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Documente Profesional
Documente Cultură
Hawthorne House
A Lady of Esteem (novella)
A Noble Masquerade
An Elegant Façade
An Uncommon Courtship
An Inconvenient Beauty
Haven Manor
A Search for Refuge*
A Defense of Honor
*e-novella only
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_Hunter_ADefenseOfHonor_JV_djm.indd 3 3/6/18 3:13 PM
on-
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval
system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—for example, electronic, pho-
tocopy, recording—without the prior written permission of the publisher. The only
exception is brief quotations in printed reviews.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, incidents, and dialogues are products
of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to
actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Scripture quotations are from the King James Version of the Bible.
18 19 20 21 22 23 24 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
And to Jacob,
for always making me feel like
I have a place to belong.
London
1816
The room fell into an unfocused blur until a flash of green near
the terrace doors caught Graham’s attention, making him blink
furiously to bring everything into focus.
When he finally got the terrace doors to settle into their crisp
lines of windowpanes and heavy drapery, no one was there. At
least, no one wearing the shade of green he knew he’d seen a mo-
ment earlier.
The doors were closed, keeping the revelers sheltered from the
unseasonably cold night, so where had the person come from?
Had she gone outside? Was she coming back in?
“What is your opinion of her, Wharton?”
Graham pulled his gaze from the windowed doors lining the
far wall and glanced at Sherrington’s raised eyebrows. With a tilt
of his head, Graham tried to appear deep in thought. And he was.
Only he was trying to come up with a statement that wouldn’t
reveal he’d been ignoring the other two men, not considering the
merits of any particular girl.
“Her family is good enough,” he finally said. That should apply
to every girl in the room. “She isn’t likely to cause you much grief.”
Unfortunately, there weren’t many girls that second sentence
didn’t apply to either. Most of the gently bred women had been
raised to smile and simper and act like nothing was ever wrong. It
was part of what made them remarkably interchangeable. Which
was probably why Graham was no closer to marriage at thirty-
one than he’d been at twenty-one. He didn’t want to lose track
of his wife in the melee because he couldn’t distinguish her from
someone else.
Maddingly nodded in agreement with Graham’s vague state-
ment. “She might even be willing to live in the country while you
stay in the city.”
Sherrington scoffed. “Can’t afford that nonsense.” He frowned.
“Think she’ll expect such a thing, Wharton?”
How should he know? His parents enjoyed eating breakfast
together every morning and talking in their private parlor into the
night. He wasn’t exactly the person to ask about distant marriages.
10
versation, more out of habit than actual curiosity. “Who have you
settled on, then?”
Whatever name Maddingly responded with didn’t matter, be-
cause there, barely visible through the limbs of a cluster of potted
trees along the far wall, was a patch of green. How had she gotten
all the way over there without him seeing her?
“Yes,” Maddingly continued, “I think Lady Thalia will be de-
lighted by my intention to court her.”
Graham actually knew who the mildly popular Lady Thalia
was, and that far better matches than Maddingly were taking her
for a turn around the floor, but he wasn’t about to contradict the
man. Especially not now that he knew the woman in green wasn’t
imaginary. Though why would a woman wear such an eye-catching
color if she intended to plant herself behind the potted shrubbery
all evening?
Plant herself behind the shrubbery.
A grin crossed Graham’s face as he chuckled at his own cleverness.
Now that he’d found the woman, he had a desperate need to
meet her, but first he had to get away from Maddingly. “Why don’t
you start by asking her to dance?”
The branches parted slightly, and a hand reached through and
plucked a petite duchesse pastry off the tray of a passing servant.
Was she hiding? Well, obviously she was hiding, but was it from
a persistent suitor or an overbearing mother?
With a grim but determined look, Maddingly nodded and made
his way around the edge of the ballroom. Graham wished him
well and meant it, but he was more interested in watching another
servant carry a tray loaded with food past the grouping of trees.
Again the hand reached through and grabbed a morsel as the foot-
man passed. Why didn’t she simply go to the refreshment table
and get a plate of food?
His palms began to itch with the same excitement he’d had
every time he boarded a ship bound for a new part of the world.
It was the itch of curiosity, of questions that needed answers. At
last, here was something new and unusual.
11
12
than one seam showed wear, and the hem was frayed in a couple
places. Where had she come from?
