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Farewell to her pose of indifference; she cast it off without a second thought. She might not know much more about him, but she did know she wouldn’t rest until she’d found him.

Chapter Six

“Joan!” Mariah flew up the stairs of the Bennet house, waving a greeting to Lady Bennet, her Aunt Marion. Joan’s mother was her mother’s older sister, and she and her cousin had been close all their lives. Now that Mariah was back in London, they had been coming and going like sisters in each other’s homes. Lady Bennet waved back, her only reproof a quick shake of the head. Mariah slowed to a walk until she reached the top of the stairs, at which point she hurried on again. Her heart fluttered against her ribs like a bird straining out of its cage, wanting to be free to soar. “Joan! Where are you?”

“Here.” Her cousin appeared in the doorway of her room, head cocked. “What’s the matter? You know I’ll hear from Mother about all the shouting...”

“Never mind.” Mariah pushed Joan back into the room, closing the door behind her. She leaned against the wall, breathless with excitement and exertion. “Joan, we must find him!”

“Him?” Joan’s eyebrows went up. “You don’t mean... Harry?”

Mariah nodded, hands clasped to her breast. “Harry.” She, too, whispered the name. Which was absurd, because no one could hear them or would have the faintest idea what or whom they were talking about. Her mysterious visitor was a complete and utter secret, only between her and Joan. And a wonderful, romantic secret, too. The idea made her giddy.

“Why?” Joan took her by the shoulders, serious for once. She peered closely at Mariah. “Have you taken a fever? You look flushed.”

Mariah seized her hands and laughed. “No doubt! Oh, you’ll never guess...” She trailed off, thinking again of how he had scaled the wall to her bedroom to see her, like a knight of old braving the sleeping dragon to court the fair princess. The very thought was enough to make her hands tremble and her stomach feel fluttery.

“Well, tell me!” Joan exclaimed. “What happened?”

“He came to see me last night.”

Joan frowned. “He did? But then you know who he is.”

Mariah shook her head. “I didn’t see him. It was very late. And very dark. I was almost asleep when he climbed in the window.”

Joan’s mouth opened as if she would scream, but no sound came out. Mariah nodded. “He came into your bedroom?” Joan whispered incredulously.

Mariah nodded again, spinning away from the wall in a dreamy waltz step. “Yes, indeed.”

“In the middle of the night?” Joan followed, eyes still leaping from her head. “That’s scandalous!”

She stopped. “Of course not! Don’t even say such a thing.” She softened her stern tone. “He never came near me. A perfect gentleman—well, aside from the fact that he was in my bedroom at midnight—but Joan! It was so romantic,” she said on a sigh. “And I could have talked to him all night.”

Joan sat on the chaise with a thump, still stunned. “Like a knight rescuing a fair maiden,” she said, echoing Mariah’s thought. “Like Romeo risking his life to see Juliet. Do you know, I believe I’m quite jealous of you for the first time in my life.”

Mariah laughed. “You should be! I feel like I could fly! Or at least run through the streets laughing and singing. I think I’ve never been really alive until now.”

“You’re in love.”

Mariah snorted. “No. I don’t think so. Not yet. But I am well and truly infatuated.” Both laughed.

“That settles it. We must find him.” Joan crossed the room to her writing desk and sat down, rummaging in the drawer until she took out her journal and opened it with a determined air. “As soon as possible. How intolerable that you still don’t know his name.”

Mariah twirled around again, then threw herself onto her cousin’s bed. “I quite agree. Where shall we start?”

Joan dipped her pen in the inkwell, ready to write. “What do you know about him?”

Mariah sighed, sadly this time. “Nothing. He might be a Whig for all I know, although I didn’t ask—it was bad enough to receive a gentleman at night, let alone if he were a Whig gentleman⁠—”

“Bother all that,” Joan interrupted. “What do you know about him? How tall is he?”

Mariah frowned up at the canopy, thinking of his shadow against her window. “Half a foot taller than I am, I think. Perhaps a little more.”

Joan wrote it down. “Hair?”

“Yes.”

“Mariah,” Joan grumbled.