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For a moment there was a shocked silence. Mariah glanced over her shoulder to see her father staring at her with his mouth all but hanging open. Lord Wroth—Harry—was as still as stone. Then he gave a wheezing laugh.

“Good gracious, gel, such a start you gave my old heart. What a thought! An old scoundrel like me paying court to a young lady like yourself!” Wroth patted her hand rather condescendingly, then turned to her father. “No insult intended, good sir. It was a momentary breath of youth again, speaking to such a lovely child, but of course I’m much too old for her.”

“None taken, sir,” her father said in a strangled tone. “Mariah, do come here.”

Mariah refused to let go of Wroth’s arm. “But you did say you enjoyed speaking with me, sir, and I would very much like you to call! Please say you will.”

He chuckled again, his eyes flickering toward her father. “That is very kind of you, but I would not wish to impose. Every young man in London will wish my other foot in the grave, if I should take up your time.”

In desperation, Mariah turned to her father, beyond caring what he thought of her sanity. She was holding onto Harry’s arm—she was sure she was—and she would not let go until he agreed to call on her. “Oh, no! It would be delightful, wouldn’t it, Papa?”

Of course he couldn’t say no. With a very strange expression, Papa inclined his head. “Yes. Of course.”

For a moment Lord Wroth didn’t move. Then he coughed. “It would be my honor.” He eased his arm out of Mariah’s grasp. “Good day to you, sir, Lady Mariah. Until another day.” He bowed again, gingerly, creakily, like an old man, and hobbled off, leaning on his cane.

Mariah watched him closely, looking for any trace of youth in his departing figure. She could see none. A shadow of doubt clouded her mind. She was still sure she was right—probably—although if not, she had just made a spectacular fool of herself.

“Mariah?” Her father took her chin in his hand and tilted her face up to his. “What happened? I’ve never seen you so...” He frowned in worry. “So overset.”

She managed a smile. “I am a little light-headed. The sun is very bright.”

“Let us return home then.” He tucked her hand securely around his arm and led her slowly in the direction of Doncaster House. “Lord Wroth was very startled by your declaration.”

I’ll wager he was, she thought in silent satisfaction. If she was right, she had just seen through a disguise that had all of London fooled. But why? Why would a young man masquerade as an old one? Was he a spy after all? For whom? And why on earth was he posing as an old man and working as a secretary?

But that was how he had attended their ball. She remembered an old-fashioned shoe, the sort an old man would wear, a shoe that would pinch a young man’s foot. That was how he had avoided her notice that evening, and every evening since; she had been looking for a young man, and like everyone else, had completely overlooked the elderly man. He had thoroughly taken in everyone in society.

Not that she would give him away. She would be as silent as the grave, as she had promised. But here was the answer she had been seeking. A secretary couldn’t call on her, but Lord Wroth certainly could—provided her parents didn’t prohibit it.

“He really is amusing, Papa, when he wants to be. I suspect he believes people are entertained by the crusty old tartar he usually projects⁠—”

“Projects?” Her father frowned again. “Mariah, you must not believe you know the man when you have only spoken to him a few times. Wroth is old enough to be your grandfather! Who knows what he’s really like?”

“Do you know him, Papa?”

His mouth closed into a thin line. “No.”

“But he was invited to our ball last month,” she said innocently. “I remember seeing him.”

His eyes remained straight ahead. “An invitation does not imply a close acquaintance.”

“Oh. Perhaps we will become better acquainted when he calls.”

Her father stopped and turned to face her. “I am not pleased that you encouraged Lord Wroth to call on you. It was not well done of him to suggest such a thing, and it was even more improper for you to respond to it.”

“But he’s far more interesting than any of the men who call on me every day to sit and stare, not just at me but at the furnishings and the art and the china,” she burst out. “Papa, everyone sees me as just an object, something rich and worthy of trying to get, but not because they care about me. Why may I not have at least one caller who listens to what I say and even gives credence to it?”

“I did not say you may not receive him,” countered her father, looking more and more annoyed. “But if he’s thinking to make you one of those young ladies who marry old men, you must know I will never allow it.”

Momentarily forgetting that he had no reason to suspect Lord Wroth was other than he appeared, she gasped. “Not even if I wish it?”

“No,” he said with grim finality. “Not even then.” Mariah could only gape at him. Her father took a firm grip on her arm and led her home without another word.

* * *

Harry let himself into the Fenton Lane house, gasping for air. His lungs burned as if he’d run from the park instead of walking in Wroth’s shuffling gait. Damn it! Why did he have to see her there? And what on earth was she thinking, to force him to call on her?

He threw down his walking stick and stripped off the suffocating coat. With an oath, he pulled the cravat from his neck and kicked off the terrible shoes. He hated Wroth now, hated the old man he must don like a second skin. He faced the terrible likelihood that Mariah had seen right through him. And he’d thought he was safe from her, after extracting her promise.