by Erica Ridley
Slowly, Michael turned back toward the Runner. “I do.”
“What was stolen?” Mr. Spaulding’s posture was now one of interest.
Michael feared his small theft was about to disappoint. “A solid gold harp, slightly larger than a locket. It had been meant as a necklace bauble.”
The Runner nodded. “Small enough to fit in the palm of one’s hand?”
“Unquestionably.” Michael frowned. These were not the crown jewels. Why so much interest in a memento that only mattered to one man?
Mr. Spaulding’s focus did not waver. “Had it been kept under lock and key?”
“It had not.” Nor could Michael forgive himself for that oversight. For failing to lock the door, he had only himself to blame.
The Runner’s hard countenance eased. “Don’t brood so. I am not in the habit of blaming victims for crimes perpetrated by villains. Particularly not where the slippery Thief of Mayfair is concerned.”
Michael started in surprise. “I am not the first?”
“You are not the only case, but you might well be the first.” Mr. Spaulding’s gaze sharpened. “Three weeks ago, you said?”
Michael frowned. “Perhaps closer to four or five. I had hosted a soirée…”
“When did you recover the missing piece?”
He blinked. “How did you—”
“The crimes are identical,” Mr. Spaulding explained. “A small but expensive item goes missing. Perhaps it was stolen. Perhaps it was misplaced. There had been a party, a new maid, a distraction. Within a week, the item is found at a pawnbroker. Never the same storefront twice. Never sold by the same person. Because the missing item has now been recovered, its owners rarely seek restitution. How close am I to your case?”
“Spot on,” Michael admitted with grudging respect. “How did you determine there was a pattern, if no one reported the losses?”
“Slowly.” The Runner rubbed his jaw. “But never fear. The Thief of Mayfair is a pest that will be squashed. Now that I have determined there is a case, I shall not rest until the perpetrator has been brought to justice.”
“Mr. Spaulding is the cleverest investigator in all of London,” the man at the front desk put in with pride. “’Tis only a matter of time before your thief meets the gallows.”
At that news, Michael simply felt empty. The harp was back home. He didn’t care about chasing a petty thief to the gallows. He cared about Lady X. He wished the cleverest investigator in London would spare a second to find her.
Despondency weighted his bones. Lady X’s presence was what was truly missing from Michael’s home. At this rate, he would never find her. There was nothing left to try.
This time, when he turned toward the door, no one stopped him.
Michael climbed back into his carriage and stared at its luxurious, empty interior. He yearned for Lady X. What use were all his riches without the woman he most wished to share them with?
“Where to, milord?” asked the driver.
Where to, indeed. Michael let his head fall back against the carriage wall. Perhaps Lady X was lost to him forever, perhaps she was not. The only thing he knew for certain was that his whirling mind was in no condition to be making important decisions about his estate. He would return to the duties of his title tomorrow. Today, he could use a long walk to clear his head.
“Hyde Park,” he commanded the driver.
The stately coach sprang into motion.
Once Michael was alone on a twisting path through the least-frequented acres, he allowed himself to forget his troubles for a moment and enjoy a solitary stroll amongst the calming beauty of nature.
With every rustle of leaves or trill of a robin, his step and heart grew lighter. The meeting with the Runner had not gone as Michael wished, but all was not lost. A single day had passed since last he saw Lady X. She knew his name. Perhaps she only needed time.
He frowned as he passed a break in the trail that led not to a pedestrian path, but rather to some shadowed section of untamed thicket. Strange. He had crossed through here once before. He remembered this curve in the road, and the fallen log wedged between the trees.
This was where the eldest Miss Grenville had burst upon him from out of nowhere, ruining a perfectly folded cravat by smashing her face into it, and then ruining a perfectly peaceful outing with false quotations about Michael’s direct road to hell.
He paused and tried to peer through the trees. What the devil had the maddening woman been about? Why had she been alone—and so far from the manicured pedestrian trail near the front of the park?
Curiosity got the better of him. With a sigh, he stepped over the fallen log into a narrow gap amongst the thicket. Nettles snagged the tails of his coat and clung to the kerseymere of his breeches.
And then, just as suddenly… he was free.
A sunny patch of brilliantly green grass lined the shoulder of a crystal blue river. Beautiful trees with thick brown trunks and a profusion of fluttering leaves stretched overhead.
There were no trodden flowers, no bits of forgotten rubbish, no sign at all that anyone else had ever set foot in this idyllic retreat. Just the sweet scent of clean air, the gentle murmur of the sparkling stream, and an enormous gray rock with a wide, smooth surface perfect for lying back and simply being at peace.
Not a rock. The rock. Michael’s heart thumped in shock. He had found Lady X’s secret river spot. Here. In Hyde Park.
Good Lord. His jaw dropped in disbelief. Miss Grenville was Lady X.
Dumbfounded, he climbed atop the waist-high rock and dangled his feet above the rippling river, as she must have done a hundred times before. His head swam with dizziness at what was now obvious.
Miss Grenville was Lady X.