She recovered her composure before he did, erasing the surprise
from her face and giving him a regal nod. “Good evening.”
Her voice was calm, quiet. It didn’t hold the grating, overzeal-
ous brightness that so many of the other women in the ballroom
used. He liked it. His smile widened as he extended one of the
glasses. “Lemonade?”
Pale blue eyes stared at the glass for a moment before rising to
meet his. Not a flicker of expression crossed her features, which
weren’t as young as he’d first expected them to be. Fine lines ap-
peared at the corners of her eyes and mouth, a maturity that she
wore easily. She was well past the age of the simpering beauties
filling the dance floor. A widow, perhaps? An older sister of a family
racked with genteel poverty? Perhaps even someone’s companion
or a governess?
They looked at each other until the moment grew awkward, but
still she didn’t take the glass. Did she think he would do something
to her in the middle of the ball? Very well, it wasn’t the middle. They
were off to the edge, but more than a hundred people milled nearby.
“I assure you it’s harmless.” Graham took a sip of the offered
drink. “See?”
A small smile tilted one side of her lips as she finally took the
glass. “I see.”
He leaned one shoulder against the wall. “I know I’m being
abominably rude by introducing myself, but your friend here”—he
nodded to the shield of greenery—“doesn’t seem too talkative.”
“No, he isn’t.” She took a sip. “And you still haven’t introduced
yourself.”
He felt like a lad just out of school, pinned by her laughing
blue eyes and small, pink smile. “My mistake. Lord Wharton, at
your service.”
“A pleasure, Lord Wharton. I’ve never heard of you, which I can
assure you is to your credit.” She took another sip of lemonade
and peered around the edge of the tree.
13
14
15
“May I call on you?” When was the last time he’d asked per-
mission to call on a woman? Years, if ever. The question always
raised impossible expectations.
She didn’t answer. Simply stared at him, mouth slightly agape.
“Graham, there you are!”
Graham looked over his shoulder to see a man in pristine evening
black strolling around the edge of the trees. Now Oliver decided
to make an appearance? Where was the man when Graham was
drowning in boring conversation about dowries and marriage
settlements? Honestly, if Oliver weren’t one of Graham’s closest
friends, he’d push him into one of the potted trees.
Oliver’s brows drew together. “What are you doing back here?
Didn’t you know you’re supposed to be on the other side of the
trees, where you can be found by all the people who need you to
inject levity and hope into their miserable lives?”
The reference to an old love letter Graham had received while
attending Cambridge made him groan even as he smiled. He should
never have shown that letter to Oliver. “If you must know, I’m
replenishing my well of levity by talking with—”
His words trailed off as he turned to find the space beside him
empty. The woman had vanished once more.
16
17
She should know. She’d been one of them. The Honorable Kath-
erine FitzGilbert. Until she’d fallen from honor in their eyes—
condemned, ruined, and suddenly worthless to her own noble
father. No, worse than worthless. She’d been a detriment.
So, after cleaning up after the nobility for a dozen years, not
being considered noble was practically a compliment.
Still . . .
She rolled her head to the side and allowed her eyes to fall open,
looking through the darkness as if her gaze could pierce through
the wall and see the dancers beyond. See him.
He was noble. And he’d seemed nice. But then again, they all
knew how to put up a pretty front.
His humor and ability to mock himself, however, were some-
thing she didn’t remember ever encountering before.
One hand groped along the wall until she found the edge of the
hidden door she’d eased through. It blended with the ballroom
wall, leaving only the faintest outline for Kit to notice while avoid-
ing the man’s golden-brown gaze. It had made the perfect escape.
Obviously, the host hadn’t intended for people to use it, given the
dark corridor beyond and the tree barricade, but that was all the
more reason for Kit to seek her escape through it.
She eased the door open the slightest bit and pressed her face
tightly to the wall while squeezing her left eye shut. Nothing but
light and trees. The man was gone.
With any luck, she would never see him again. She didn’t want
to discover that a man who brought lemonade and a charming
smile to women hiding behind ballroom decorations was also the
type of man who would dally with a woman and then leave her
to deal with the consequences. She didn’t want to one day have
to accost him in his own home and demand he take care of a life
he had carelessly and thoughtlessly created.
