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Someone moved aside, and he caught sight of Alec Brandon, lying on his side, his face covered with blood. His footman’s wig had fallen off, and his entire head was scarlet with the blood that pooled under his cheek.

Good God.

Harry was still standing there, stunned, when someone took his arm. “Come,” Stafford muttered, pulling him away.

“Brandon,” he said, resisting.

“I’ll see to him.” Stafford pushed him toward a nearby carriage. “There’s nothing you can do. Are you hurt?”

“No. Is he dead?” Harry demanded.

Stafford hesitated, glancing back before pushing Harry through the open carriage door. “I think not. They are calling for a doctor. Go back to Fenton Lane. Angelique will meet you there.”

Harry leaned out the window, trying to see Brandon again.

“Sinclair.” Stafford’s firm tone recalled his attention. “Well done,” said his employer. “I’ll inform you as soon as possible. Go,” he called to the driver as he slammed the door closed.

As the carriage lurched forward, away from the mayhem and confusion and cries still filling the street, Harry scrambled to the other window and caught one more glimpse of the earl, embracing Mariah. She was pale, but seemed otherwise unhurt, on her feet and moving about. Thank God for that much.

But Brandon... The crowd around him had only grown, and the expressions were grave. Harry’s elation was poisoned by fear. What had happened to Brandon?

Belatedly the shock of it bore down on him. He kept seeing that lone puff of smoke above the coach, the unsuspecting look on Mariah’s face as she turned to climb back into the doomed coach, the blood running down Brandon’s face. He heard the terror in Doncaster’s voice as he called Mariah’s name. Too late. He had almost been too late.

He bent over until his forehead touched his knees, his hands shaking uncontrollably, and didn’t look up until the carriage reached Fenton Lane.

Chapter Twenty-Six

I will never allow it.

Her father’s stern words echoed in Mariah’s mind as she made her way to the servants’ rooms. Of course Papa didn’t know the truth about Lord Wroth, but she didn’t think that would matter. Would he be more likely to approve if he knew Lord Wroth was really Harry, a nameless young man of no standing? Not if she knew her father at all. If Lord Wroth were what he seemed, Papa might at least expect her to be left a widowed Lady Wroth in fairly short order. But she could be married to a poor young fellow for a long time, and she didn’t think Papa would find that any more acceptable, even if that young fellow had saved her life.

That meant it was up to her to do something. Harry was the man she wanted, and she had been raised to get what she wanted. Since she wouldn’t get him if he came to call and asked her father in the usual, proper, way, she decided it was time to resort to other methods. Sneaky and even underhanded methods, but infinitely more likely to succeed.

The uproar of the previous two days had died down only a little. Footmen were now standing at every door of the house that wasn’t barred and chained shut, and members of the Coldstream Guards were on the grounds, at her father’s request and the government’s agreement. Her parents were badly shaken; Mama had insisted that Mariah sleep in her dressing room that first night, with the door open and Sally on the floor, even though she hadn’t been hurt beyond a cut on her temple and some bruises. The servants flitted around with frightened expressions and hushed voices, as if more bombs might be tossed through a window at any time. Papa was closeted in his study again with government men, and this time their air was angry as well as alarmed.

He hadn’t been hurt when the carriage exploded beside him, much to Mariah’s and her mother’s relief. A footman named Jameson had dragged Papa to safety, shielding him with his own body.

Just as Harry had done when he threw himself on top of her.

Mariah rapped at a narrow door at the end of the long corridor. “How is he?” she asked when a maid opened the door.

The maid shook her head. “Resting, my lady. The doctor was here not half an hour past.”

Mariah stepped into the darkened room, which had the still, apprehensive feel of a sickroom. She looked at the figure lying propped up in the bed. Jameson had been hit on the head by a splintered piece of the carriage axle, and the doctor told her father it was a miracle he survived at all. “You may go,” she told the maid. The girl nodded and slipped out, drawing the door closed. Mariah pulled a stool close to the bed and sat down, watching him intently.

“Mr. Jameson?” He turned his head, fixing startlingly blue eyes on her. “I hope you are feeling better,” she began awkwardly.

A bitter smile bent his mouth. “Tolerably,” he said.

Mariah flushed, feeling as though she’d somehow insulted him. “I can never thank you enough,” she said softly. “For saving my father. It was... heroic. It was more than heroic.” She wet her lips. “You and Harry both.”

He said nothing, just looked at her with unnerving directness. She resisted the urge to squirm. “I must find him,” she went on. “Harry. Can you tell me how? What is his true name? Where does he live? If you could help me at all, I... I would be forever in your debt.”

He made no response.

Mariah bit her lip and forged on, aware that she was pleading, and that she would sink to begging if necessary, just before she got to bribery and blackmail. “I know you’re not just a footman. I know he’s not just a secretary.” Jameson showed no response to anything. “I love him,” she blurted out, unable to keep the desperate longing from her voice. “Please help me.”

The small window under the eaves admitted a little sunlight. It fell across his bandaged head, the dark hair cut short to allow his footman’s wig to fit. She wondered who he really was. What had made him pose as a footman, then throw himself in front of a bomb to save her father? That wasn’t the act of any mere footman, no matter how loyal.