by Darcy Burke
What the hell did he do now?
They weren’t impoverished. Harry would never be a fortune hunter. Then why the hell did he still feel like a charlatan?
Destitute.
A pauper.
Not worth a farthing.
He might not be a fortune hunter—everything Ophelia hated—but he had still played a part in his mother’s list—everything she may come to loathe.
Harry opened his eyes and stared up at his town house.
Just stared.
Unlawful coin had laid those bricks, paid for the extravagant Persian rugs that covered the floor, the velvet curtains that draped the windows in splendor. The furniture expertly decorating each room was bought with the profit from contraband. His entire life, everything his family had procured, had come from funds secured by moving illegal goods.
Harry came from a line of smugglers.
“What are we looking at?” Saville asked, coming up beside Harry.
“A great lie.”
Saville lifted a brow. “You found the treasure, then?”
“I discovered a treasure trove, not necessarily treasure.”
“Does this mean you are still a beggar?”
“I don’t know what the bloody hell I am.”
“What about the woman on your desk? That was Lady Ophelia, was it not?” Saville inquired. “Your interest in her at the Radley Ball. I should have pieced it together sooner.”
Harry sighed. “I’m not in the mood, Saville.”
“Wasn’t planning on giving you hell, old chap. Was merely going to whistle”—he whistled—“and ask, Oh, what tangled webs have you weaved, Avondale?”
“Dammit, Saville, I am in love with her.” He dragged a hand through his hair. “And with what I discovered today, I’m more confused than ever.”
“Does she feel the same about you?”
Harry gave a curt nod.
“Well, then, the choice seems easy enough. Marry the chit.”
“She has an acute aversion to fortune hunters, remember? I may not be after her fortune, but I have not been truthful about my circumstances either.”
“She doesn’t know that.”
No, Harry hadn’t told her yet. He would today. Right after he collected the earring from the maid he’d bribed with a pretty penny. And he would tell her about his father’s dealings, too, and about the circumstances that led to the damn list. He would tell her he loved her. He would tell her yes. And then he would pray she’d forgive him.
He had no excuses for his actions. Had no way to make it right. He had only the truth to offer. And his regret. Harry prayed that was enough.
“Warrick told me the lady has the betting book and the list—the list on which we all wrote those comments. You should have told me, Avondale.”
Harry sighed. “I know.”
“One woman has been forced to marry,” Saville pointed out. “Another soon to follow in her footsteps. The damn list has caused only trouble. Do you think Lady Ophelia will forgive you when she learns your mother provided the names and we, fools that we are, expounded upon it?”
A small, broken “oh” pierced their conservation like an off-key musical note, and for the second time that day, a vise tightened over Harry’s heart.
“No, she won’t,” a voice of steel growled. “I forbid it.”
Surely Ophelia was dying. It felt like a thousand tiny shards of glass were stabbing at her breast. Her belly contracted painfully. Nausea threatened. The shock from Saville’s announcement clawed at her skin. She might have married Hanover for all her heart ached just then.
At Rochester’s growled words, Avondale turned to her with a look of horror on his face, and Ophelia knew the happiness she had felt since leaving the warmth of his arms had come to a chilling end.
The man she loved did not exist.
He was a lie.
A fabrication.
Lord, how foolish she had been! From the start, he had manipulated her around every bend in the road. Was he nothing but a fortune hunter, then? He must be, considering the list and how he and his scoundrel friends had made a mockery of her. And if Ophelia was not mistaken, she had helped solve his financial problems without even marrying the rogue.
The art he was so desperate to recover, it seemed, wasn’t for art-loving or sentimental purposes but for the fact that he was utterly penniless without it. How could she have assumed anything less? How had she allowed her vigilance to drop so low? The humiliation and pain ate at her.
“Is it true?” Ophelia asked, hating how her voice betrayed her emotion with its slight crack. She had to hear the truth from his traitorous mouth, from that silver tongue.
