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And now what was he to do? He’d just given his word to the Earl of Doncaster that he would call on them. Stafford would throw him in Newgate, if not simply transport him. How was he to get out of this?

He let his head fall back against the wall with a sharp crack, welcoming the well-deserved pain. It might prod his brain to produce a solution to the problem, a problem he knew all too well was entirely his own creation. He never should have spoken to her in the first place. He certainly shouldn’t have dared to slip into her bedroom and talk to her not once, but night after night. And he ought to be drawn and quartered for almost making love to her.

He had crept too far out on this limb, and now felt it begin to give way beneath his feet. Unfortunately, if he came crashing down, everyone else would come with him.

He gathered up his discarded clothing and climbed the stairs to his room. He only had a short time to change back into Mr. Towne after shadowing Lord Crane to a botanical lecture in Wroth’s clothing. If Ian hadn’t been occupied driving Angelique, he would have gone in the carriage and not even had the choice of walking home through the park. And he’d walked because it was a fine day, and he knew he would spend the rest of it closed up in Crane’s study. Cursed sunshine, he thought as he jerked his shirt off and hung his head.

Harry pressed his fists to his forehead. “Bloody hell,” he whispered. His sins were catching up to him at last.

Chapter Sixteen

Three days later Harry had his half day free from Lord Crane’s employ. After a minor quarrel with himself, he put on Wroth’s clothing and powder, muttered something to Lisette about reconnaissance around town, and headed out. All too soon he found himself on the doorstep of Doncaster House, his heart thumping and his palms damp. He felt exposed and out of place on the steps, and glanced nervously about; if he were seen by anyone in Stafford’s employ, he’d be sacked before supper. But if he didn’t call on Mariah, who knew what she would do when next they met? Pushing his spectacles back on his nose one last time, he rang the bell and stepped back to wait, hoping she would be out and praying she would be home.

His prayers, and not his hopes, were answered when the butler returned quickly after bearing away his card, to usher him into the drawing room. As he followed the man, he rehearsed what he would say. In the space of a scant half hour, he had to be boring, unfashionable, and dull-witted, everything that would dissuade her from seeking him out again, and cast every possible doubt on her suspicion that Lord Wroth and Henry Towne were even remotely related. Then he would excuse himself and totter off before he made another critical lapse in judgment, something he seemed very prone to doing in Mariah’s presence.

The butler led the way to the parlor and opened the door before him. Harry gripped his cane. “Lord Wroth,” the butler intoned, stepping aside, leaving him no choice but to enter the room. He shuffled forward, keeping his eyes firmly on Lady Doncaster, whose serene smile hid any surprise or displeasure she might feel at his appearance. There were two other men there, who barely concealed their astonishment at his appearance. Harry murmured a greeting, hunkering into a shaky bow. He took advantage of the respite to draw a deep breath, gathering himself, bracing himself⁠—

“Lord Wroth.” Mariah curtsied. “How splendid to see you again.”

And his heart all but stopped in his chest at how beautiful she was in sunlight, her hair gleaming like polished ebony and her gray eyes as fresh and clear as dawn. For a moment all he could do was stare, blissfully, helplessly, idiotically besotted.

“The pleasure is mine,” he heard himself croak.

Mariah beamed. “Do come in.” She stood in front of the small sofa she had been sharing with her mother, the two other callers in chairs near her. Now she came toward Harry and extended a hand toward a second sofa. Harry hesitated a split second, then shuffled over to it. Mariah sat beside him, ignoring her mother’s stern glance and the dismay on the faces of the gentlemen.

“I’m so glad you’ve called, my lord,” Mariah said warmly.

“Well, it was very kind of you to receive me.” Harry gave a wheezy chuckle. “Very flattering, it is, to be welcomed by such lovely ladies.”

“How good of you to say so, sir.” The countess smiled. “Mariah has told me of your kindness to her in the park.”

“It was a trifle—” he began, but Mariah interrupted.

“To me it was not trifling at all! Thank you, sir.”

Harry smiled uneasily. He’d already lost control. “Eh, well, all the better! Not every day I can please a lady without so much as a spot of trouble to myself.” One of the young gents choked back a laugh. Harry grinned, as if he had no idea how rude it sounded.

“Some tea, Lord Wroth?” asked the countess.

He nodded, resting his hands on the cane, propped beside his knee. Tea would be wonderful; he could hold the cup and stir the tea and have something to look at besides Mariah.

He told himself he was glad those other men were here, insulating him. He told himself that as he sipped his tea and watched both Lord Carteret and Lord Whitting maneuver for Mariah’s attention and her mother’s approval. Neither was having great success, he thought, if only because Mariah kept trying to draw him into conversation, and her mother kept trying to divert her from him.

With obvious reluctance, the other gentlemen took their leave. They bowed over Mariah’s hand and flashed charming smiles as they bade her farewell. Harry sipped his tea and tried to ignore them.

Once they were gone, the countess looked at him with determined eyes. “You hail from Scotland, I believe, Lord Wroth? The Lowlands?”

Harry sensed more than saw Mariah prick up her ears, as if he might reveal something. Of course, everything he was about to say was a lie, fabricated by Stafford to mesh with the true, long-dead, Wroth family. “Yes, yes, fair and lovely Scotland,” he answered. “I miss it more each day.”

“Indeed,” she replied. “I often miss our home near York.”

“Ah, that is understandable, madam. True comfort cannot be achieved anywhere but at one’s own hearth and home.”

“Every time I have had the pleasure of visiting the Lowlands, I have remarked on the excellent gardens.”

Harry barely kept from laughing. She’d done him a favor, in some sense; a banal topic he could discuss at great length, if not with great enthusiasm, thanks to Lord Crane. “‘Tis the most beautiful place on earth,” he said, ruthlessly launching into a discussion of horticulture and botany designed to bore everyone within earshot until he could make his escape.

When the butler entered the room a few minutes later to announce Lady Goddard to see Lady Doncaster, Harry seized the excuse. “I must take my leave, madame,” he said, reaching for his cane. He turned to Mariah for the last time. “Lady Mariah, it has been a rare pleasure.”