Thunderstruck, he stared at all the beauty around him. Recalled the words they’d exchanged on the path. The evenings they’d shared at the masquerade. The moment he’d told her he would be hers forever if only she would have him. The night he’d called her sister a termagant.
Of course she hadn’t called. Miss Grenville had hated him long before the widow Epworth had stumbled upon the Lord of Pleasure relieving a masked woman of her maidenhead. Michael winced. Miss Grenville’s well-deserved shock at the interruption hadn’t been shame at being caught in the act of losing her virginity after all.
Her horror had come from discovering she’d done so with him.
Melancholy, he propped his elbows on his thighs and stared out over the water. No matter what she might believe, he had meant every word he’d spoken as Lord X. The moments they’d shared had been the most honest, most precious evenings of his life.
With her, he wasn’t an earl or a rakehell or a caricature. With her, he’d been able to be himself. To be Michael. To fall in love.
Knowing her true identity didn’t change any of that. If anything, his respect for her grew stronger. Their names may have been false, but their connection was real. Both as Miss Grenville and as Lady X, their interactions had been infused with a frankness rarely experienced.
When Miss Grenville was vexed with him, she did not hesitate to let him know. And when Lady X was pleased with him, when she wished him to stop talking and take her somewhere more private… But what could he do?
One word to her father and Miss Grenville would be forced to the altar. But that was the last thing Michael wished. One could not force one’s suit upon a woman as independent as her.
He wanted her to choose him. Wanted her to decide on her own that they were better together than apart. Wanted her not as Lady X or as Miss Grenville, but as his countess. His wife. His equal. Michael slid from the rock and picked his way back to the main path. Hope dared to once again slip inside his heart.
It would not be easy, but their love was worth any risk.
Chapter 25
The following morning, Camellia had the day’s papers brought up with her breakfast tray.
In the event Wainwright had taken out another advertisement—or the scandal columnists had i
dentified the fallen woman fleeing the masquerade—she much preferred not discovering the news in front of her sisters.
As she’d feared, the front page of the paper bore Lord Wainwright’s name in bold type.
To her relief, however, the article had nothing to do with her. Or anything scandalous at all. The earl had apparently been instrumental in the committee responsible for a reintroduction of the gold sovereign, this time bearing a laureate profile on one side and the slaying of a dragon on the other. According to the article, the Latin motto of the Order of the Garter was embossed along the outer edge.
Impressed, she touched her fingers to the artist’s rendering. The new coins sounded stunning. She could scarcely wait to see one in person.
She flipped through the rest of the pages, scanning for any other mention of Lord Wainwright’s name—or hers. She paused at the top of the paid advertisements.
* * *
The Cloven Hoof
hereby announces
Lord Wainwright has won
his forty-day wager
* * *
Wryly, Camellia wondered if anyone had dared to take that wager, or if Lord Wainwright himself would be the sole recipient of the winnings.
She bit her lip. Forty days ago, she would have been one of the first in line to bet against him. Like the others, she would have been wrong. Guilt pricked at her. She had judged him far more harshly than he had deserved.
Her shoulders slumped at the unflattering realization. She had accepted society’s image of him without questioning. The image that he himself helped portray, just as she did when she pretended to be a mouse with no will of her own. Perhaps forty days ago, she could be forgiven for accepting false assumptions as the only possible truth.
But now she knew better. She knew him. He was so much more than the rakehell he’d been painted. Now that the wager was over and he was free to do whatever he wished, he was doing what he wished. His preference wasn’t seducing debutantes. He was leading committees in the House of Lords. Managing his earldom. Enjoying London. Penning love letters.
In fact, for the past several weeks, the only times Camellia had ever witnessed him flirting with anyone…
It had been with her.
She caught her breath. Her traitorous heart beat faster at the memories. The heat of his kisses. Their waltz beneath the stars. The pleasure they had found together when—
Heat flooded her cheeks. Quickly, she flipped to the next page in the paper. The center advertisement immediately caught her eye.
* * *
My darling Lady X,
I found the place we dreamed of. The rock is everything you promised. All it lacks is you. I’ll be there every day at noon until you meet me. I miss you. I long to hear your voice.
If you don’t wish to come for me, then come for your earring. If you do not, I am likely to cherish it forever.
Yours always,
W
* * *
Camellia closed the paper with shaking fingers, then reopened it to the same page and reread the advertisement a dozen more times.
It was him. Missing her. Just as dreadfully as she yearned for him. But the future he promised was not meant to be.
They were star-crossed. An earl could never accept a mere Grenville as his countess. Phineas Mapleton had said so at the circus. But Camellia had known long before that. Earls took women of lesser standing as mistresses, not wives. And she had no wish to be his temporary mistress.
A girl like her considered herself fortunate when she received an offer from a gentleman like Mr. Bost. Twice her age, perhaps, but a solid match whose standing would not reflect badly on her younger sisters.
Although Lord Wainwright’s rakehell reputation may have been exaggerated out of proportion, any connection would still be scandalous by association. He must realize. Even if the earl were willing to make an honest woman of her now that she’d been ruined, doing so would jeopardize the reputations of her younger sisters.
