from the brim of his hat. He suddenl
y remembered to fish a coin from his waistcoat pocket and toss it to the boy.
“Much obliged, Mr. Truscott,” the stable hand said before he hurried off with the Cleveland Bay.
Nodding, Adonis made his way into his bachelor quarters, his manner most grim. When he caught sight of his reflection in the cheval mirror, his eyes widened.
No wonder the stableboy thought something was wrong, he realized. His drenched hat appeared crushed and misshapen, his face looked as if he had been crying, and his topcoat was splattered with mud.
“I’ll draw a bath right for you straight away, sir,” his batman announced from the threshold.
Adonis turned from the mirror and regarded Fitzroy for a moment, finally allowing a nod. “I’ll be leaving again this evening, but I won’t be joining my sister for dinner.” The idea of spending time in Persephone’s company rankled just then. She thinks I’m a Bedlamite, he remembered.
“Will you be going to your club then?”
Adonis blinked, thinking he should go somewhere for sustenance. He was in no mood for company, though. At least, not the company of men. A thought of paying a visit to a brothel didn’t appeal just then either. His manner would probably frighten some poor lady of the evening and get him kicked out of the establishment. A gaming hell meant having to be civil to fellow gamblers, and he didn’t think he could last the night before feeling the need to punch someone in the gut.
Or the face.
Despite what he had realized on his trip home, there was only one place he wanted to spend the night.
Lady Lydia Barrymore’s townhouse. Or rather, her bedchamber. He had a mission, and he intended to see it through to its end.
Whenever that might be.
“Nothing fancy, Fitzroy,” he finally replied. “And have Cook make something I can take with me.”
The Enigma of a Spy (Regency Rendezvous Book 10) Page 11