A slight nudge of her hand slid the door closed once more,
leaving her in near total darkness. She didn’t mind the darkness.
It was easier to hide in the dark.
Which was why she’d run for the lights of the ballroom in the
18
first place. The two thugs chasing her had been as comfortable
running down a dark alley as she’d been, probably more so. Her
only defense had been to find as many people as possible. Im-
portant people. Ones the thugs’ employer wouldn’t want them
disturbing.
It had been a good idea, actually, right up until she’d lingered.
She’d let the music and candlelight overwhelm her with memories,
leaving her frozen in her hiding place, unable to work her way
quietly to the nearest door. She shouldn’t have given in to her de-
sire to see if the cream-filled, chocolate-glazed confections were
as good as she remembered.
She shouldn’t have let herself remember in the first place.
But nostalgia had caught her by surprise, smothering the ur-
gency to escape, and she’d stayed, unable to stop the visions of a
happier time.
A time before she knew how cruel the people smiling on the
dance floor could be. A time before she knew the secrets everyone
tried to hide and pretended to ignore.
A time when being approached by a charming gentleman would
have been welcome.
What had his name been? Wharton? It wasn’t a title she knew,
nor had she recognized the man. Of course, thirteen long years
had passed since her days in society. Even then, her one and only
Season had been cut short.
Oh, how she missed the dancing. And the food. She pressed a
hand to her midsection, which felt odd and sort of swirly. It had
to be the rich food, though the luxurious explosion of sugar and
chocolate had been worth it.
Yes, it was the food. She could not have actually enjoyed the
attentions of the gentleman, could not be relishing that moment
of feeling pretty and interesting again, could not be missing the
naïve, carefree girl she’d once been.
Her arm squeezed the bundled cloak tighter and her other hand
buried itself in the green satin skirt. The crinkling sound of papers
in her cloak pocket chased out the lingering melodies of a string
19
quartet. This was her life now. It didn’t include pastries and danc-
ing, but long days of hard work sprinkled with occasional visits
to horrible men like she’d had to do tonight.
Kit walked carefully down the dark passage. Moonlight from a
nearby window cut across the floor, giving her just enough light to
make her way without stumbling. She paused at the window, looked
down at London. A pit of greed and lies covered in the mask of
false smiles and frivolity. Did those people in the ballroom behind
her really think the lavish gowns and the ostentatious promenading
would protect them from the ugliness in life?
No, they only hid it. In this world, proof mattered little, and
truth mattered even less. Appearance was the true ruler of Lon-
don’s elite. As long as they sparkled in all the right places, no one
bothered to look beneath the surface.
Until it cracked. Then they picked and prodded, painted it with
whatever color they wished before discarding it like last week’s
rubbish.
This was the danger of awakening memories. The bad ones
slept right beside the good.
No matter how enticing the man with the gentle smile and wit
had been, it would be better for everyone if Kit did what she did
best and disappeared.
She walked down the passage, away from the window. Away
from the scents of smoke and perfume, away from the overused
platitudes and rehearsed conversations. Away from the pleasant
tang of lemonade.
Life in the shadows might be lonely and scary compared with
the popular existence she’d led before, but at least in her new world
people were honest about what they were doing to each other.
Well. Most of the time.
She shook her head. Philosophical musings weren’t going to
get her safely out of London with the packet of papers intact.
And she needed to get home. They were supposed to sow carrots
tomorrow, and if Kit wasn’t there to make sure the lines were
straight, Daphne would let them be planted in swirls and whorls
20
because it made the garden prettier. And Jess would let her, just
to see Kit get irritated.
What she needed to do was get out of this house, find the nearest
inn, and take the first stage out of town. It didn’t matter where it
was going as long as it was out of London.
Were the thugs waiting in the garden, thinking she’d go out the
way she came? Had they circled around to the front of the house?
It would be nice if they’d simply given up and gone home, but Kit
didn’t think she’d have that kind of luck.
The passage gave way to a dimly lit parlor. Three closed doors
broke up the two side walls, and a large arch across from Kit opened
into the large landing at the top of the wide, curving staircase.
She’d climbed that staircase once before. A lifetime ago.
And now, she would go down those stairs. She would lose her-
self in whatever crowd of people departed next, slip through the
carriages waiting out front, and disappear into the night.
