He pressed the water from his hair, straightened, and returned to the chamber, only to freeze mid-step. Memories struck like musket fire.
The ball. Or rather, the hours before. Penrose had insisted on taking Wayne and four of his male relations to a tavern, all smiles and toasts in honor of the supposed engagement. Wayne distinctly remembered drinking only a single glass of port. Yet his head throbbed as though he had emptied the entire cask.
Something was not right. Why did he feel like this?
He sank onto the bed, elbows braced on his knees, fingers raking through his hair despite the pain it caused. The suspicion took root at once, and his gut clenched around it. Harold Meyers. The Earl of Penrose. Jane’s father. The very man Wayne had been sent to expose. Would the earl truly stoop so low as to drug his daughter’s intended?
Wayne’s mouth twisted bitterly. Of course he would.
As a Bow Street Runner, Wayne had witnessed all manner of cruelty hidden beneath silk waistcoats and polished manners. Meyers was no different. He was merely a lord with deeper pockets and dirtier hands. His dealings in the opium trade were whispered about in the back rooms of taverns, spoken of in shadows, but never yet proved.
Wayne’s assignment was clear: infiltrate the family, gain their trust, and uncover the truth.
But that meant playing the part of Jane Meyers’s fiancé. All Wayne had to do was smile, court Jane…and deceive everyone. Simple—one would think.
The deceiving part weighed heavily on him every day. Jane was too sweet for a world so steeped in her father’s corruption. She was not the sort of woman Wayne usually found himself drawn to, yet she deserved honesty at the very least. And instead, he’d lied.
He scrubbed both hands down his face, cursing softly under his breath.
A flash jolted across his mind, so sudden and so vivid that his breath hitched.
Kissing.He had been kissing a woman so passionately that emotion had replaced the spinning in his head. Her lips were soft and eager, and her hands pressing against his chest had made him tingle like never before. They had been in a coach—his coach, surely—for he recalled the creak of the leather, the sway of the wheels, the scent of spirits lingering between them.
But…it had not been Jane.
His heart lurched. Who, then?
The memory was fragmented, frayed by the fog in his mind. Yet certain details struck with cruel clarity. He could still feel the woman’s delicate hands threading through his hair. The silken brush of her hair against his cheek. The taste of champagne clinging to her lips had made him want to continue.
Wayne’s head dropped into his palms. “God help me,” he muttered.
Never had he been so foxed that his memory failed him entirely. Even at his wildest, he had always known what mischief he had wrought. But now? He could not string the pieces together. Only that he had kissed another woman. Passionately. Recklessly. And whoever she was, she was most assuredlynotJane Meyers.
Bile churned in his stomach. Had someone seen? Had word already spread? Would Jane—or worse, her father—discover that Wayne had been compromised in some lady’s arms?
Or had it all been a fevered dream, conjured by the poisoned wine?
The pounding at his door nearly split his skull in two. Wayne groaned, staggered to his feet, and threw the door open. The boardinghouse’s owner, a tall, thin man with a perpetual smile plastered across his narrow face, stood on the threshold.
“Pardon me, Mr. Worthington, but you have a visitor downstairs,” he said brightly, as though it were not an indecent hour.
Wayne pressed his fingertips against his pounding temple, certain his head would split at any moment. “Please, give my excuses. I have a terrible headache.”
Mr. Hogan, the boardinghouse’s owner, offered a nervous smile. “I would, sir, but the lady insists. She declared she would not take no for an answer.”
Wayne’s gut clenched. “Who is the woman?”
“Lady Jane Meyers. The young lady you are engaged to.”
Wayne groaned aloud, not caring if it betrayed his dread. Of course Jane would come. And if he did not meet her below, she might storm up to his very room, causing the exact disgrace he could not afford.
“Very well,” he muttered. “Tell her I will be down momentarily. I must make myself presentable.”
“Yes, sir.” Mr. Hogan inclined his head and retreated.
Alone, Wayne leaned back against the door and glanced down at his wrinkled clothes. Whatever had transpired last evening, he had not possessed the strength to undress. Shame prickled at his neck.
He stripped quickly, dragging fresh garments over aching limbs. A comb through his hair and a clean cravat did little to improve his pallor, but he dared delay no longer.
