Romancing the Past

by Darcy Burke

  Ophelia shook her head. “I might pop a nerve if I run into Cromby or Leeds.”

  Leonora’s lips quirked. “I suppose you do have more pressing matters to attend to.”

  The footman entered to announce another guest, this one most unwelcome. “Lord Hanover to call on your ladyship.”

  Ophelia did so not want to face that scoundrel now. What was he doing here past calling hours, in any case?

  “Shall I stay a bit longer?” Leonora asked. “I know how you detest that man and his ilk.”

  “No, go. Your mother will become anxious if you make her wait,” Ophelia said in earnest. “I can handle Hanover.”

  If only she had taken her friend up on her offer.

  Harry tossed back the brandy in his glass in one gulp, wincing as the liquid burned down his throat. His day had started out rotten. Unlike yesterday.

  Yesterday, he had woken up with dreams of Ophelia draped over him, naked and glorious. He had called on her, discovered she and Rochester were truly just friends, and found crucial information about his father.

  It had been the perfect day.

  Almost.

  He was still alone, still craving Ophelia, when he fell into bed that night.

  Today—today had been dismal. Harry had spent most of the night and the entirety of the morning attempting to decipher his father’s code—which he was sure it was. The wagers were too suspicious for it not to be. And he had gotten nowhere. He had stared at the bold scrawl of his father’s hand until his eyes had felt like they were bleeding. And nothing. No grand epiphany. No grand insight. He remained none the wiser.

  Ld. A. wagers Ld. G. that the Duchess will be in London for three days. Five shillings.

  Who the hell was the duchess? And why the hell did his father bet a certain Lord G. that she would be in London for three days every first Monday of the month? Was she the lost love of Lord G? Christ forbid, was she his father’s lover?

  Harry sighed. An hour ago, he had marched to White’s, annoyed as hell. He was still in no mood for company, but his frustration had outweighed his desire to drink alone. At least in company, he wouldn’t pull every last strand of hair from his head.

  He also had another reason for coming to White’s. Harry intended to sit in the same spot his father had reportedly occupied—if the waiter was to be believed—those Monday mornings. Harry hoped, no, prayed that sitting in this spot would provide insight to his father’s thoughts or behavior.

  It didn’t.

  Not yet.

  But if he was honest, Harry was starting to doubt that the wager was a secret code his father used to communicate with the mysterious Lord G. The late earl hadn’t been in his right mind toward the end and had imbibed heavily. But if the wager was a code, it was Harry’s first real lead, and he couldn’t give up on the clue.

  Perhaps Malik would have better luck with the information.

  “You found your father’s art yet?” Warrick flopped down into the chair beside Harry.

  “You found the deuced list yet?” Harry countered and instantly regretted the unfair jibe. Any one of them could have lost that list. And Harry, unbeknown to his friend, knew its whereabouts.

  Warrick’s face flushed. “Come on, man. Saville has been giving me hell ever since I lost that blasted scrap of paper. I do not need your complaint as well.”

  “You shouldn’t have lost it in the first place,” Harry muttered.

  Warrick grunted and ordered a drink. “Did you hear Leeds married the Harriet chit?”

  Harry raised a brow. No, he hadn’t heard. The Marquis of Leeds was wealthy and in no need of a wife with a fortune.

  “He must have his reasons,” Harry remarked.

  Warrick nodded. “One less lady to be concerned about.”

  Harry frowned. “You are concerned about the women?”

  “I was the one who wrote that tripe down, remember?” Warrick took a swig of brandy the moment the tumbler arrived at their table and signaled the waiter for another.

  Harry frowned.

  “Whatever happens as a consequence of that list, Avondale,” Warrick said, “is on me.”

  “Don’t be so hard on yourself, Warrick. We all partook in the creation of that tripe.”

  “Yes, but I am the one who lost the list.” Warrick shut his eyes only to open them and peer at Harry a moment later. His gaze carried a solemnness that Harry hadn’t seen in his friend before. “There are rumors Lady Louisa is to be married off as a result. That would be the second woman married off since the list was discovered.”