With a deep breath that she hoped would convince her heart to
stop crashing against her ribs, she stepped into the parlor.
She had made it halfway across the room when one of the closed
doors opened and a lone man emerged, adjusting his waistcoat
over a slight paunch.
No. Her luck couldn’t possibly be that bad, could it? But as the
man stepped into a circle of light cast by a nearby candle, Kit’s
heart nearly stopped, because yes, she was indeed that unlucky.
Even though the face wore a decade’s worth of additional age
and the hair sported considerably more grey, she knew that man.
She knew him well.
And she really, really didn’t want to talk to him.
She dropped her gaze to her toes and willed herself to keep
walking. Her father had yet to see her, hadn’t even acknowledged
that he wasn’t alone in the parlor. But her feet refused to move,
gripping the rug through the soles of her boots. Apparently she
was going to be attempting the statue method of concealment.
She held her breath and made herself as small as possible, inching
her heels sideways until her hip pressed against a decorative table.
21
While she was usually very good at not being seen when she
didn’t want to be, an empty room didn’t leave her many places
to hide.
The man passed her, head down as he focused on straightening
his waistcoat. His foot bumped into a chair and his head popped
up. “Pardon me.”
A gust of momentary laughter rushed from him as he realized
he’d apologized to a chair, but then his gaze swung sideways and
connected with Kit’s. The small, self-deprecating smile fell from
his face to be replaced by the thunderous frown that hadn’t aged
a bit. “Katherine.”
“Father.” She tilted her head sideways in a gesture that fell
somewhere between acknowledgment and respect.
Then there was silence. Long, heavy silence. After all these years,
did they have nothing to say to each other? Even in the absence of
onlookers? Kit swallowed. Had he cried for the lost years as she
had? The midnight book discussions? Their long walks through
the parks?
Perhaps he hadn’t. It had been at least five years since Kit had
acknowledged feeling any sort of loss. She’d thought herself well
and truly done with those thoughts, so the spark of hope that
flared in her heart surprised her even as she chided herself for
allowing it. No good could come of it, just as the desire to throw
herself into his arms was ridiculous and futile. It didn’t matter
how badly she simply wanted to breathe, to be held by someone
who cared, to be innocent and naïve.
Those luxuries were lost to her, and the hard look on her father’s
face proved they weren’t coming back.
That sad truth freed her feet from their strange emotional mire.
She stepped forward, intent on leaving the room and the house.
“You’ll not get any more money from me.” His voice smashed
the silence with the force of a hammer.
Anger welled within her, an emotion she hadn’t even felt when
he’d cast her out all those years ago. She’d understood, made ex-
cuses, rationalized it all from his point of view. But now to deny
22
a monetary request she had never made? She wanted to lash out.
Make him guilty. If it worked, they could use the money.
“Why not?” She took her sternest pose. The one she used when
staring down irresponsible young men, careless young women,
and neglectful fathers. “I’ve asked nothing from you in thirteen
years. Why shouldn’t you be called on to support me, your own
flesh and blood?”
Thirteen years. One year more than the amount of time she
forced other men to take care of the children they didn’t want. And
yet it had never occurred to her to force her father to do the same.
He huffed. “We made an agreement.”
“And I have kept it,” Kit bit out.
“Yet here you are.”
That was a statement she couldn’t argue with. She had agreed
not to return to London. “I had business.”
He scoffed. His tone was ugly. “Business. What business could
you have at a society ball?”
“I had to make my way in this world. Did you think my dowry
large enough to live on forever? It wasn’t that big, Papa.”
He growled. He actually growled at her. The childhood name
she’d used for him must have struck a chord. Tears threatened.
Had it really come to this? An ugly estrangement from her father?
Suddenly she couldn’t do it anymore. She couldn’t manipulate
her father the way she did the unscrupulous cads she forced into
supporting their children.
“You should have found some hapless country cit to marry you.
You were pretty enough when you were younger. He would have
overlooked a scandal then.”
Was he saying she looked old now? She certainly felt it. Still,
perhaps she had it in her to manipulate him, after all. At least
enough to make him sleep a little bit worse tonight.
34
It took Graham a full five minutes to extricate himself from
Oliver and his relentless teasing about Graham’s new imaginary
23
friend. He’d finally mumbled his excuses and simply walked away
while Oliver tried to control his laughter enough to avoid the
censure of society’s matrons.
