Lord of Secrets_A Historical Regency Romance Novel

by Erica Ridley

  “Looking for someone special?” came an unsubtle female whisper at his shoulder.

  Heath cleared his throat to hide his preoccupation and offered his elbow to his mother. “There you are! I wondered where you’d got off to. Shall we take a turn about the gardens before the sun sets?”

  “Not me.” She folded her arms rather than accept his proffered elbow, and narrowed her eyes. “You promised. Not half an hour ago, you said the very words. ‘Yes, Mother, this year I’ll take a bride.’ All three of your sisters heard you.”

  Heath bit back a sigh. As soon as the words had tumbled from his mouth, he’d known they were a mistake. But today’s carriage ride to the gardens had been claustrophobic with his mother’s unremitting despair about her recalcitrant daughters’ embarrassingly unwed states, all of whom cast beseeching eyes at Heath, imploring him to distract their mother before one of the younger two took matters into her own hands. The next thing Heath knew—

  “I did indeed promise,” he agreed firmly, as he placed his mother’s gloved hand in the crook of his elbow. “What I did not imply was that the selection would take place this very day in the middle of a pleasure garden. Surely a son can spare a brief moment from intense bride-hunting to promenade a yard or two with his own mother.”

  “You’ve already spared two-and-thirty years,” Mother rebuked him without hesitation. “If you would choose from the hundred or so suitable ladies present, we could finally have done.”

  Heath clenched his jaw. “I’ve no wish to ‘have done’ by wedding the first young woman I stumble into.”

  Although, the other night, stumbling into a woman had been the highlight of the evening. His far-too-brief conversations with Miss Winfield had been well worth the price of a lemonade-soaked elbow. She hadn’t thrown herself at him, flirting outrageously in the hopes of landing a future title. Miss Winfield had been open, honest, sweet. A refreshing change of pace.

  “You’ve no wish to wed any eligible young lady.” Mother pursed her lips in pique. “You’re as wretched as your sisters. How did this happen? Camellia is too quiet, Bryony too loud, Dahlia too headstrong, and you are too choosy. Go ahead and take your pick of any of the girls who have been presented to Court. What difference is there between any of them?”

  “Have you considered that perhaps I might wish to be able to distinguish my wife from all the other women?” he asked dryly. “A novel thought, to be sure.”

  “Enough to make me tear my hair out,” Mother agreed with vehemence. “It’s absurd. You won’t take a wife because these debutantes are all the same, yet no gentleman will wed any of your sisters because they’re far too different. What am I to do with you?”

  “Take a curtsey?” Heath suggested. “You’ve raised four children who know who they are, and what they want of life. Is that not the sign of a successful parent?”

  “A successful mother is one who manages to marry off her brood,” she answered with a sniff. “I shall have to console myself with holding you to your word. This Season is the Season you take a bride. You said so this very morning.”

  “Those are indeed the words I said.” Heath regretted them more with every passing moment.

  Mother wrinkled her nose. “It cannot take long. If witless seventeen-year-olds can manage to make a match during the course of a single Season, certainly the heir to a barony can do no worse.”

  Heath slanted her a sharp look. “You are not expecting me to wed a witless seventeen-year-old, are you?”

  “As long as she has good bones and is from good blood, what should I care?” Mother’s sharp eyes gazed out across the forest of pastel gowns and fluttering fans. “Are you certain today isn’t the day?”

  “The day for what?” asked a soft voice from behind his other shoulder.

  Camellia, the eldest of Heath’s three younger sisters. He nearly melted in relief. Of his three siblings, stalwart Camellia was the reliable pillar who could be counted upon never to upset their mother.

  “The day your brother selects his future baroness.” Mother narrowed her eyes toward the flocks of well-heeled passers-by. “It cannot be difficult. Half these girls would kill for a title.”

  “Perhaps he would prefer one more interested in him,” Camellia suggested softly.

  Mother stared at her in bafflement. “Of course the title is most important. Once any young lady discards all the unsuitable suitors from the chaff, she then turns her head to the most eligible of whatever is left.”

