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Whatever his true purpose, Harry’s must have been the same, for Lord Crane. That was why he’d worked for the viscount. And if not for Harry, she would be dead now.

“You’re a fool, my lady,” Jameson said at last.

Her blush was painfully hot. “Perhaps. Please help me.”

He looked away, turning his face to the ceiling again. “Fenton Lane,” he said in a low voice. “Number twelve.”

“He lives there?”

A long moment of silence. “You can reach him there. Send a message on plain paper.”

“Plain paper,” she repeated. “Should I address it to Harry?”

“To H. S.” A frown came and quickly went. “An answer may not come immediately. If he answers at all.”

“H. S.” At last—an initial! Impulsively she clasped Jameson’s hand. “Thank you,” she said fervently. “Thank you.”

His fingers twitched in hers before he pulled free without another word, his expression closed, and he turned away from her. Feeling dismissed, Mariah slipped from the room, forgetting any pique in her excitement.

“Fenton Lane, number twelve,” she repeated over and over to herself as she hurried through the house to her room. At last, she knew how to contact him, a way to find him.

If he answered, Jameson said. Of course he would answer her. She simply couldn’t conceive of Harry not answering. He loved her, she loved him, and now that he was a bona fide hero, there was nothing at all to separate them—save, perhaps, her father, which was why she was taking drastic action.

Back in her room, she rummaged through her desk until she found a sheet of perfectly plain paper. Why plain paper? she wondered. Would any special marking cause the letter to go astray? For a moment she tapped the end of her pen on her chin. Now, what to say...

It mustn’t give too much away. Jameson had only said she could send a message to him. That could mean someone was opening and reading letters first. She wasn’t about to pour out her heart for a stranger to read, particularly a stranger who might not be all that sympathetic. Harry had said he was breaking the rules to see her, and the last thing she wanted was to cause him trouble. But it must be specific enough that he would know who sent it, and what she meant by it. After a few false starts, she thought it was good enough.

Dear H⁠—

I have something of the greatest importance to tell you, if you would be so kind as to return to our usual meeting place at the usual time.

—M

Now she only had to have it delivered. She folded and securely sealed the note, writing the direction on the front. Her parents would know if she had one of their servants take it. How did one deliver secret messages?

She decided to go ask Joan. Even if Joan was no help, visiting her cousin would at least let Mariah work off some of the nervous energy bubbling inside her. She slipped the note into her reticule and headed for the Bennet home, this time with a muscular footman at her side as well as her maid.

“Mariah! We were so worried when we heard the dreadful news!” Aunt Marion swept her into her arms the moment she arrived. “Your father? Your mother?”

“Both are well. Papa was unharmed almost entirely. Mama will recover from the fright, in time.”

“Not quickly, I should think.” Aunt Marion studied her, taking in the cut on her temple. “And you, dear?”

“My dress was thoroughly ruined and I lost one of Mama’s pearl earrings, but I’m unhurt, as you see.” She made herself smile. Behind her aunt, Joan grinned back with a relieved expression.

“That is very good news. Your mother sent me word of the incident and that you had both returned home, but nothing more.” Aunt Marion shook her head, embraced her once more, and then released her to Joan.

Joan, of course, wanted to know every detail, and Mariah obliged, leaving out only the identity of the man who had burst from the crowd and shielded her from the exploding wreckage of her father’s town coach. She had promised not to tell anyone about him, not even Joan, and if she mentioned him in any way, her cousin might guess what she planned to do.

She hadn’t spoken a word to Joan about him since that disastrous day in Lady Plympton’s garden, and Joan hadn’t asked, but her cousin likely guessed exactly what was going on, from the odd pursing of her mouth as Mariah revealed that she’d discovered where to contact Harry and wanted to send him a message.

“Are you certain?” Joan asked, completely serious for once. “About him, even after... ?”

Mariah took a deep breath. She’d thought long and hard on everything about Harry and what he’d done. He had never hurt her; he had never coerced her. She still didn’t know all the answers, but she knew she could trust him with her life. “I am.”

For a moment it seemed her cousin would protest; her forehead wrinkled and she appeared to be biting her lip very hard. “But he was⁠—”

“Yes.”