“Good evening to you,” she replied in her deepest, gruffest voice, raising a hand in acknowledgement as she walked on.
When the driver did not question her or stare strangely after her, she allowed herself a morsel of triumph. It wasjustthe encouragement she neededfor what was to come, for that would be the real challenge.
Within a matter of some fifteen minutes, she had made it to the grand Crescent where all the wealthiest of England had their London residences. Ahead of that elegant curve was an ovalpark, for the private use ofonlythose residing on the Crescent. The well-kept lawn glinted with frost, the winter-stark trees standing like yawning sentinels, stretching out tired limbs.
Number four.She slowed her pace as she wandered along the curve, counting the numbers on the doors.
Coming to the right door, she prayed that her sources were correct. After returning inside the Assembly Rooms, she had turned the ceaseless gossip about the Earl of Westyork to her advantage, and no one knew more details about a person than the desperate mothers of theton. One with an unwed daughter of seven-and-twenty was the gossip who had let it slip where the Earl resided when he was in London.
And come morning, he will be inundated. But I doubt anyone would be brazen enough to come tonight.
At least, that was what she was counting on.That, and the fact that the mysterious Earl had not made an appearance at the ball at all, suggesting he had chosen to stay at home instead.
It was a reckless plan, a dangerous plan, and one that could end very badly indeed, but she had no choice: if ever there was a time for her to throw all caution to the wind, it was now, before she found herself with the unfortunate title of Baroness of Hervey. Reeking forever of cigar smoke.
Taking a breath, she headed up the porch steps to the door of number four. Taking another breath, she raised her hand up and, on the exhale, she knocked.
The butler, Mr. Phipps, entered the drawing room with an air of unease, wringing his thin hands. “My Lord, I apologize for the intrusion.” He paused. “I understand the lateness of the hour, and that you are weary from the evening’s exploits, but?—”
“What is the matter, Phipps?” Lionel Barnet, Earl of Westyork, interrupted, before the poor man suffered an apoplexy.
The butler cleared his throat. “There is a… visitor, My Lord. A young gentleman. He is…quiteinsistent that he must see you this evening, though I did try to tell him that it was not at all appropriate. I explained that you were due to retire for the night, and?—”
“Phipps, you do not have to explain. You are in no trouble.” Lionel took a sip of his nightly tea, wondering who on earth would be calling upon him at, admittedly, such a late hour.
The clock on the mantelpiece was not far from chiming one o’clock in the morning.
“Is the man known to me?” Lionel asked, perplexed.
“I do not believe so. Shall I attempt to send them away again, My Lord?” Mr. Phipps replied, looking like he dreaded the prospect.
Lionel took another sip of his tea and rose unsteadily to his feet, grimacing as a dull pain shuddered up his right leg. It always bothered him in the colder months, but it was nothing he could not bear.
“No need, Phipps. You may send him in.”
The butler bowed his head. “Very good, My Lord.”
Walking up and down in front of the settee as he waited, Lionel adjusted to the ache in his leg until it became little more than a distant bother. He did not limp as he once did, but sometimes it took a minute or two for his gait to return to normal.
By the time it had straightened itself out, the unexpected visitor had entered the drawing room.
You…
Lionel stared in quiet disbelief, uncertain of whether or not he could trust his eyes, even with his spectacles. The ‘gentleman’ standing just inside the doorway, head bowed graciously though he had not removed his hat, was no gentleman at all.
How could Phipps be so easily fooled?As far as Lionel knew, the butler still had excellent eyesight. Perhaps, he had not looked much further than the visitor’s attire and hat. Or, maybe, it was because Lionel had seen her so recently, her face freshly etched into his keen memory, that he knew her without doubt.
“Are you aware of the hour?” he asked, deciding to play along for a moment or two, curious to hear what had brought her to his townhouse in the middle of the night. Dressed like that.
“I apologize, My Lord,” she replied in a reasonably convincing tenor. “I am aware, but what I have to say could not wait until tomorrow.”
Lionel wandered over to the fireplace. “It must be very urgent if you would intrude upon a gentleman at such an unsociable time.”
As if to punctuate his point, the carriage clock chimed out one stroke.
“Might you introduce yourself?” Lionel prompted, noting a slight quake in the woman’s shoulders, beneath the greatcoat. He reasoned she had used something to pad the shoulders, though her height was undeniably her own.
The ‘gentleman’ cleared her throat. “I am Martin Thorne, My Lord. Eldest son to the Duke of Lisbret, with the honorary title of Viscount of Peterfield.”
