Page 26

Chapter Seven

Harry bounded up the stairs of the Fenton Lane house two at a time, pulling off Towne’s jacket. Crane had kept him late annotating drawings of the planned hothouse expansion at Brimstow, and now he had only an hour to dress in Wroth’s costume and get across town to the Avery affair, which the Earl of Doncaster was scheduled to attend.

Angelique Martand met him at the top of the stairs. She wore a gown of blue satin that appeared to have been sewn onto her body, but just barely. With a garish blonde wig on her head and her face heavily painted with cosmetics, she looked nothing like a secret British agent and every bit like a cheap

. “Harry,” she said with a smile. “I hoped to meet you tonight.”

“Oh?” Harry stuffed his spectacles into his waistcoat pocket and began undoing the buttons.

“I know you are late. I want but a moment.” She didn’t blink an eye as he continued to strip off Towne’s clothing. “Ian says it is wearing on you, being three people.”

Harry scowled. Angelique’s maid, Lisette, hurried past with a pitcher of water and plucked his discarded clothing from his arms. Harry handed it over without looking away from Angelique. “Ian should mind his own responsibilities and let me mind mine.”

She sighed. “I am not scolding. I know what you feel, and I know you are not a normal man if it does not tax you.”

Angelique would know how it felt. Not only was she posing as Mrs. Smythe, private nurse to the Marquis of Bethwell, she went out on the town in this costume almost as often as Harry went out as Lord Wroth. Of course, she had done this for years and was more accustomed to the demands, but Harry wasn’t about to admit he wasn’t up to it. He gave a careless shrug and said nothing as he untied his neckcloth.

“Do you need a night free?” she went on. “I can pull Alec from his post and send him after Doncaster tonight.”

“Why? I’m fine, just a bit tired.”

Her gaze turned sharp and probing. “Ian said he nearly had to throw cold water on you to wake you this morning, and now you will be out past midnight again. I do not wish to push you too hard. I shall tell Alec he must find a way to accompany Doncaster’s carriage in the future. We must have a plan in case you find yourself mortal once more and require a night’s sleep.” She said the last with a perfectly straight face, but Harry heard the dry humor in her tone.

So he just rolled his eyes. More protest was useless. Angelique was the leader of their group, and however much she liked him personally, he knew she would do what was necessary to complete their mission—including report him to Stafford if she even suspected what he’d done the previous night.

A call from below saved him. Ian had the carriage ready for her. “You’re off to the theater, I presume?”

She gave him a twinkling smile and held out her arms, turning slightly from side to side and setting her skirts swirling around her. “The opera. Bethwell favors the dancers there. How do I look?”

She looked like a Covent Garden whore. Harry grinned, knowing there was likely a knife or two inside her low-cut bodice or a cudgel under her skirt. “Well worth a few shillings.”

She laughed, swatting his shoulder as she moved past him to go downstairs. Harry turned into his room, pulling his shirt over his head and kicking off his shoes. Lisette came in again, laying Wroth’s coat on the bed and pushing a slice of cold meat pie into his hand. Harry made an indistinct noise of thanks as he bit into the pie, his first bite to eat in hours.

To call her a maid was an extreme understatement. Whenever something needed doing, Lisette was usually already doing it, swiftly and efficiently. With Lisette’s help, he was dressed in record time, and polished off the pie while she rubbed the gray powder into his hair.

“There, so handsome again,” she said with satisfaction, fluffing up Wroth’s wild mane.

“Mind your hands, impertinent wench,” he said in Wroth’s creaky voice as he pulled on the padded woolen coat and slumped into it. “Be gentle on my old bones.”

Lisette, who was old enough to be his mother, snorted with laughter. “Alons, scoundrel! Off with you. Ian has arranged for a hackney. It should be waiting.”

Harry took the walking stick she held out and winked at her over Wroth’s half-moon spectacles, then clattered down the stairs. In the hall he slowed, letting her open the door for him like a proper servant before shuffling out into the street to the waiting carriage.

He kept a close eye on Doncaster that night at the Avery soirée, trying to get a better feel for the man and his habits on a night when he had only the one man to watch. He had to learn to predict the earl’s actions and judge his moods. He had to pay attention to whom the earl spoke with and the manner of their conversation. And he must be ever mindful of his duty, and not watch the earl’s daughter as much as he could.

When the earl and his family left, Harry followed. He hailed a hackney and gave a direction near Doncaster House, alighting quickly and doubling back to see the family reach the safety of their home. Doncaster appeared an attentive father and husband, giving an arm to both his wife and daughter to help them up the steps. Mariah lifted her face to him and laughed, the sound drifting across the street to where Harry lurked in the gloom, watching until a footman closed the door behind them.

Harry let out his breath quietly. He was done, his duty fulfilled for another night. It was not quite midnight, still early. He could get a full night’s sleep for a change, and not fall asleep on his feet tomorrow.

He took one more searching look up and down the quiet street, then turned and walked into the fog.

* * *

Mariah bade her parents good-night and went to her room in a pensive mood. Lady Avery’s soirée had been entertaining, but not enough to divert her from her thoughts. When Sally had gone, she sat in bed with her knees drawn up under her chin and frowned at her toes. How was she to discover more about Harry?

She’d hoped against hope that she might meet him again this evening. She had pinned a bright smile on her face and sallied forth at her mother’s side, determined to make the acquaintance of every unfamiliar gentleman in the room. She lingered on the terrace until it began to drizzle, then spent a great deal of time strolling slowly around the ballroom and any halfway private alcove where he might approach her, all to no avail. She danced every dance with a different partner without hearing half of what any said to her. But there was no sign—or sound—of him anywhere.

Perhaps I imagined him, she thought. A man with no name and no face who only appeared in the dead of night. Surely if someone else had told her this story, she wouldn’t believe him real. She sighed and rested her cheek on her knees, turning her gaze toward the window.