By the time they reached the small house she shared with her maid of all work, the disapproving White, the sun was indeed rising in a leaden London sky. Dawn was painting gray light over the city that was bustling back to life. Securing her hat and veil, she began to descend from the carriage.
“Miranda, wait.”
Rhys’s soft call had her turning back to him.
“You forgot something.”
Her brow furrowed. “Oh?”
What could it be? She had everything she had brought with her the night before, down to her reticule and gloves.
“This.” He moved toward her swiftly, flipping back her veil and taking her lips in a kiss that left her breathless. “I’m going to call on you later today.”
“Rhys,” she protested. “You can’t.”
It was far too risky. Too obvious.
“Of course I can. Please, darling. For once, I want to call upon you like an ordinary suitor. We can have tea and be boring, and I won’t even talk about your nipples.”
She laughed, charmed in spite of herself. And tempted too.
“I don’t think it would be wise,” she hedged, worrying her lower lip.
Rhys kissed her again. “To the devil with wisdom. I want a normal afternoon with you. There is no school today to otherwise distract or keep you from me. Say yes.”
Miranda hesitated.
“Please.” The boyish smile of hope he gave her melted her heart.
“Very well,” she relented before she could think better of her capitulation. “Yes.”
“Thank you.” He kissed her once more. “Until later, kitten.”
As she turned to go a second time, still dazed, her heart beating far too fast, she thought she saw movement from the corner of her eye. But when she turned in that direction, there was no one there.
Perhaps it had been her veil, tricking her into thinking she had seen someone.
Yes, surely that must have been it.
The Earl of Ammondale’spale gaze was as glacial as his demeanor.
“You’re certain of this?” he demanded, his voice resonating with quiet fury.
Viscount Roberts, whose broken nose had finally healed, smiled at his friend. They were discreetly seated at a private table in their club, enjoying cigars. “I’m certain. I have suspected the Duke of Whitby and the former countess were involved. However, I’ve never been able to witness them together until this morning, just before dawn, when I was traversing her street on my way back home.”
The sight of one Miss Miranda Lenox, former Countess of Ammondale, descending from an unmarked carriage at dawnand being soundly kissed by the Duke of Whitby had been just what Roberts had been waiting for. Ever since his ignominious return to London, with a badly beaten face he’d needed to hide, thanks to the sin of meeting Miss Lenox in the gardens at Wingfield Hall, Roberts had been waiting. Biding his time. Watching. And his patience had finally paid off that morning after several weeks of being thwarted by similar carriages and London traffic.
“I had hoped she would have seen the error of her grievous sins when the Marquess of Waring left for America and she remained here in London,” Ammondale said, his mien grim. “I couldn’t have imagined that she would make herself a whore for another man so soon, particularly given that she began that disgusting little school of cookery. I had hoped she might have a modicum of care for what remained of her reputation, in deference to the damage she has done to my good name.”
“Regrettably, she does not,” Roberts said. “Or else she would not be cavorting with such a despicable rake.”
Ammondale eyed him. “What were you doing out at such an hour?”
“I was returning home from a call to Roberta,” he said, referring to his mistress.
Although, in truth, he had been waiting for the carriage he had seen Miss Lenox get into at her school to return with her in it. As it happened, the process had taken hours. She and Whitby had clearly been enjoying each other’s company.
Roberts had been anticipating his revenge ever since he had been unceremoniously removed from the Wicked Dukes Society. Ever since he had been attacked by Whitby, Kingham, Richford, and Riverdale. Yes, he would gain his revenge. One person at a time.