Graham couldn’t care less about society’s matrons at the mo-
ment or what they might be whispering behind their fans. He
wanted to find the woman in green.
He rubbed his hands together as he stepped out of the ballroom.
The white evening gloves pulled against his fingers as the fabric
caught itself, and he resisted the urge to tug them off and stuff them
in his pocket. One last glance over his shoulder confirmed there
was no bold slash of green in the ballroom. So where had she gone?
The house was large, built before Mayfair had become crowded
with terraced housing. That meant it had a ballroom large enough
to fit the entire party and plenty of unused rooms where someone
could hide if they were so inclined.
And since Graham wasn’t quite willing to wander aimlessly
around his host’s home, he was left with nothing to do but make
his way toward the door and try to convince himself she hadn’t
actually been imaginary.
If he’d made her up, wouldn’t he have at least given her a name?
What would it say about him if his mind invented a woman who
then soundly rejected him?
“Get out.”
The angry voice had Graham stumbling to a halt and looking
around to take his bearings. He was near the retiring rooms, just
around the corner from a parlor that had been lit and prepared
for guests needing a moment of respite.
Or apparently guests needing to have a semi-public confronta-
tion.
“Get out,” the man repeated, “and stay out. Stay out of London.
We had an agreement, and I expect you to at least have enough
honor left to keep it.”
Graham frowned and leaned around the edge of the open arch-
way. He recognized the man standing near a cluster of chairs. The
tension rising from Lord FitzGilbert’s shoulders rolled across the
24
room in waves until even Graham felt the need to adjust his cravat.
The baron was blocking Graham’s view of whoever was making
him angry, which actually wasn’t that hard to do. The man’s temper
was rather notorious. But to make a man agree to leave London?
“And if I don’t?”
Right, then. Not a man. Graham nearly tumbled headfirst
through the archway as the feminine voice sank into his brain. It
was familiar. He knew the woman.
Graham’s attention snapped to the floor where the lines of a
brilliant green skirt were visible.
Lord FitzGilbert growled. “If Hamilton has brought you here
to befoul my plans, so help me, I’ll—”
“You’ll what?” She stepped around him and unbundled her
cloak. “What could you possibly do to hurt me now?”
The baron sputtered, trying to mention something about Austra-
lia, but the mystery woman simply walked away without a second
glance, draping her cloak across her shoulders as she went.
“You aren’t worth my time,” she said over her shoulder.
Once through the archway, she lifted her eyebrows as her blue
gaze connected with Graham’s, but she didn’t pause, didn’t even
slow down. A moment later, she was disappearing down the stairs.
Graham followed her, trying to see the dark cloak among the
clusters of people in the hall below. Servants ran to and fro, fetch-
ing cloaks and wraps to keep people warm on the short walk to
their waiting carriages. Finally he found her amid a group near
the door. She flipped her hood over her head and followed them
out into the night.
It took him longer than he’d hoped to wade through the people
and convince the servants he really did intend to leave without wait-
ing for his greatcoat. Yes, it would be embarrassing to come back
for it later, but if he lost the only thread he had on the enigmatic
lady in green, he had a feeling he’d regret it for the rest of his life.
He almost lost it anyway. Shadows stretched across the street
outside, providing numerous places for a woman wrapped in dark
grey velvet to hide.
25
26
but he’d heard it quite a bit over the past hour. And it was a com-
mon factor in all the situations with angry men he’d come across.
It would seem he really should let the woman run out of his life
the way she wanted to.
But not before he made sure she could do so safely. He moved
quietly toward the voices, tucked in a small copse of trees at the
corner of the park.
“I’m afraid I have nothing for you.” The woman’s voice had
grown grim now, dangerous. Gone was the teasing lilt he’d heard
behind the trees in the ballroom, gone was the haughty disdain
from the parlor. In its place was a voice cold and hard enough to
send chills down Graham’s spine. And he wasn’t even the target.
“Oh, I think you do.” One of the thugs laughed in that creepy
manner that Graham had never understood. He’d always imagined
the villains in gothic romances laughing like that.
“No, I really don’t.”
Graham was close enough to make out the outlines of three
people now, and one of them, the one with skirt and cloak bil-
lowing about her knees, had just pulled a knife.
