Page 56

Mariah frowned to keep from giving anything away. How astonished Mama would be if she knew the truth! “He doesn’t look at me as a wealthy society bride. He just looks at me as a person. He’s interesting, and I am well aware that he’s far too old for me. But you’ve always advised me to heed my heart⁠—”

“Not if it looks toward him,” said her mother sharply.

She bit her lip and looked down. “I have no intention of becoming Lady Wroth,” she said quietly. And it was true; she could never be Lady Wroth because Lord Wroth didn’t exist. She only then realized that her hope of finding a respectable connection of Harry’s had come to naught. His true name was as unknown to her as ever, and even more so: he was an admitted imposter and spy. There was no denying it now.

Her mother seemed to wilt with relief. “I am so pleased to hear that.” She crossed the room and placed her hands on Mariah’s cheeks. For a moment her worried eyes searched Mariah’s face. “I’ve been concerned about you, dearest. Your father and I do so want you to be happy, and yet it seems you are not. Is there something you desire? Are you not pleased with London?”

Mariah felt a flood of guilt, at least equal to the relief her mother must be feeling. She had never kept something like this from her parents. They had always been firm but kind, and she had never been a deceitful child. But this was different, and she saw no way out of the predicament—not one that pleased her.

“I—I am content,” she said at last. “Or becoming content. It seems as though I forgot, or perhaps never really knew, what it’s like to be a Londoner. Everything feels so different since the last time we were here, Mama. I was only sixteen then, and I was different.” She shook her head. “I was a girl then, and now I am not, or at least am less of one. It hasn’t been easy for me to see how gentlemen add up my worth as a bride in the pounds of my dowry and the advantage of Papa’s connections. I know you and Papa have been puzzled by my refusal of so many eligible offers, but I want someone who will want me for who I am. I want someone who will love me, Mama.”

For a long moment her mother was quiet. “I see.”

“I’m sorry to disappoint you, but I want a marriage like yours and Papa’s, with a man I can respect and trust and who will respect and trust me, even if he’s not the most eligible man in town.” She lifted her hands and let them fall. “I won’t marry Lord Wroth, but at least with him I don’t feel as though I’m on parade.”

Her mother’s eyes grew damp. “Oh, Mariah.” She opened her arms, and Mariah stepped into them. Everything she had told her was the entire truth... except that she’d already found the man who fit her requirements. Harry was a spy, an imposter, and a commoner—and she would rather have him than the richest duke in Christendom. Somehow she doubted her mother would be pleased to hear that, though.

“Would you like to come with me, Mama?” she said on impulse. “It’s a very fine day out, and only a few streets to Aunt Marion’s home.” She wouldn’t be able to talk to Joan, but Mariah realized that what had happened today was not something she could tell Joan. In fact, perhaps she could never speak to Joan again about Harry. Before, it had been like a game between them, trying to discover the elusive Harry. Now she saw that there was nothing of a game about it; his safety—his life—might depend on her discretion.

Mama smiled again. “Yes, I think I shall.”

Chapter Seventeen

When Harry returned to Fenton Lane that night, he had a visitor.

Alec Brandon stood in the back of the hall. He was still clad in his footman’s livery, although with a plain black greatcoat instead of the sage green Doncaster coat, and he wasn’t wearing his powdered wig. He might have come to report in with Angelique, but something about the set of his chin put Harry on guard at once.

“Can I have a word, Sinclair?”

Harry paused a moment, then nodded, divesting himself of the longshoreman’s coat. It had been a long day. After his call at Doncaster House, he’d spent the evening following Bethwell on another Whitechapel ramble and had to pull two drunken sailors away from the marquis, getting a bit of a thumping in the process. He had been looking forward to his bed with an almost passionate eagerness. “Of course.”

Brandon jerked his head and went into the small parlor. Harry laid aside his coat and unstrapped the knife from his waist. The hilt had been digging into his ribs all night. Pressing one hand against the bruise already forming, he followed Brandon. “What is it? Something about Don⁠—?”

Brandon’s punch to his gut caught him mid-word. Harry doubled over, his hand instinctively flying to where the dagger would have been. His fingers closed on nothingness, and he slowly straightened, holding his stomach, and met Brandon’s eyes warily.

“Stay away from her.” Brandon kept his fists up and at the ready. “I warned you once before she wasn’t for you. You’ll ruin everything, being led around by your prick!”

Harry didn’t move, not even to blink.

“I heard all about it in the servant’s quarters,” Brandon went on in a growl. “Lord Wroth, calling on Lady Mariah! What a surprise! What could that old fool want with our beautiful, wealthy, young ladyship!”

“Nothing,” said Harry quietly, then more loudly, “Nothing! Damn it, Brandon, I didn’t want to go!”

“Then why were you there?”

Slowly, Harry raised his hands in surrender. He lowered his voice calmingly. “I met her with her father in the park the other day. The earl invited me to call. What was I to do?”

Brandon lowered his fists a little. His eyebrow dipped in suspicion. “Then you have no interest in her? Your word of honor, that you’ve kept away from her and will continue to do so?”

Harry’s expression must have betrayed him, or else Brandon merely wanted to reinforce his warning. He threw another punch that just clipped Harry’s shoulder as he ducked. Harry put up an arm to defend himself and tried to shove the other man away, but his shoulder connected with Brandon’s midsection. Then Brandon slammed him into the wall so hard his teeth rattled, and all cooperation between them was forgotten until a sharp voice cut through the room.

“What are you doing?”

Brandon gave Harry one last shove before he turned to face Angelique. His chest heaved and his face was red. “Nothing.”

She turned to look at Harry, slumped against the wall and holding his side. He gritted his teeth and nodded. “Nothing.”

Angelique rolled her eyes. “I am not so simple to believe nonsense. Stop beating each other and explain.”