Page 62

Several days went by without any sign or word from Harry. Mariah felt at once weighed down and buoyed by his secret. A man did not masquerade, very convincingly, as an elderly man and a secretary without help, nor without a very strong reason. She had plenty of time to think about that and what his reason might be. He might have lied to her, and he might be as scheming and detestable as Joan had said. But in the end, she realized she must choose to trust him, or not, without having any of her questions answered.

And despite those questions, she couldn’t distrust him. She missed his company and the way they talked so easily to each other. She missed his laugh and the tenderness in his touch. When she finally heard the soft scrape and swish at her window again, she threw back her blankets and bounced upright. “Harry!” she whispered in delight.

He rose to his full height and ran his hands through his hair. Cold rain was beating against the window behind him, and it had been the sound of him pushing up the sash that caught her attention. She hadn’t thought he would come to her in a storm, but she was overjoyed he had. “Come in,” she said, scrambling off her bed and grabbing a shawl from the chaise. “You’re soaked!”

He peeled off his dripping wet coat—Mariah could hear the drops hitting the floor—and folded it over the windowsill before taking the shawl she offered. His fingers were like ice when they brushed hers. She gasped. “You’ll catch your death of cold! Why are you out tonight?”

He swung the shawl around himself and slumped against the window frame. “To see you.” Even his voice sounded cold and tired.

“Come by the fire.” She took his hand, but he resisted.

“I cannot stay long.”

Mariah bit her lip but didn’t argue. Her teeth were chattering, thanks to the cold breeze through the window, so she rummaged inside the wardrobe for another shawl and waited for him to explain.

“I’ve missed you,” he said instead.

Warmth filled her heart. “I’ve missed you as well.”

He shook his head and smiled. The fire gave off just enough light for her to make out his expression. “You undermine all my intentions to stay away. You should be out dancing with proper gentlemen, not wishing a scoundrel would come see you.”

“But the scoundrel is more interesting than all the gentlemen put together.” She pulled her dressing table chair closer to him. He was still leaning heavily against the windowsill, and Mariah could sense that his good cheer was somewhat forced. “Why are you out in this weather?”

He wiped his face with one corner of the shawl. “No very good reason, it seems.”

“Why not?”

Instead of making light of her question or refusing to answer, Harry simply gazed at her. As Mariah’s eyes adjusted, she could see him better. His hair was slicked back from his face, his cheekbones thrown into high relief by the flickering firelight. Water trickled from his wet hair down his throat, running across his skin and melting into the collar of his soaked shirt. She tried not to stare at that little stream of water.

“It’s difficult to explain,” he finally said. “I hope your evening was more enjoyable.”

“We went to the theater,” she told him, changing the subject to something other than the cares that seemed to have worn him down tonight. “It was a fine performance, although my cousin, Joan—Miss Bennet—thought it was silly and whispered the most awful things in my ear the whole evening. Joan is dreadful, capable of making sport of nearly anything. And the worst of it is, she does so with such humor, I cannot help but laugh at what she says.” She paused. “Do you enjoy the theater?”

A wry smile curled his mouth. “Yes.”

“I think it’s wonderful. I would go to the theater every week, but Papa says we might not return for a while.”

“Why is that? Does he not share your enthusiasm?”

“No—yes—that is, he likes it well enough. But near the end of the performance tonight, some people in the gallery stood and began shouting. They tossed handbills into the air and caused a commotion. Papa was upset.”

Harry lifted his head. “Why?”

Mariah flushed. “They were handbills in support of the Queen. Some in the audience cheered as they were thrown about. Joan caught one when Papa wasn’t looking.”

It was difficult to avoid the fuss over Queen Caroline, who was rumored to be returning to England any day now. Her marriage to the Prince of Wales, now George IV, had been disastrous from the start. After being separated from her only daughter, Princess Charlotte, and pushed out of London society, Caroline had gone abroad to Italy, where she apparently was very scandalous. Mariah had heard, by eavesdropping on her parents, that the king had been hoping to divorce her for years, to no avail. But now George was king, and Caroline was agitating to be crowned queen. George was furious, but all his attempts to get rid of his unwanted wife had made her far more popular with the people than he was.

“Does your father sympathize with the Queen?”

“Papa?” Mariah asked in surprise. “No, of course not. He’s a Tory, you know. I think he was angry at the way the Queen’s supporters behaved, ruining the play. Papa feels the people should respect the dignity of the King, even if they do not like him.”

Harry’s gaze sharpened. “Then he believes they have good reason to dislike the King?”

“He knows they do dislike the King, whether the reasons are good or not. Papa has always been more of a diplomat, used to dealing with the way people are instead of the way they should be.” She gave him a puzzled look. “Why?”

Harry just shook his head. “Does he support the King’s divorce?”

Mariah rolled her eyes. “No one supports the King’s divorce except the King. Even I know that.”