  “Christ,” Harry muttered.

  Warrick nodded.

  “The book was stolen and the list is gone. Let us be thankful for that,” Harry said in an effort to alleviate some of Warrick’s concern. “The attention has turned from the list to the person who took the book—problem solved. Semisolved,” Harry corrected. There was still the matter of Ophelia and what she intended to do with the book.

  “No, Avondale, this is only the beginning. Mark my words.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Warrick leaned forward, glancing around to ascertain no one was within earshot before he said in a low voice, “Haven’t you heard? An earring was found here in White’s.”

  “An earring?” Harry said slowly.

  Warrick nodded. “But one, and already speculation is rife with theories that a woman, a woman on that list, snuck into White’s and stole the book.”

  Bloody, bloody hell.

  “A gentleman could have misplaced a purchase for a lady? Or perhaps won or lost the trinket in a game of cards?”

  Warrick shook his head. “The earring was found the same day the book went missing but kept hushed while discreet inquiries were made.”

  Dammit!

  “Do you think one of the women brazen enough to sneak into White’s?” Warrick shook his head. “All of them?”

  “Yes, I do.”

  Warrick’s gaze sharpened. “There’s certainty in your tone. You know something I don’t?”

  Harry gave a reluctant nod. “One of the women stole the book.”

  “How long have you known?” Warrick growled. “Christ, man, you could have informed me, your friend. Do you know how many bogs I trudged through to gather information about the missing book? I wasted my bloody time!”

  “That’s why I’m telling you now,” Harry said in a low voice. “So you don’t have to trudge through any more bogs.”

  Warrick let out a deep breath and shook his head. “Which one?”

  “I cannot tell you. Not yet. Not until I know what she intends to do with the book.”

  “Well, if she learns that the women are being married off, she might do something that all of us will regret.”

  “That won’t happen. I’ll make sure of it.”

  Warrick raised a brow. “You like this one?”

  “I find her interesting,” Harry countered.

  “That may as well be a declaration of love,” Warrick rejoined. “You’ve never found a single lady interesting before.”

  “This time is different. She is different.”

  And Harry found he had never meant words more. Ophelia was like an ocean filled with precious jewels. He wanted to dive into her depth and collect each and every gem.

  “Then there is something you must know,” Warrick said, lips thinning. “I overheard Hanover claim to one of his cronies that he knows to whom the earring belongs—that he recognized the trinket the moment he laid eyes on it.”

  Harry jerked in his chair. “Are you sure?”

  Warrick nodded. “Didn’t make much of his lamenting at the time, didn’t believe a woman stole the book. But now I suspect he might use the earring to blackmail the lady who lost her bauble. Everyone knows Hanover is one creditor away from being carted off to debtor’s prison.”

  Harry shot to his feet.

  “When did you overhear Hanover say this?”

  “Last night—”

  Harry was already striding t
oward the door, hat in hand. Damn Hanover’s slimy little hands. He would not allow the bastard to blackmail Ophelia or let word get out that she’d been the one who had snuck into White’s.

  He’d throw Hanover under a carriage first.

  Chapter 15

  There was something to be said about fortune hunters. No matter what word you used to describe them—money-grubbers, leeches, or charlatans—they had to be given one measure of credit: each and every one of their desperate hides was well and truly unique.

  Take Lord Rutland, for example. His approach was that of flowers and sweetmeats. Lord Derby, more direct, had once boldly confessed he was in dire need of her dowry. Marry me anyway, Lady Ophelia. Hah! Lord Bedford, on the other hand, always hung in the background, hoping that of all the fortune hunters present, he’d be chosen on his lack of strategy.

  But then there were men like Lord Hanover, who rode in on their battle horse, sword drawn. Greedy, slithery, and as Ophelia had just discovered, more underhanded than the lowest-born wastrel.

  “I know what you have done,” he said, wasting no time in getting to his point.