Avondale parted his lips, but no sound came out.
She nodded. “So you are after my fortune.”
Lord, it hurt.
She had shared things with him that she had shared with no one else but her closest friends. She had given her innocence to this man. Confessed her love.
Ophelia couldn’t breathe.
“No, Ophelia,” he finally managed. “I was never after your fortune.” He advanced one step but froze when Rochester stiffened beside her. “I might have considered wedding an heiress for a fleeting second. But think about it: I never courted you.”
Ophelia shut her eyes. He was right about that, she mused bitterly. He hadn’t courted her. Not in the proper sense. Theirs seemed to have been a series of chance meetings that evolved into something more.
“But it’s your list,” Ophelia accused, unwilling to take him at his word any longer. “Why would you be in possession of such a list if you were not hunting a rich wife?”
“My mother compiled the list.”
“Your mother,” Ophelia said flatly.
He gave a reluctant nod. “My mother made the list with the intention that I marry someone with wealth. The commentaries did come from us—”
“Who exactly are us?” Ophelia demanded. “Save the rest for another poor, unsuspecting woman.”
Saville stepped forward. “Avondale only listened to me, Deerhurst, and Warrick as we commented on the choice of potential brides the countess provided. Warrick lost the list. It was never supposed to see the light of day,” Saville explained.
“And that makes it all right?” Ophelia demanded.
Saville shook his head. “No, it does not.”
She turned to Avondale. “You knew all this time. From the beginning. From the Radley Ball?”
His jaw clenched. “Yes.”
Dear Lord, she had fallen straight into his web. Her face burned as she recalled her brazen marriage proposal, his lack of confession, and her confidence in assuring her father that Avondale was the one—her mortification complete. The pain in her heart increased.
Ophelia wanted to deny it—wanted to pretend that she would be able to dust herself off and move past Avondale’s horrid betrayal with her dignity intact, unaffected. But already moisture gathered in her eyes. Her lower lip quivered.
She forced herself to focus and make it through the confrontation with her head held high. She needed to make it home in one piece. She could fall apart there.
Straightening her spine, Ophelia said, “I came to inform you that Hanover arrived on my doorstep early this morning. The matter has been taken care of, so there is no need for your involvement any longer.”
“Taken care of?” he asked, eyes suddenly alert. “How?”
“Without your help, Avondale,” Rochester growled.
“It doesn’t matter,” Ophelia said. “He will not be bothering me again.”
“Ophelia—”
“Were you successful in your search? Did you find what you were looking for?” Ophelia was rather impressed her voice didn’t crack on the last question. She blinked away the burning in her eyes. She had to leave. Soon.
“You were right about the book being a treasure map,” he said in a low voice.
“Are you destitute?” He had yet to admit that.
A pained look enter
ed his features. “That depends on your definition of destitute, Ophelia.”
Oh Lord, Ophelia did not want to hear any more. Couldn’t. Not if she didn’t want to dissolve into a puddle of tears. Every moment she’d spent with him, he had known that he was the reason for her distress. And he’d said nothing. She reached out to grip Rochester’s coat, who instantly pulled her closer.
“You were courting her under false pretenses, Avondale,” Rochester accused. “Stay away from her, or you will deal with me in the future.”
Avondale shook his head, gaze not leaving Ophelia. “My feelings for you are not false. They never were.”
“You allowed a mockery to be made of that list. One woman has already been married off,” Rochester growled.
“That was never supposed to happen.”
“Yet, Avondale, it did,” Rochester hissed. “You and Ophelia were doomed the moment you decided not to trust her with the truth.” Rochester laughed, an empty, hollow sound. “Christ, you even had me fooled.”
“Please, Ophelia, let me explain.”
Ophelia averted her gaze. “Rochester, I wish to return home.”
“Ophelia,” Avondale breathed. “Please, I—”
She glared at him. “Can you change what you and your friends have done?”