  “First I’m ‘chaff,’ then I’m ‘whatever is left.’” Heath offered his elbow to his sister. “This is quite a motivational speech, Mother.”

  “Meant to instruct me as much as you, I suspect,” Camellia said as she took his arm.

  “There is no excuse for you staying on the shelf as if you wish to remain a spinster,” Mother chastised her tartly. “Regardless of your own desires, it’s rude to your sisters. You know the eldest must be the first to marry. If you do not bring an appropriate gentleman up to scratch in the next few weeks, your father intends to select a husband for you.”

  Camellia blanched. “Can we please go back to picking apart Heath’s life choices?”

  “Lovely,” he murmured to her beneath his breath. “Selflessly done.”

  Mother sighed. “Heath knows his duty. When the time comes, he shan’t disappoint. Neither will you. It’s your sisters I’m most concerned about. Dahlia has all but ruined her reputation with that preposterous boarding school in the middle of a godforsaken rookery, and Bryony… I don’t even know where to begin with that child.”

  “Nobody does,” Heath assured her. “Recall that she’s last in line. By the time it’s her turn to worry about settling down, her wild ways will have softened.”

  “Now is the time to worry. It has been so since the moment each of you had your first Seasons.” Mother’s face went alarmingly purple. “Settling down is the entire purpose!”

  “I promised to look for a bride,” he reminded her in soothing tones. “I meant every word. You’re right: a garden as beautiful as this might just be the place to find her. But it will never do to have one’s mother squinting sourly in one’s direction whilst one attempts to woo a fair maiden. I shall make my rounds in search of perfection, if you promise to try to enjoy the afternoon.”

  Camellia dropped her hand to link arms with their mother. “Heath’s right, you know.”

  “He’s not right,” Mother grumbled. “A lady does not squint, sourly or otherwise.”

  “I meant that we should enjoy the afternoon while the sun still shines. A miracle at this time of year, is it not?” Camellia gave her a gentle tug toward one of the many long, sweeping avenues dividing the formal gardens. “A relaxing stroll can work wonders on one’s constitution.”

  “Very well.” Mother frowned. “But I expect a daughter-in-law by the Season’s end.”

  “Look, isn’t that Lady Jersey?” Camellia made a covert shooing motion at Heath as she herded their mother toward a wall of Society dames. “I’ll wager she’ll be delighted to see you.”

  “A lady never wagers,” Mother said sharply, but already her attention was focused on Lady Jersey rather than rebuking her children.

  “Thank you,” Heath mouthed to his grinning sister, and turned his boots toward the piazzas before his Mother could change her mind.

  Perhaps this would be the day he met his future bride. Why not? The afternoon was unseasonably balmy, the sun uncommonly bright, the bustling crowd lively and cheerful. What better omen could a wife-hunting gentleman desire?

  Unfortunately, Heath did not feel like a wife-hunting gentleman. He felt like an utter fool whose mind had never left the Carlisles’ ballroom.

  From the very first, he had felt a strange sort of connection with Miss Winfield. Yet he had not hesitated to part company the moment she’d made her circumstances clear.

  Heath had regretted that haste every moment since.

  Perhaps he should not have been so quick to excuse himself from her co
mpany. Just because she was not a potential bride did not mean a gentleman must retreat from an innocent conversation. The moment Miss Winfield had walked away, Heath wished she had not.

  What if there had been a connection between them? He wasn’t thinking of an attachment, of course, but the dozens of wallflowers and other women he’d befriended over the Seasons. He could have spared Miss Winfield another moment or two, at least. Given himself a chance to discover what that spark might have meant. What if they never chanced to meet again?

  “How do you do, Mr. Grenville?” came a quiet baritone from the edge of the throngs.

  Startled, Heath blinked and broke into a grin. “Parson! How splendid to see you in Town. And you, Mrs. Blaylock. Is that a new bonnet? I must confess you’ve never looked finer.”

  “Oh, you.” She fanned her cheeks. “You make all the old women feel like it’s their first Season.”

  “Old women?” Heath shook his finger. “I have yet to lay eyes on one. I daresay you danced more sets than I at the Carlisle ball, young lady.”

