Jane rolled her eyes with exasperation. “Reggie, if you would only take the time to know him, you would see he is kind. He has no title, true, but his family is wealthy. He has no need to deceive.”
“Are you certain?” Regina pressed softly. “How do you know his wealth is not a fiction?”
Jane’s expression hardened. “I grow weary of this, Reggie. If you mean to accompany me, then no more of it. I will not argue about Wayne. He is a sweet man, and I am certain he speaks the truth.”
Regina forced a smile. “You are correct. I shall not say another word.”
But even as the words left her lips, she knew them for a lie. She could not, would not, give up…not while there was still time to save Jane.
*
Wayne kept hishat brim low as he strode through the busy street, the collar of his cloak turned up to his ears. Every step felt heavier than the last. He could not shake the sense that eyes were upon him—watching, waiting. He had spent enough years as a Bow Street Runner to know that when one carried a secret, the world seemed to lean closer, eager to steal it.
The Meyers family must not suspect what Wayne was up to. Not yet. Not until he had proof of what the earl was illegally doing.
Wayne slipped through the heavy door of the Bow Street office, pulling it shut quickly behind him. The murmur of London’s morning traffic was muffled, replaced by the familiar chorus within—the scratch of quills against parchment, the shuffle of boots on scuffed wooden planks, the faint scent of smoke, leather, and stale coffee hanging in the air.
For the first time since waking, his shoulders eased. Here, he was among his own. Men who led the same shadowed life he did—half in disguise, half in pursuit, sworn to justice though it cost them comfort, reputation, and oftentimes their very lives. They were more than colleagues. They were a family of another sort, bound by secrets and the streets they patrolled.
“Worthington, I heard you had a rough night.”
The voice cut through his thoughts like a whip crack. Wayne jerked around, pulse leaping, to find Randolph Donley watching him with a grin too sly by half. The older Runner balanced a stack of papers in his arms, his eyes glinting with amusement.
Wayne stiffened, his gut clenching. “Pardon me? And what, pray, are you referring to?”
Donley chuckled, ambling to his desk. He set the papers down with a careless thump, then leaned back against the scarred wood with a familiarity born of long years. Though nearly ten years Wayne’s senior, his wiry frame and quick wit made him seem younger—spry, sharp, and dangerous in his own way.
“You forget, my good man,” Donley drawled, “that we Runners are forever watching one another’s backs. And I happened to be riding past Lord Montague’s estate at an ungodly hour this morning. Imagine my surprise when I saw a lovely lady slipping out ofyourcoach.”
Wayne’s stomach lurched. His head began to pound with renewed force. “And what business had you at Montague’s at such an hour?”
Donley waved a hand, lips quirking. “Do not change the subject. You had a woman with you, Worthington. Admit it.”
Wayne dropped into the chair opposite, his jaw tight. “Describe her.”
For the first time, Donley blinked, then threw back his head with a bark of laughter that drew a few glances from nearby desks. “Good God, Worthington! Don’t tell me you were so foxed you cannot recall your own conquest.”
Wayne’s scowl deepened. “Enough. Answer me, or I will lose all patience.”
Donley smothered the last of his laughter, though his eyes still danced. “Ringlets. Long enough to brush her shoulders. Dark-brown hair that caught the lamplight. A fine gown. That was all I saw before she vanished inside.”
The words struck like musket fire. Wayne shut his eyes briefly, a groan escaping before he could stop it.Regina Taylor.
Although he had wanted to deny it earlier today, hearing this from his friend grounded the truth in Wayne’s mind.
His chest constricted, and for a moment, he feared he might disgrace himself and be sick all over again. Every flash of memory—the warmth of her lips, the scent of roses, the tremor in her touch—collided with the realization ofwhoshe was. Jane’s dearest friend. The very woman who despised him, and yet…she had somehow lain in his arms. Why did that not make sense to him?
He dragged a hand over his jaw, the rasp of stubble grounding him. “Donley, I speak truth. I remember little of last night. I believe”—he hesitated, then dropped his voice—“somehow, a drug was poured into my drink at the tavern.”
The humor drained from Donley’s expression. He leaned forward, forearms braced on the desk. “Drugged? Explain.”
Wayne nodded grimly. “There is no other explanation. I drank but a single glass of port with Harold Meyers. Only one. And yet my mind is in tatters. I do not recall leaving the tavern, and I scarcely remember the ball. I do not know how I returned home at all.”
Donley exhaled sharply, dragging his fingers through his receding hair. “That would explain Spencer’s report. He swore he saw you leave the tavern alone, without Meyers. Odd, since you were meant to shadow him.”
Groaning, Wayne pinched the bridge of his nose. “I have only fragments. Flashes I cannot trust. But I know something is wrong, and I pray that my memory will return soon.”
Donley’s gaze sharpened. “You still believe the earl is tied to the opium trade?”