27
28
The voice from the open area of the park distracted the men
enough for Kit to shift sideways a bit so that at least she didn’t have
trees to her back. Jess would skewer Kit to the knife-throwing tree
if she learned Kit had run herself into a corner trying to hide. Her
cloak snagged on one of the tree branches, bringing her sidling
escape to a halt. A swift tug broke the small limb the fabric had
snagged on, bringing the branch banging into her arm as the cloak
resettled around her shoulders.
A man appeared, his face shadowed by the moon behind him.
He strolled toward their little gathering with his hands clasped
behind his back. “What seems to be the problem?”
Kit almost laughed at what this must look like, her standing
ready with a knife in her hand and the other men seemingly
unarmed. She took another glance at the newcomer and real-
ized she knew him. It was shrubbery man. What was his name?
Wharton.
Was he following her? Her mouth pressed into a grim line.
She’d known he couldn’t be as perfect as he’d seemed. No one
was. She’d have to shake him loose, but she could only deal with
one problem at a time. “These men were just leaving. They have
an urgent message to carry across town.”
The presence of a young, sober man made her attackers much
more cautious. “Of course,” the one with teeth, and apparently a
few wits, said. “If you’ll just give us the papers with that message
on it, we’ll be on our way.”
What had Jess said about bravado? It was practically as good
as actual bravery? Kit pictured pushing all of her rioting emotions
down into her feet. Cool, calculating, and untouchable were what
she needed now. “The message isn’t written.”
With a slow arch of her eyebrow, she snagged the limb at the
edge of her cloak. She gripped it tightly to keep from trembling.
A single tug released the branch, the first blessing Kit had received
all day. She switched the knife to her left hand and held the limb
in her right. Would it throw the same as a knife?
A flick of her wrist sent the limb flinging forward to plant itself
29
between the feet of one of the hired men. She’d been aiming for
the other one’s chest.
No one needed to know that.
“Next time,” Kit said, in the same voice that sent the children
in her household scurrying to do their chores, “I’ll use the knife.
And I’ll aim a bit higher.”
How she hoped that sounded menacing to ears other than her
own. In her head she sounded like a child playing pirate.
Still, she moved the knife back to her right hand and stood ready.
As much as she enjoyed knife-throwing, she couldn’t really aim for
anything other than a general area. A man’s body was a fairly large
general area, though. Sinking the knife anywhere would probably
buy her enough time to run away, though she’d hate to lose the
knife, and it really only guaranteed she’d slow one of them down.
Brazening it out was still her best plan.
Of course, none of her other plans had gone well today, so
perhaps she should go with the worst plan she could think of and
just run into the night, screaming like a banshee.
Several moments of silence weighed heavily. A carriage rolled
down the street, wheels clattering and horses snorting, but no one
in the small copse of trees paid it any attention.
The man she’d thrown the stick at—the one she’d actually al-
most hit, not the one she aimed for—took a step forward, knocking
the stick aside.
Kit flipped the knife in the air and caught it, pinching the blade
between her fingers while trying to look haughty and confident.
She couldn’t throw with the blade for anything, but Jess always
looked impressive doing it, and right now, Kit needed to look more
impressive than she actually was.
“Our master will be wanting those papers.” One of them growled.
“Soon.”
Then they started sidling away, looking from the knife to Lord
Wharton and back again. Roughing up someone like herself with
no real connections and a bit of a shady reputation was one thing,
but it was obvious that Lord Wharton was someone important.
30
They might even know who he was. Kit wasn’t even going to pre-
tend that it was her amazing display of stick-throwing that had
finally scared them off, but she was proud that she hadn’t stood
by helpless.
Jess would be proud as well. At least, she’d be proud of Kit in
the version of the event that Kit would tell at home.
Now she just had to get rid of Lord Wharton.
And then get out of town.
She slid the knife back into her cloak pocket. “Are you following
me, Lord Wharton?”
“Yes. No.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “In a manner of
speaking.”
The picture he made was so charmingly boyish that Kit couldn’t
stay mad. “I suppose I can overlook it, seeing as your presence
made a difference tonight. This, however, is where we part ways.”
“Can I walk you home? They might return.” He offered his
elbow.
