If her plan unfolded accordingly, she would be safe from him forever. His reign of terror upon her and the people of London both would be over within weeks. The next step awaiting her was to alert the police about the trunk Drummond had sent with her from New York and to provide them with the copies she had made of the correspondences within the packet she had delivered earlier today.
But that would wait—hadto wait—until her London performances were complete. She hoped this afternoon’s summons had bought her the time she needed to secure her freedom.
As the carriage rocked to a halt, she peered out the window and realized they had arrived, once more, at the townhouse where she had previously dined. In the hours since his revelation about having a daughter, it had occurred to her she had seen no sign of a child in the home. Not a ball, not a nursemaid, not books.
The driver opened the door to the chilled night, and a gust of wind sent a torrent of rain spraying into the carriage, coating her.
“Begging your pardon, Mademoiselle Beaumont,” said the man tugging at the brim of his hat as he held an umbrella aloft. “The weather is growing worse. If these winds and rains keep up, no one will be going anywhere tonight.”
Suspicion lit within her—was it something the duke had instructed his man to say? An excuse to persuade her to stay the evening? To spend a night in his bed as he had wanted all along?
But a fresh gale of wind gave lie to that fear as it turned the umbrella inside out and tore it from the driver’s grasp. A wall of cold rain pelted her as it blew into the interior of the vehicle.
“Blast!” the drive swore. “Stay here if you please, Mademoiselle.”
The door slammed closed, and she was treated to the sound of more muffled cursing from beyond as he presumably searched for a replacement umbrella. Meanwhile, the wind continued to howl around them, one sudden burst so violent, the entire carriage shook. The unmistakable jingling of tack beyond proved the horses were not particularly pleased by the weather either.
Perhaps it had not been planned, then.
The door swung open once more, revealing the driver’s triumphant grin and the production of a replacement umbrella. “If you do not mind making haste, Mademoiselle? I fear this umbrella will soon meet the same fate.”
Another burst of wind made the edges curl, making her realize she must go or suffer the lashing torrents of rain without shelter. She rose from the bench and exited the carriage with the aid of the driver. Another rush of wind sent raindrops into her face as they made their way up the front walk.
“This is not His Grace’s primary residence, is it?” she managed to ask as they drew near to the door with its lion head knocker.
“Of course not,” said her guide as he led her through a fresh torrent of rain. “This is where he keeps his… This is one of his other residences, Mademoiselle.”
Ah.Just as she had suspected. Thankfully, the brewing storm had disarmed her driver enough that he had almost divulged the complete truth. This small, though elegantly appointed townhome, was not the duke’s residence at all. It was, instead, where he kept what she could only assume was his mistress.
Another burst of wind slapped rain into her face as the driver rapped on the portal, adding to her inner misery. She was the sort of woman he would not invite to his home. She was not his social equal. What had she been thinking, imagining they had somehow grown closer at yesterday’s luncheon? Thinking she knew him?
Calling him Felix?
Her ears went hot, and shame curled in her belly, turning her empty stomach into a sick sea. Of course she was not worthy of dining in his true home. She was an actress. He was a nobleman. She had birthed a child out of wedlock. He was a duke.
It should not make her feel ill, and yet, it did.
The realization felt like a betrayal. How dare he reveal such private and painful details about himself to her? How dare he hold her in his arms as if he cared? How dare he pursue her as he had, and then relegate her to the home where he had brought other women to his bed? And not just other women, she reminded herself. Paramours.
The door opened to reveal the butler. “Mademoiselle Beaumont, good evening. You are expected.”
Of course she was. Grimly, she wondered how manyotherladies had been expected, in just the same fashion.
She thanked her driver and stepped inside, nonetheless, because another burst of wind had assailed them and turned his second umbrella inside out. It would be horribly rude to avail herself of the man’s courtesy and then require him to make the journey to her hotel in this deluge.
The door closed upon the storm, and she handed off her pelisse and hat before following in the butler’s wake as he led her through the entryway and down the main hall. He stopped at the threshold of the salon where Felix—no, Winchelsea—had taken her following dinner. The room with the piano.
Another woman’s piano?
How many others had sung to him from it?
But why should she care? She had no claim on him and had no wish to find herself in his bed. She was leaving London in a matter of weeks, and with the terrible plague of Drummond following her, she could not allow herself to be distracted from her course. The repercussions were far too dangerous.
She swallowed the knot in her throat as the butler announced her. Forced herself to push all hurts and doubts aside. And swept past the butler with athank youand a sweet smile.
Rose Beaumont was firmly in place as she made her way into the room. Johanna might as well have been as far away as New York City in this moment: an entire, vast sea. The duke was on the opposite end of the room, his expression almost severe as he bowed to her. She was dimly aware of the butler excusing himself and the door to the salon clicking gently closed in his wake.
“Good evening, Johanna,” the duke said in his low, delicious baritone.
