His forethought only strengthened her resolve—even as it broke her heart.
She left her letter to be posted and went to Grosvenor Square.
The majordomo at the entrance to the Vale mansion had an eye for detail. He had spotted the Warren crest on the carriage as Winnie stepped out of the vehicle, and when she made her way up the steps to the front door, he bowed. Beneath his hair powder, he had a youthful face and kind eyes.
“Lady Warren,” he murmured. “Allow me to announce your arrival.”
She was reminded of the moment she’d held the ruby-and-diamond necklace in her hand at the Yardsleys’ dinner—the warm weight in her palm, the almost-glimmer of the jewels in the darkened parlor. The bittersweet hesitation she’d felt at the loss of that last tangible connection to her mother.
But she could not wring love from a stone. She knew it.
She could not be Lady Warren any longer.
She took a breath and let go.
“My name is Winnie Wallace,” she said. “I need a moment of Her Grace’s time. Only a moment, and then I’ll depart.”
The butler took her in—the expensive column of her dress, the carriage she had emerged from. All these signs and signals by which her identity was read and interpreted. All of it lies.
But she had told the truth, from her own mouth, and that was the best she could hope to do.
He nodded. “Shall I announce you?”
“No.” She took a quick, unsteady breath. “No, I think you’d better not. Thank you.”
He bowed and let her in.
She slipped through the entryway, reticule strings tight in her fingers. She did not see Spencer immediately among the small crush. That was good—it would be better, she supposed, to see him after it was done.
Or not at all.
She found the Duchess of Vale—the woman Spencer had told her would be on their side. The duchess’s tiny form was recognizable even in the crowd of aristocrats. She held a lit cigar clamped between two fingers, and she was gesticulating with it so enthusiastically that a gentleman near her had to shy back for fear of losing his waistcoat embroidery.
“Your Grace,” Winnie murmured softly when she reached the woman. “Could I speak to you privately?”
The duchess blinked up at her. “Lady Warren! I almost did not recognize you without your general air ofdeshabillé.”
This struck Winnie as rather a nice way of saying,Now that you’re no longer covered in bird droppings.
“I am still the same,” she said. “The same woman I’ve always been.”
The duchess linked her arm with Winnie’s as they meandered toward a quieter part of the room. “And where, pray tell, is your husband? The gossip columns suggest he remains glued to your side at all times.” One of her dark brows arched. “Seems promising.”
The words stuck in Winnie’s throat.Not mine. Never.“Somewhere hereabouts,” she said. “Your Grace, I’d like to ask you for a favor.”
“Would you indeed? Tell me more.”
Winnie swallowed. She tugged loose the string of her reticule and reached inside for the acrostic necklace. She pulled it out and handed it to the dowager. “This necklace belongs to Lady Brownbrooke. It’s been… lost for a number of years. If she’s here this evening, would you tell her that someone gave it to you to pass along to her? Not… not Lady Warren,” she said hurriedly. Her voice broke a little on the words. “Just… a woman. A woman named Miss Wallace who found herself in possession of this necklace and spent a long time fearing what would happen if she gave it back.”
The duchess stared at the heavy weight of colored stones in her hand. “I see,” she said. Her keen brown eyes came to Winnie’s face, appraising, and Winnie feared just how much the other woman saw.
“I will return this to Flora,” the duchess said finally. “I will not mention your name.”
“Nor Lord Warren’s?”
“Nor Lord Warren’s,” the duchess agreed. She slipped the stones into her own reticule, which was feathered to match her headpiece. “You have my word.”
It was done then.