Part of her wanted to slip her hand into his offered arm. But
those days were long past. They belonged in a different life. Lon-
don was dangerous in more ways than one. She couldn’t afford to
dream of that old life. She had no right to it anymore.
“I think it best if we part here. Should someone recognize me,
I wouldn’t want your reputation harmed.” With a quick nod, she
hurried across the park. Maybe the incongruity of her statement
would keep him befuddled long enough for her to escape the public
area. Once on a side street, she could lose him easily.
“Please,” he called after her. “A name. Your street. Your town.
Perhaps the breed of dog that you walk in Hyde Park.”
Kit stopped, the weight of the loaded-down cloak pockets feel-
ing more like a burden than it ever had before. One hand groped
through the folds until she could wrap her fingers around the
edge of a sheaf of papers. Papers that would ensure the support
of an innocent life. These were why she was in London. To get
these papers signed and nothing else. This was her life now—these
papers and everything they represented.
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and walked away, straining her ears to hear if he would indeed let
her leave on her own this time. There was nothing. She was free
to go home. Why wasn’t she happy about that? Did she want the
man to chase her all over London?
Four turns later she took her first deep breath of the evening.
She was finally confident that she was completely alone.
One more turn brought her to the inn, but she’d already missed
that day’s post headed west. The delay of dealing with, well, men,
had meant that she’d more than used up her narrow allotment
of time. She’d either have to spend the extra money and take the
long way home or hide for most of tomorrow while she waited
for the next mail coach.
Money was tight, so there really wasn’t an option, now that
she was out of danger, at least for the most part. Wrapped tightly
in her grey cloak, she waited until no one was looking and then
settled against the outside wall of the stable. In the morning she’d
go into the inn, buy a meal, and wait for the stage, but she couldn’t
afford to let a room. Her head dropped forward onto her knees,
the large hood of the cloak settling her in a shroud of darkness.
Then she tried to sleep.
34
Graham blinked his dry, tired eyes in an effort to focus on the
plate in front of him. He’d stayed awake most of the night, alternat-
ing between wondering about the woman named Kit in a brilliant
green dress who was clearly nothing but trouble and analyzing
his apparently desperate need for a break in the monotony that
was his life.
All that either had given him was an aching head.
He shoved a bite of food into his mouth, not even sure what
it was, putting all his energy into chewing and swallowing and
not becoming irritated by the scrape of fork against plate or the
rustling sound of his father turning the page of his newspaper.
“Are you feeling well this morning, Wharton? You’ve hardly
touched your food.” The concerned voice of his mother didn’t
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34
The door to the billiard room slammed against the wall, mak-
ing Graham jerk his mace against the ball and send it careening
across the green baize.
Mr. Aaron Whitworth, the man who rounded out Graham and
Oliver’s trio of friends, strode into the room looking polished and
professional. The man he was dragging behind him looked anything
but. Oliver was still in the clothes he’d worn to the ball the night
before, though disheveled would be a compliment to their current
state. Aaron’s fist wrapped in Oliver’s jacket collar wasn’t helping.
With a fling and push, Aaron sent Oliver into the room. Oliver
didn’t stop moving once he regained his balance, though. He sim-
ply started pacing, agitation in every line and feature. He walked
right past Graham and kept walking until he’d crossed the room
and it was either turn around or hit the wall. Oliver chose to turn
around, but that didn’t still his feet. He paced the entire room,
obviously upset and clearly in need of assistance—from a good
valet, if nothing else.
Graham watched him, frozen in his position crouched over the
billiard table. Thank you, God. Ask and ye shall receive. It looked
like a distraction had just landed in his lap.
Aaron crossed his arms and glared at the pacing Oliver.
“What’s going on?” Graham asked, straightening.
“He”—Aaron jabbed one blunt finger in Oliver’s direction—
“showed up at my door this morning, ranting and rambling until
my brain’s gone scrambled. I can’t make sense of it, so I brought
him to you.”
Graham looked from Aaron to Oliver and back again. Oliver
hadn’t ever been what one might consider clever, but he’d always
seemed quite rational. “Rambling?”
Aaron shrugged and crossed his arms over his chest.
Finally, Oliver stopped moving and placed both hands on the
edge of the billiard table, staring at Graham with eyes rimmed in
red. “Lady Anne Brigston is in France.”