  Mrs. Blaylock laughed and shooed him with her painted fan. “Off with you, Mr. Grenville. Go find a proper young lady to flatter. Heaven knows you set all their hearts aflutter.”

  “Second only to the Lord of Pleasure,” put in a nasally voice with haughty accents from just behind Heath. “If the penny caricatures are to be believed.”

  With a barely restrained sigh, Heath turned to face Phineas Mapleton, the ton’s most dedicated gossip. “The earl’s name is Lord Wainwright, not whatever moniker some petty cartoonist decides to label him. I do hope you don’t give credence to such rubbish?”

  “I may be a stallion among pups, but even I have seen Wainwright’s curious effect on women,” Mapleton said with a careless flit to his wrist. “I’ve no need to wait for a Sunday sketch to see debutantes swoon into each other like drunken bowling pins.”

  With a mumbled excuse, Mrs. Blaylock and the parson slipped back into the crowd.

  Heath wished he could do the same. Unfortunately, his reputation depended upon avoiding scandal at all cost. Rumor of a public disagreement with Phineas Mapleton would sweep through the crowd in a trice. Particularly with Mapleton himself helping the gossip along.

  “Come now,” Heath said, keeping his voice pleasant. “Surely we’ve better topics of conversation than idle talk. Did you see how they’ve improved the Rotunda?”

  “Actually…” Mapleton lowered his voice with great portent as he cast the least subtle glance over each of his shoulders that Heath had ever witnessed. “I do wish to speak to you about a matter pertaining to gossip. You are the keeper of all of London’s secrets, are you not?”

  Heath took a half-step backward. “A gross exaggeration, I’m afraid.”

  “Not at all!” Mapleton leaned in. “You helped Kingsley and Turner, and of course there was the dust-up with Quinton and Whitfield, and then absolutely everyone saw you bow heads together with Wellington one week and Underhill the next. You cannot deny your involvement. Everybody knows who to call upon if a scandal needs to disappear.”

  Heath narrowed his eyes. “If I were to have represented the private interests of any of the individuals you mentioned, it would only have happened under complete confidentiality. I cannot say more.”

  “Precisely what they want. And what they’re willing to pay handsomely for, am I right?” Mapleton’s eyes glittered. “What if we could earn double that amount? Triple. Quadruple.”

  Heath’s hackles rose. “There is no ‘we’ in this topic. Nor is it any of our business how others save or spend their pennies.”

  “But it could be,” Mapleton insisted. “And I’m not talking about pennies. There is no limit to what we could earn. All you have to do is suggest that the payments rendered were the first in an… installment plan, if you will. To maintain your silence. If they balk, that’s where I come in. While you’re off in a visible, public place, I’ll—”

  “Are you suggesting we embark on extortion schemes?” Heath asked in horror. He’d known Mapleton was a shameless gossip, but he hadn’t anticipated this level of darkness in his soul. Nor could Heath imagine why on earth the daft man would believe anyone in their right mind would agree to such a heinous plot.

  “Not extortion,” Mapleton said hurriedly. “Scheduled installment payments. Think about it: you already charge a fee for your services. Your clients pay eagerly and happily. I’m simply proposing the possibility of turning that revenue into a river, rather than an isolated drop.”

  “You are literally proposing blackmail, Mapleton. Blackmail.” Heath seethed at the thought. “My clients’ money isn’t for me to guard my tongue, but to solve a problem. Not to cause them new ones. The answer is no.” Disgust curled his lip. “And if I discover you’ve continued in this vein for even a moment—”

  Mapleton lifted his palms and affected a wounded expression. “At ease, Grenville. I was speaking in jest, of course. Testing your loyalty. After all, I might require your services one day. I wouldn’t wish to place my trust in the wrong person.”

  Heath tightened his jaw. He had no doubt that Mapleton would someday embroil himself in a scandal so deep, he’d have no hope of crawling back out. Heath would not be offering his services. He doubted very much that Mapleton’s alleged “test” had been complete fiction. The man was obsessed with gossip, and openly convinced of his superiority over his peers. Yet this was far from someone’s first attempt to devise some twisted game to test Heath’s integrity.

