Page 50

“I think you should marry a man who deserves you,” he replied after a moment. “You’re not like many other young ladies. Your mother and I have always taken great pride in your poise and insight, your charm and your intelligence. You’re very like your mother, you know. You would be wasted on a country squire, or even a placid duke. You, I think, need a man who will rely on you, who will respect you and appreciate your talents, who will interest you and excite your respect in return.”

“Do you think anyone who has approached you fit those requirements, Papa?”

He thought for several minutes as they crossed the park. Riders cantered along the path across the rolling grass. It was quiet in the park at this hour, almost like being in the country.

“No,” he said at last, sounding regretful and relieved at the same time. “I cannot say I do.”

Mariah breathed a sigh of relief.

“Perhaps I’m too indulgent,” her father said with a wry smile. “I cannot think of anyone I would like to give you to. He will have to be a rare fellow, my dear.”

She thought of Harry and forced a smile. He was a rare man, but probably not in the way her father meant. She wondered just what would happen when the two came face-to-face. She couldn’t see Harry being intimidated by her father, and yet, everyone else was.

They reached Viscount Iverley’s home and were offered tea. Iverley was a bit single-minded, but in a charming way. Mariah poured the tea and listened with half an ear as he and her father argued good-naturedly over Papa’s petition.

She was used to this. She had been privy to more political discussions than she could remember, so many that she’d always assumed she would marry a man in politics, just because she couldn’t imagine life without debates over the Corn Laws or Catholic emancipation. She didn’t find it tiring, although not all of it was engrossing. What would she discuss, she wondered, with the man she eventually married?

She was still thinking about it, trying to form a picture of her future, when they left. Papa was quiet, no doubt pondering the petition or perhaps Lord Iverley’s arguments. Mariah walked beside him and felt for the first time a bit of melancholy for her waning girlhood. She could feel it fading away, and while she looked forward to what life would bring, it was moments like this when she liked being a girl still, able to walk with her father.

“Mariah, I see Silton approaching,” Papa said then. “I believe he wants a word. Do you mind waiting, or should I put him off?”

“No, I don’t mind. I shall walk down to the lake and back.” She smiled and strolled off as Lord Silton strode up, doffing his hat to her.

She wandered slowly down the path toward the water, her thoughts returning to the question of Harry and Lord Wroth. Harry had already told her he was not the younger son of an earl or other nobleman, but he might still have connections to a good family. He must have some level of respectability to obtain his post as Crane’s secretary. Wroth was a kind old man, she told herself, and seemed fond of her the other night. Perhaps if she could discover a link between him and Harry, she could implore him to recognize Harry as his cousin or nephew, and he would. It would help so much if she knew how to find Harry, she thought in frustration.

Just as she was growing impatient to return home and look up Lord Wroth, who but the man himself should come limping around a clump of shrubbery. Mariah stopped and gasped out loud.

Lord Wroth looked up and started, then clapped a hand to his chest. “Eh, goodness, young miss! I might have run you down.”

The thought that an old man with a cane might run her down made Mariah bite her lip to keep from smiling. She ducked her head and curtsied as all her questions and hopes flooded back. “Good morning, Lord Wroth. We met last night.”

He frowned, peering closer at her. “Oh, yes, so we did, much to my pleasure. Good morning. How do you fare this fine day?”

“Very well, sir.” Mariah studied his face intently. “I am walking with my father.”

“What, what?” He tilted his head as if he couldn’t hear her.

“My father,” she repeated. And then the question burst out before she could stop herself. “Sir, I cannot help but think I know a relation of yours. He reminds me of you so strongly⁠—”

“I am sorry to say, you are likely mistaken,” he interrupted with a heavy sigh. “All my family are dead. My wife and sons fell to the consumption, thirty years ago. ‘Tis a sad thing to find oneself alone at the end of life, my child.”

“Of course,” she said quickly, wishing she hadn’t said anything. He did look somewhat like Harry, but it might be coincidence, or even just her imagination. It was hard to say now, while Lord Wroth’s face sagged into lines of sorrow and his gray hair fell around his temples.

Lord Wroth coughed and groped in his pocket, drawing out a large handkerchief to blot his face. “How kind you are. I miss them still.”

“Mariah, are you ready to return home?” Papa had come up behind her. “Ah. Wroth.”

Lord Wroth’s eyes moved past her to her father. “Good day, sir. And to you, my lady.” He glanced at her again, a sad, polite smile on his mouth, and bowed, his head cocked slightly to one side.

Mariah’s eyes widened as some faint memory caught and held, of Harry bidding her good-night before slipping out the window, only visible in silhouette, his head dipping a little to one side. Her mind whirled.

Harry wasn’t a relation of Lord Wroth’s. No, indeed—Harry was Lord Wroth.

It was all a disguise.

Before Wroth could move more than a step away, she leapt forward and latched onto his arm. He started but kept them both upright even though she had all but jumped on him.

“A moment, Papa,” she said, frantically searching Lord Wroth’s face, now very close to her own. It was spectacularly unlined for a man of his age. And his eyes—his hazel eyes—so sharp yet so opaque behind his spectacles. Her fingers tightened convulsively on his arm—not the bony, frail arm of an elderly gentleman, but the firm, well-muscled arm of a young man who could scale ivy-clad walls at midnight. “Lord Wroth has asked permission to call on me,” she blurted out. That strong arm tensed under her grip. “And I have consented.”