Graham blinked. What was he supposed to do with that in-
formation? He looked to Aaron, who simply waved his hand as if
35
this was all the evidence Graham needed to know that their friend
had gone a bit crazy.
“Who’s Lady Anne Brigston?” Graham whispered to Aaron.
He had a vague notion of who she might be, but he couldn’t come
up with a single reason he should care about her whereabouts.
Aaron shook his head and shrugged again.
“Didn’t you hear me?” Oliver frowned. “Lady Anne is in France.”
“That’s all he’s said for the last twenty minutes,” Aaron said,
leaning against the wall.
Graham slid the billiard mace through his fingers, using the tip
of the handle to line up properly to the ball. He gave the billiard
ball a satisfying thwack and sent it careening into two rails before
it tripped into the pocket. “I hope she enjoys her trip? It should
be safe enough now. The war is over, after all.”
Aaron chuckled as Oliver growled and pounded the table in
frustration.
The action did nothing but confuse Graham. He considered
himself a fairly intelligent man, though he’d been more known for
his athletic prowess at Cambridge than his distinction in the school-
room. Aaron, however, had taken more than his share of academic
accolades. Yet neither one of them had any idea why they should
be alarmed that a fresh-faced young girl had taken a trip abroad.
Oliver smacked the wood of the table, then began pacing again.
Graham slid a hand back and forth along the smooth wood of
his mace. Obviously he’d missed something. Something important.
He slid the mace into the rack and leaned against the wall, shoulder
to shoulder with Aaron, while they waited for Oliver to get to the
point. Given his current state, that could be hours.
“Don’t you see?” Oliver shoved his hand through his hair, mak-
ing it stick up in little light-brown horns.
Graham smothered a grin. “I’m afraid I don’t.”
Another muffled snicker came from his left.
“He wasn’t courting Lady Anne, was he?” Graham whispered
to Aaron. It was the only reasonable explanation he could come
up with for Oliver’s agitation.
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37
wonder Oliver was pacing a hole in the floor. When their mother
had died, Oliver’s father hadn’t quite known what to do with
Priscilla. Oliver had tried to step between them, but there was
only so much he could do while away at school. By the time he’d
gotten home, her unusual tendencies had become set. “When did
you last see her?”
“Two weeks ago. I was away when she left. Didn’t find out she’d
gone until I got home from Sussex two days ago.”
“Maybe Lady Anne returned early. Or maybe Priscilla went
with them.”
Oliver shook his head and resumed his pacing. “Lady Anne left
for the continent a month ago.”
Graham rubbed one hand along the back of his neck and looked
at Aaron, who was still looking more curious than concerned.
“How did you find out about Lady Anne’s departure?”
Oliver dropped his head back and closed his eyes. “Last night
after you left, I danced with Miss Albany, who mentioned what a
shame it was there wasn’t going to be a garden party in the fabulous
Brigston House conservatory this year. I wondered if they weren’t
doing the party because of Priscilla.”
That didn’t make a whole lot of sense, since the point of spon-
soring young women for the season was to help them socialize,
but it also wasn’t the point of the story, so Graham stayed quiet.
Oliver was too easily distracted.
“I started looking around for Lady Anne but didn’t see her or
her parents in attendance,” Oliver continued. “So I danced with
Miss Carmichael, who didn’t know anything about Lady Anne. But
when I was taking her back to her mother, I heard a lady I’d never
met talking about how much she liked living in Portman Square. I
know that’s where Lady Anne lives, so I got an introduction only
to find out the woman’s family isn’t living on Lady Anne’s street
but is renting Lady Anne’s house for the Season.”
Graham exchanged wide-eyed looks with Aaron. This was a
rather convoluted story. Even for Oliver.
“This concerned me since I don’t want Prissy to miss the Season
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39
up one of the billiard balls and rolled it from hand to hand. The
white ivory caught the sunlight, reflecting it onto the green baize.
Like the moon had shone on the park last night while Kit held off
her attackers with a stick and a knife.
He slammed the ball against the table and gave it a push, rolling
it across the felt surface with enough force to crack loudly against
one of the other balls. He’d asked for a distraction, and he ap-
parently needed one more than even he had realized. He looked
from Aaron to Oliver. “Very well, let’s find Priscilla. What do we
know thus far?”
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