“No—”
“Turn back time, then?”
“No.”
“Erase all wagers made as a result of your list? All the jokes at our expense? Can you dissolve Harriet’s marriage to Leeds? Keep Louisa’s father from marrying her off to Cromby?”
“Dammit! You know the answer to that.”
“Yes, I suppose I do,” Ophelia snapped, attempting, failing, to blink back her tears.
“Ophelia, when I met you at the Radley Ball, I didn’t know the list was gone. I thought it was safe in Warrick’s possession. I only discovered what happened after I left your company. When I heard your laughter that night, saw you dancing with Rochester, I did not know who you even were at first. I swear to you. I never lied to you. I did not approach you because you were on the list. I approached you because you were magnetic. I never thought the list would become public.”
Ophelia huddled closer to Rochester. Her heart fluttered at that bit of information. She ruthlessly ignored the leap of her pulse. “You still knew why I stole the betting book. You should have told me then.”
“I couldn’t.”
“Why? Because then you’d surely lose the chance to secure a wealthy heiress? You knew if your involvement ever got out that no self-respecting woman would dare attach herself to your title!”
“That is not why I didn’t tell you, Ophelia. I did not plan to marry any of the women on that list,” Avondale admitted in a low voice. “Wedding for wealth was never my objective. After the list was found and placed in the betting book, after I met you, everything changed. I could not stomach the thought of you loathing me. I did not want you to look at me like that was all I was—a devil—as you are doing now.”
Ophelia rubbed her temple. An ache was beginning to form at the center of it. She was beyond hearing any more lies. Every minute in his company made her heart pound harder, ache more. “I want the ring back,” she demanded, holding out her palm.
His jaw clamped tight, and he took a step back. “No.”
“I want the ring back, Avondale!”
He shook his head.
Rochester growled, “Avondale, don’t make me blister your ass. Give back whatever trinket you have of Ophelia’s.”
“Not happening.” Avondale retreated another step. “Ophelia, don’t do this. I love you.”
Her lungs contracted. Painfully.
“I will ask only once more,” she hissed.
“The answer will remain the same. I love you. Don’t do this.”
“Fine!” Ophelia snapped, pivoting on her heel. “Don’t give it back. Just be the fortune-hunting rogue that you are, and never darken my door again.”
Chapter 20
Ophelia paced the length of the drawing room, stealing glances at the betting book, which rested on top of the piano. How she longed to give in to the fervent urge to destroy the cursed book. Her fingers itched to rip out the pages or, better yet, reduce them to ashes. But this was far bigger than her—far bigger than the pain that continued to burn low in her chest. The book and the wagers contained within had forever changed the lives of six women, not just her own.
She glanced at the clock. Mere hours had passed since she’d arrived home and ordered Charles to deny Avondale entry or she’d bash his skull with a candlestick. Directly after that, she had penned five missives and dispatched them hastily with five footmen.
Ophelia hadn’t given herself time to think about her exchange with Avondale. Not yet. By some miracle, she hadn’t fallen completely apart in Avondale’s presence or on the way home. She was holding together now because she knew that it was long past time for her to share the truth with the other women on the list. That, and she wanted—needed—to be rid of the book.
The first to arrive was Lady Phaedra, a petite woman with warm eyes and an easy smile. Second to breeze into the drawing room was Lady Theodosia, tall and beautiful, her sharp gaze alert.
Ophelia’s gaze traveled to the third guest, Lady Selena, who looked so much like her brother, Earl of Saville, that Ophelia felt a new burst of anger at the man. This was his sister.
Next was Lady Harriet, ethereal and fairylike, now the Marchioness of Leeds. Ophelia felt a pinch of pity that this woman had had to be married off because of Avondale and his friends. Last to arrive, the shapely and self-assured Lady Louisa Talbot flounced into the room with an optimistic stretch of her lips.
“Thank you for coming,” Ophelia announced when they all were settled with a glass of port, sandwiches spread out on a tray before them.