  His smile reminded Ophelia of a feral fox. His raspy voice sent chills of disgust and fear spiraling up her spine. Murky-green eyes held a knowing glint, and Ophelia became conscious that whatever Hanover meant with those words would not be good.

  “I do not take your meaning, my lord,” Ophelia answered, attempting to remain the gracious hostess even as droplets of sweat broke out on her temple.

  Hanover flashed his teeth. A perfect row of white. A pity. A man such as Hanover ought to have rotten teeth, as the likes of neglected pirates terrorizing the seas.

  “I’ve got you now, Lady Ophelia,” he drawled. “There is no escaping your fate.”

  “My fate? Sir, I know not of what you speak.”

  “The earring you lost in White’s. I recognized the jewel the moment I laid eyes on it.”

  Earring?

  Ophelia’s heart skittered to a stop.

  She had forgotten about that damn earring. Thought she’d lost it when she had dispatched of the wig.

  Ophelia was damned. And Hanover knew it. She watched the doors of her hell open in his eyes.

  “You wore the same set the day you nearly ended both our lives.” He opened his palm to reveal the tiny, sparkling bud.

  “Hardly, Hanover,” Ophelia said stiffly, her gaze briefly flicking to the bauble in his hand. “It’s not my fault you cannot stomach a woman driving your carriage.”

  “Nevertheless, I will stomach the fun of falling into a colossal bed of your dowry.”

  Lord, but it hurt to contain her anger.

  “Not. Going. To. Happen. Hanover.”

  Ophelia shut her eyes at the unmistakable timbre of a familiar voice that interrupted Hanover’s gloating.

  Avondale.

  Had he learned about the earring? About Hanover? She’d never been so relieved to hear the throaty resonance of his voice. She turned to him.

  He stood in the door, larger than life, his features set in stone. Anger exhaled with each rise and fall of his chest, and his fists clenched at his sides. He was furious, and all that glorious fury was directed at Hanover. In that moment, he was the most pleasant sight Ophelia had ever set eyes on.

  “Avondale,” Hanover drawled, snapping his hand shut. “You are too late. The lady and I have already formed an understanding.”

  “We have formed nothing,” Ophelia hissed, shooting the devil a sharp glance. “I will not be bullied, Hanover.”

  Hanover flashed one of his sickening smiles. “I need to acquire a special license in any case, so I will give you two days to think on your choices, Lady Ophelia. I’m sure you will see this in the same light as I by then.” He bowed and then practically pranced from the room.

  Ophelia stared after the wretched man, realizing that the past three years spent fending off fortune hunters had come to the most horrid conclusion. Every moment she had spent with Hanover in those three years flashed through her mind—carriage rides, sidestepping, almost gagging at his insincere poetry—concluding with the moment he’d held out a single earring in his hand. Of all the things she had done—sneaking into White’s, kissing Avondale, and kissing Avondale again—losing an earring pinned her fate to a man who could and would destroy her entire family to get what he wanted.

  Had all that led to this moment?

  She whirled and snatched up a glass, lifting the crystal to hurl at the lecher’s head.

  Strong fingers circled her wrist.

  “He is not worth it,” Avondale drawled, wrangling the crystal from her fingers. “Let him go.”

  “That bastard—”

  “Is forcing your hand with the only evidence you left behind in White’s?”

  Her gaze narrowed. “Are you reprimanding me?”

  “Did you lose that earring in White’s?” He arched a brow.

  “Obviously.”

  “Then, yes, I am reprimanding you. How could you be so bloody careless?”

  Ophelia glared at him. “How is that you know about the earring?”

  “I just heard.”

  “Heard? Dear Lord, so it is common knowledge?”

  “No,” Avondale said. “He found the earring in White’s and declared he knew its owner. He did not say who. At least not publicly.”

  Ophelia brought both hands to her face. “This is a disaster. I cannot marry Hanover!”

  “You will not,” Avondale made a visible attempt to lower his voice, “marry that bastard. On that we are agreed.”

  “He has the earring.”

  “Leave him to me, Ophelia. I will take care of that rat.”