  He always passed, of course. Heath’s word was more than his bond—it was his very identity. Honesty and confidentiality weren’t incidental occupational skills required by his job. Integrity was something he required of himself, as a gentleman. As a person. He expected no less from his family and friends.

  Which was why men like Phineas Mapleton did not count among that number.

  “In case it was unclear, I am both professionally and morally opposed to any uninvited third party exploiting someone else’s private pain for their personal profit,” Heath said, his voice cold. “Money cannot tempt me. Now you know. And if you’ll excuse me, I was on my way to the supper tables.”

  “Of course, of course. Everyone knows you’ve made your name by keeping secrets, not spreading them.” Mapleton fell back. “I didn’t doubt you for a moment. Just having a bit of fun, that’s all. Do enjoy your supper.”

  With that, Mapleton swept an exaggerated bow.

  Heath refrained from responding in kind. He simply inclined his head and stalked away from Mapleton before the gossip could come up with any more so-called jests.

  He swept his gaze along the long rectangular canal leading from the gardens to the supper tables. Sunlight sparkled in the water, dancing with the reflected blue of the sky and the bright colors of the piazzas. Heath’s jauntiness returned. He would not allow his distasteful encounter with Phineas Mapleton to destroy his good mood.

  After all, his future bride was waiting to be discovered.

  The Italian-styled piazzas overflowed with familiar, smiling faces. Heath traded quips with friends, bowed to matrons and dowagers, and managed to exchange the usual light banter with young ladies he’d danced or conversed with at this ball or that.

  Thanks to his mother, however, he could not completely tamp the sudden misgiving that perhaps the most blatant of the flirtatious bunch were more interested in becoming a baroness than being his wife.

  Heath’s muscles tightened. Now that he, too, was considering each lash-fluttering debutante with an eye for marriage, he could not deny what he had long suspected to be true. These were not the debs he was looking for. His search would not be easy, if indeed a perfect match existed.

  From across the crowded piazza, a flash of color caught his eye. The jewel-red ringlets shimmering in the sunlight belonged to none other than Miss Winfield, the delightful young lady he definitely should not still have on his mind.

  He stared in helpless fascination as she tucked an errant tendril behind her e
ar and nodded at someone he could not yet determine.

  Heath couldn’t help but feel Miss Winfield was rather like a painting.

  She wasn’t portrait-perfect in a ton kind of way, with regal dress and colorless blonde tendrils, as befitted a classic English rose. She was far more interesting. The salmon pink of her gown brought out the bright red of her hair, and vice versa. She wasn’t understated. She was stunning.

  Nor did Heath believe the color choice was an accident.

  Miss Winfield had been wearing pink the last time he saw her. It was her look. Her signature. Although she made every other attempt to blend into the background, the eye-catching pink-and-red combination meant she wasn’t afraid to stand out, to try something new, to do things differently.

  He watched with interest as a footman rolled a wheeled chair to the bench near Miss Winfield. Of course. Lady Roundtree’s broken leg. Miss Winfield had said she was a companion. The baroness must then be her patroness. He wondered how that was going.

  Many people claimed they could withstand little more than afternoon tea in Lady Roundtree’s company. Not only was the baroness often excitable and dramatic, she was niece to Lady Pettibone, a formidable society matron referred to as the “old dragon” exclusively in hushed whispers.

  Lady Pettibone was the Duke of Courteland’s highest-ranking relative, and ruled a great swath of the ton with her sharp tongue and iron will. For that reason, many peers feared that idle words spoken around Lady Roundtree could reach Lady Pettibone’s ear and ruin their standing forever.

  Heath and his siblings had no such concerns. As the elder of the four, his and Camellia’s comportment were famously impeccable. The youngest, Bryony, was an unrepentant free spirit who didn’t give a button what anyone said about her behind her back, or even in front of her face.

  Their middle sister, Dahlia, had once been as faultless as her elder siblings. Now that she’d begun a charity school in a poor neighborhood and actively sought donations from those with deep pockets, the poverty of the orphans she was attempting to save had begun to taint her own reputation.