Lovehad not been a variable he had considered in the equation of his life, but now that he had it—or could have it— everything in his soul clamored to keep it.
He looked around the boudoir, the graceful gray-on-gray damask, the gilt-framed painting on the wall, and the large standing blue and white porcelain Chinese Vase in the corner.
Dark, drapery-covered windows that faced the street and handsome leather furniture were scattered around the room, tall bookshelves packed with tomes contributed to the ambiance of authority and affluence.
“I see aFrederick Wycliffe,” the madame said. “And his chosen companion was a girl named Ginger. I shall go and get her for you.”
As William took a few minutes of his time perusing the shelf, the door finally opened, and the woman stepped inside; beside the madame, this Ginger stood. Aptly named, her hair was a pile of silken red, and while she wore a silk banyan, the diaphanous gown she wore beneath showed a neat and well-shaped red triangle covering her sex.
As above, so below.
“Ginger, is it?” He greeted. “Do you remember a Frederick Wycliffe, Viscount of Marchwood?”
“I do, Your Grace,” Ginger dipped out a practiced curtsy.
“Perfect. I need you to tell me everything he told you, after the necessary deed was done, of course,” William waved. “Where he was going, where he was staying, if he planned to travel, anything important that you can remember.”
The young woman’s eyes shifted while she thought. “I recall him telling me he had a sister who he regrets disappointing, and that he was sorry he had gambled all his family money away. He told me how he had forced her to live with her godmother and that she had to work for a living.”
Those confessions agreed with what he had learned from Bridget, but he needed more. “What else?”
“He mentioned leaving to the coast, but the week after that, he returned to me and said he’d reconsidered that move, and decided he was going to stay in London. He said one man in his old army days had trained him in wrestling and brawling and that he was going to start prizefighting to regain his fortune.”
William’s head snapped back at those words. “Prizefighting.”
“Yes, Your Grace,” Ginger replied.
“Did he mention this old army man’s name?” William asked, hopeful.
“Erm…” Ginger dropped her gaze and William knew she was holding back.
“Need I remind you, the man’s life is at stake,” William pressed. “Tell me this man’s name.”
“ASir Reginald Huffington,” Ginger finally replied. “He said the man was from Gentleman Jackson’s.”
A solid lead. “Thank you,” William nodded. “Anything else important enough to tell me?”
“He mentioned his heart was bothering him and that there was an apothecary in Whitechapel he visited to treat it,” Ginger said. “Regrettably, I do not know the name.”
“You’ve given me enough,” William flicked the hood over his head again. “Thank you, Ginger. Madame, have a good night.”
“I do regret not having you as a customer again, Your Grace, but I do wish you and your new wife all the best in the world,” Madame Maeara said at his back. “I do not suppose I will see you under my roof again?”
William paused, then looked over his shoulder, “Thank you, and yes, you are right, I will not be a patron of this establishment anymore.”
Ducking under the threshold, he headed down and out to his carriage, and when the carriage came around, he hopped inside, plucked his timepiece out, and checked it. “Too late for Gentleman’s Jack’s but not too late for the apothecary.”
After hours of turning and tossing, punching her pillow into a comfortable shape, twisting here and there, Bridget, unable to sleep, sat up and huffed.
“Oh, it is useless,” she sighed. “I am worrying about him too much.”
Slipping off the bed, she donned her housecoat and left the room, taking a lit candle with her, only to sneak into William’s room. The man’s room was the essence of spartan.
There was nothing in here that told her who William was; there were no paintings of his family, no loved memorabilia, no curious baubles scattered around, nothing to tell her who he might have loved or who had loved him.
“Why has he erased every indication of his life before this one?” she asked herself. “I should know more about him than I do at this point. Even if he is my husband, he is still a mystery.”
She sat on William’s cot and pressed her hand to his pillow. Before she could think of it, she’d lain down, pressing her nose into his sheets, inhaling his scent—expensive spice mingled with clean male musk—and it spurred a lick of desire in her breastbone.