  “How?” Ophelia asked, belly still knotted tight.

  He lowered her arm and set the glass on the table. “Trust me, I know how to take care of Hanover. Do not worry about his threats.”

  Ophelia blinked up at Avondale. No white steed was between his thighs. No armor covered his body. No sword sheathed his hip.

  He was just Avondale.

  No, he was just Harry.

  And yet, he was her knight in shining armor. Men didn’t just appear from nowhere and save the day, did they? She was pretty sure they did not. Except here he was—Harry. He did appear from somewhere. He did promise to save the day.

  If only he could save them all.

  “Avondale, before Hanover came waltzing in hell-bent on ruining my life, I had just received the most distressing news.”

  “Dare I ask?” Avondale ventured. “Perhaps I can be of aid.”

  Ophelia shook her head. “Not much we can do, I’m afraid. Harriet has been married off to Leeds, and Louisa’s father is planning to wed her off as well. It is a travesty!”

  “I heard. Leeds is not a bad man.”

  Ophelia arched a brow. “He wagered on me.”

  Avondale’s gaze darkened. “Did he now?”

  Ophelia waved it aside. “That is not the point. The point is that the damn list has caused this, and I have no idea what to do about it. Do you know who compiled the names?”

  “I imagine someone quite desperate.”

  “A no, then,” Ophelia muttered. “Of course, no one is of use to me in that regard.”

  “My apologies. I did not wish to cause you any more distress,” Avondale responded, going still as a lamppost. “That was not my intent.”

  “Please,” Ophelia said. Her shoulders sagged. “It is I who ought to apologize. I’m in a dreadful mood, and you are the nearest available male to take my annoyance out on.”

  Avondale grinned. “My shoulders are broad enough to take whatever you fling at me.”

  She smiled back at him before turning serious. “What is it that you gain from all this, Avondale? Why are you helping me?”

  What indeed.

  It was hard to say what Harry gained. Harder still explaining the reasons behind his actions. The truth was, Harry did not know or even understand half of them. His story, these days, felt like one with wh
ich Shakespeare was having a bloody field day.

  Harry’s gaze fell to Ophelia.

  The color had left her face, and her lower lip trembled slightly. Fire might flash in her eyes, but Lady Ophelia Thornton was not as unaffected by her confrontation with Hanover as she would have him believe.

  Harry wanted to throttle the man.

  He cocked his head, considering her. “Must there be a reason?” he asked, his gaze searching hers.

  “People do not merely help each other for fun.” The woman of his dreams sent him a lopsided grin. “Our reasons are what motivate us.”

  “Well then, boot me out of the door, for art is what I seek.”

  She dipped her head, unable to contain a laugh. “No luck with your search?”

  Harry shook his head. “My father left no clue as to what the hell he was thinking or doing by obtaining those art pieces. I must find the blasted purchases.”

  Ophelia nodded her agreement. “Else it will remain a mystery untouched forever. It would slay me, not knowing, if I were in your shoes.”

  He looked down at her. “What about you? Do you always leave disheveled fortune hunters in your wake?”

  The corners of her mouth lifted. “I’m partial to skewed hats.”

  Harry laughed. “I doubt the gentlemen share your enthusiasm for them.”

  “Not all of them, no.” She chuckled. “But I suppose what motivates me to continue such hoydenish behavior is that I never want to stop fighting to be seen beyond my dowry.”

  “I don’t see blunt when I look you, Ophelia,” Harry murmured, his voice low. “I see a woman bold enough to enter a gentleman’s club and steal back her name.”

  “I did that, didn’t I? I stole back my name. My reputation.”

  Harry advanced on her. “You cannot seem to rise above the treasure trove of your dowry, and I cannot seem to sink my teeth into my father’s mystery. What a pair we are.”

  She chuckled, then said, “At least you have an identity. I am considered nothing but the heiress with the dowry that can put the crown to shame. An ice queen.”

  “You are no ice queen, Ophelia,” Harry said low. “You are the most interesting woman I have ever met. It’s impossible to stand by and not help you.”