six
TWO YEARS HAD passed since Royston had been awarded a title, and he’d learnt something important. A title and some nice clothes hadn’t changed him.
Deep down, he was still the same man from the gutter who had grown up in a brothel and made a living as a cat burglar. Also, his new peers had taken enthusiastically to the fact the queen had bestowed upon him the title of Baron Wharton, a title he’d never wanted but had to admit was convenient. Most of the time.
Invitations to the opera, dinners, and balls flooded his letter tray. Invitations he mostly declined, which, instead of discouraging the peers from inviting him, made them even more insistent. That night, he’d accepted Lady and Lord Redvers’s invitation because they’d been particularly insistent, especially the lady.
He suspected his large fortune, granted as a reward for his courage, the queen’s praise, and his successful steel factory had something to do with his popularity.
He paced in the fancy parlour of Lady Redvers’s house. The room, with its rich brown colours and the grand piano, had a soothing effect on his nerves, but his pulse didn’t want to slowdown. Being among aristocratic people as a supposed equal and not as a servant was something he hadn’t got used to. At least he didn’t feel the urge to rob anyone, which was good, he guessed.
The clock on the mantelpiece informed him that Havisham was late. The earl had requested a quiet meeting at the ball with urgency. Royston wouldn’t stay here all evening. If Havisham didn’t appear in five minutes, he’d leave. He wasn’t the earl’s footman anymore.
As if on cue, the door swung inwards, and Havisham slid inside. “Wharton, apologies. I was delayed.”
“Havisham.” He bowed his head.
Havisham clapped his shoulder. “Thank you for agreeing to this meeting.”
Royston glanced at Havisham’s hand on his shoulder. When he’d been in Havisham’s service, no one had given him pats on the shoulder, and he preferred it that way.
“What did you want?”
Havisham’s expression darkened. “I’m afraid I need your help for a rather delicate matter.”
Royston waited for Havisham to add more, but when the earl didn’t say anything, he prompted with, “Yes?”
Havisham checked the corridor and shut the door. “Do you remember Mrs. Haywood, the woman who was with me the night of the fire?”
Actually, he remembered Miss Haywood better. Her deep, large black eyes were hard to forget, her kindness had left a mark on him, and her sense of humour still made him smile. Miss Haywood had kept him company during his recovery until he’d behaved appallingly with her when she’d asked him to dance with him. After that, she’d vanished.
At first, he’d believed she’d been avoiding him, but even her mother had disappeared, which made him think they’d moved out of London.
There had been rumours about a foreign count, or someone similar, wanting to marry Mrs. Haywood. No one knew for sure. Anyway, in the past two years, he’d received his damn title, had a pompous ceremony at Buckingham Palace, and hadn’t seen Miss Haywood since their last horrible encounter.
“I do remember Mrs. Haywood, Havisham,” he said.
“I guess you also remember why I met her at the Theatre Royal.” Havisham arched his brow.
Royston exhaled. “I do.”
“In the days after the fire, I met her. A few times. Many times. Until she left London.”
He shifted his weight. As Havisham had said at the theatre, he’d wanted Mrs. Haywood as his mistress. “I see.”
“A few months ago, Mrs. Haywood returned to London.”
“Did she?” Royston hid his surprise. So Miss Haywood might be in London as well.
“Yes, but the point is that she isn’t the woman I thought she was. We started our relationship again. Everything seemed normal, until we argued.” He waved a hand. “Nothing important, but that was the moment when I learnt she’d deceived me. She collected some evidence of our relationship.” Havisham lowered his gaze as distress tightened his features.
“What sort of evidence?”
Havisham raked a hand through his hair. “Hard to say for sure. I’m aware she’s in possession of letters and a few compromising photographs we took together during a particularly wild night. She was eager to take those damn photographs.”
Hell. Havisham’s wife was the daughter of a duke. The earl wouldn’t recover from a scandal easily, and the countess was a vindictive woman.
“Is Mrs. Haywood blackmailing you?” Royston asked.