This occasion did not call for tea and cakes. It called for brutal honesty and wine to wash it down. And with a generous swallow of port, Ophelia relayed all that had happened the past week. From learning of the wagers to stealing the betting book and discovering who was responsible for the list. She left out the intimate details of her encounters with Avondale, but she did admit he had been a great distraction—thus the reason she hadn’t informed them about the list until now.
They all listened with great care. Selena in particular, who pinched her lips upon hearing of her brother’s involvement.
“I beg your pardon?” Lady Phaedra interjected. “Did you say unfavorable traits?”
Ophelia nodded. “Or what Warrick, Deerhurst, and Saville consider to be our greatest flaws, at least.”
“I still cannot believe their nerve,” Lady Louisa said, shaking her head. “This is why Papa wishes to marry me off?”
Ophelia nodded. “I’m afraid so.”
“And this is why mine already married me off to Leeds,” Harriet confirmed. Her eyes narrowed. “My husband told me about the wagers, but he said nothing about other heiresses.”
“Perhaps he did not want us to band together and stand up against the marriage,” Selena said darkly.
All the women nodded in agreement.
Ophelia sighed heavily. Leonora had been right. She should have told these women the moment she had gotten the book. Precious time had been wasted. Had she not been so occupied by Avondale and his silver tongue, she would have made sure to inform them much sooner—before Leonora had pushed her to do so.
Avondale’s face made an appearance in her mind’s eye, and she shook her head to clear the vision. He was becoming harder to shake off, but there would be time for that later. For this hour, she had to help these women as best she could.
Lady Phaedra scowled. “So that is why more men are entering the race for my dowry.”
Lady Selena nodded. “I cannot believe that reprehensible brother of mine! And he is sorely mistaken if he thinks that list will make me choose a husband faster. If anything, my resolve to perish as an old maid is firming by the second.”
“Mine as well,” Lad
y Theodosia said ominously.
“I shall not stand for this!” Lady Phaedra leaped to her feet to pace the length of the drawing room. “This is beyond pale!” She whirled on Ophelia. “Where is the book now?”
Ophelia rose to retrieve the bundle from the piano. She lifted it to them. “This is it.”
Identical expressions of awe drifted to the book held in Ophelia’s hand, and she placed it on the table before them. They stared at the book, but no one reached for the binding, as though just touching the cover would cause the greatest calamity.
“It seems so innocent lying there,” Lady Louisa murmured.
“Do not be fooled by its outer appearance,” Ophelia said. “Inside resides a world of debauched scrawls.”
“Is someone going to open it?” Lady Harriet asked. She stared at the infamous book with a mixture of intrigue and dread. “It seems almost too sacred to touch.”
Ophelia sank into the settee. “I should warn you,” she began, “the wagers, the list—they do us no favors.”
“I am prepared. Open the book. We must see what those wretched men have to say about us,” Lady Phaedra said.
Lady Theodosia nodded in agreement. “The time has come for our illusions to shatter, I think.”
“I agree,” Lady Louisa murmured.
Lady Selena and Lady Harriet nodded in agreement.
Ophelia inclined her head. “Then so be it.”
Lady Phaedra reached for the book, tracing a finger over the spine before flipping the binding open. Collective breaths were held and expelled when the pages were flipped to an unfortunate spot on the list. They all peered at the page. All except Ophelia, who knew the content by heart.
Lady Theodosia was the first to gasp, her cheeks turning vermillion. “Satan eyes?” she screeched, and Ophelia grimaced. “Why, those bastards! I will send them all to hell, I will!”
“They do say that you have childbearing hips,” Lady Harriet murmured, her brows puckering.
“Yes, right next to the word wealthy as though it had been an afterthought,” Lady Theodosia snapped. Her finger ran over the content of the list. “I want their heads on a pike, each and every last one of them. They listed dowry as all of our perks. Unoriginal rat bastards.”