The moment they appeared publicly, the troublemaking Mrs. Epworth would realize Camellia had been the disheveled young lady in Lord Wainwright’s bed. One anonymous word and gossip would fly. Camellia would be known not as a countess, but as an easy conquest. Speculation would run high that her sisters were cut from the same cloth.
And yet… she could not let him keep waiting by the river in the hopes his Lady X would arrive. They might have no future together, but the heartfelt moments they’d shared in the past had meant as much to Camellia as they seemed to mean to the earl.
He deserved an answer. Even if it was one he would not like.
After breakfast, she dressed with the same care she’d given her appearance on the nights of the masquerades. Her lips twisted with self-deprecation as she turned away from the looking-glass. This time, she would not be Lady X, but Miss Camellia Grenville. She was bound to disappoint.
The hack dropped her at a side entrance to the park at half past eleven. Pulse pounding alarmingly, she made her way from the path, to the trail, to the thicket, to the river.
He was there.
Her heart skipped at the sight.
He was seated atop the big gray rock, gazing at the river. His back was to her. Although she approached softly, his spine straightened as if he sensed her nearness.
“Lady X?” he asked quietly without turning to face her.
Her answering smile was bittersweet. She was glad he could not see it. “It is me.”
“Would you like me to turn around?”
Would she? Camellia hesitated. “Perhaps it is best if you do not.”
He inclined his head as if he had anticipated her reply, then gestured toward a small package at the base of the rock. “Your earring.”
She bent to scoop up a parcel wrapped in brown paper. It was too large to merely be her lost earring. The box nearly spanned the width of two palms.
“Lord X…”
“Open it.”
She tugged at the bow to unwrap the string. The paper fell loose as well. Carefully, she lifted the lid of the wide, flat box.
Inside was her missing earring. And a matching necklace made not of cut glass, but teardrop shaped emeralds with matching diamonds.
“Wainwright,” she gasped, her heart hammering at the thought of wearing such beautiful jewelry. “I cannot accept this.”
“It is a gift.” His tone was wry. “Surely you’ve no wish to offend my tender sensibilities. Men are remarkably fragile creatures.”
“I’m not who you think I am,” she stammered.
“Is anyone?” he asked softly. Even without being able to see his face, sunlight bathed him in a warm glow, making him seem larger than life. “I’d like to know you. I’d like your permission to call on you formally.”
So would she, more than anything. Camellia forced herself to be strong. “I’m afraid that’s out of the question.”
“Then something less formal,” he suggested quickly. “Vauxhall Gardens. Piccadilly Square. A stroll somewhere public so we won’t be tempted to tear each other’s clothing off.”
She grinned despite herself. “Who says I’m tempted?”
“Aren’t you?” His words were light, but his voice was defeated. “Was our time together not as meaningful for you as it was for me?”
Silence stretched between them as she fought for words she could say.
“It was temporary,” she managed through the stinging in her throat.
“It doesn’t have to be.” He hunched his shoulders, then straightened. “Say you’ll meet me face-to-face. Not as clandestine lovers, but at least as friends. Perhaps tonight?”
She bit her lip. “I cannot.”
“Tomorrow night?” he asked quietly.
“I can’t. I am… expected at a Grenville musicale.” Perhaps the biggest understatement of all time.
“I’m afraid I won’t be attending the show,” he said, his tone more sad than droll. “I am not welcome in the Grenville household. I don’t suppose I can talk you int
o coming away with me instead?”
“I cannot.” She took a deep breath. It was past time he knew the truth. “I’ll be on stage.”
When he turned around to face her, his countenance held a crooked smile rather than an expression of surprise. “I would love to hear you sing.”
He knew.
She stared back at him, light-headed with shock. “How long have you known?”
“Since I found this paradise.” He gestured at the lush beauty about them. “And recalled it was not Lady X, but Miss Grenville whom I had crossed paths with not ten yards away.”
Camellia grimaced drily. She could only imagine the shock on his face when he realized he’d fallen for none other than mousy Miss Grenville, even for a whirlwind candlelit moment. “And you still wished to meet me?”
“I want a lot more than that.” He slid down from the rock. “Did you not see my advertisements?”
She took a step in retreat. “I won’t be your mistress.”
He choked in horror. “I’m not asking you to be my mistr—”
“And I won’t be your wife,” she finished firmly. For his sake. For her sake. For her sisters’ sakes.
His soulful green-brown-gray eyes gazed back at her, hurt.
She glanced away, unable to speak.
“May I ask why?” he asked.
“You might have won your wager,” she said when she had regained her voice, “but you lost your reputation long before. Any romantic association with you brings gossip and scandal my family can ill afford. I am sorry.”
“No,” he said, his beautiful eyes full of regret. “I am sorry. The fault is mine.”
He was trying to do the right thing, she realized. He had taken her virginity. For a gentleman, such an act required a trip to the altar.
But she didn’t want him to fall upon his sword for her. She didn’t want anyone to marry her just because it was the “proper thing” to do.
Especially not in this case, when it would all go so wrong. Instead of saving her reputation, he would tarnish two more in the process.
