As if he had the time or the inclination for pointless courtships.
William lifted his brows and said between gritted teeth. “Is the amount enough?”
“Are you jesting? An annuity of four hundred pounds? Bloody yes. The Marquis of Worcester didn’t pay as much for Miss Harriet Wilson when she became his mistress. And Miss Wilson is the most fashionable courtesan in town.”
William pocketed the contract. He didn’t want Wilson. Wilson couldn’t bring him peace. He wanted Helene de Beaumont, and he would have her.
***
William left the house. His coach awaited at the entrance. A short drive to Covent Garden would settle matters. No need for pointless courtships. The arrangement would spare them both from emotional entanglements—and, more importantly, purge the sprite from his mind.
When he was about to enter the carriage, a glimpse of red waving in between the gray pedestrians caught his attention.
His heart lurched. Miss Beaumont—in Grosvenor Square? Had he been too late? Had she already accepted another offer?
William waved his cane at the coachman. “I’m walking today.”
Turning on Park Lane, William followed. She took short, efficient, brisk steps. With her chin high and posture straight, she carried herself higher than anyone else, making it easy to keep pace.
She stopped at number twelve. Thornley’s residence? Impossible. She couldn’t be the old man’s mistress, and even if she were, why would she visit him in his own house, and during the daytime, no less?
William halted, his breaths condensing in front of him. A knot formed in his stomach, and he fought the impulse to vault over the steps, grab her arm, and force her to turn around.
The butler admitted her without a fuss. So she was known to the house.
The door had clicked shut when William knocked.
The butler bowed. “Your Grace, how may I assist you?”
William set his jaw. You will tell your master that I saw her first. “I require a word with Thornley.”
“The Viscount is not presently at home, sir.”
“This is urgent.” William crossed the threshold. “I will wait.”
Sounds of laughter and the notes of a waltz carried to the foyer from somewhere upstairs. Lecherous bastard. Under his wife’s roof, no less.
William clasped his hands behind his back and turned to the butler. “And Lady Thornley? I presume she is out too?”
“I’m right here. What a wonderful surprise, William. And just what we needed.” Lady Thornley glided into the foyer, her dress askew and hair escaping its coiffure. Was it his imagination, or was she breathless and excited?
With his wife in the house? Thornley should be imprisoned.
The music rose louder. William stiffened. “Agnes, good afternoon. If you are having a musicale, I can return at a more opportune time.”
She caught both his hands in hers, her eyes twinkling.
“You have perfect timing, darling. We were desperately in need of a gentleman.”
What was her game? William followed her to the ballroom. She slid the double doors without hesitation. All the windows had been opened, and sunlight streamed over the parquet floor like scintillating ribbons.
A female pianist butchered a waltz. Two women danced, weaving in and out of the light, their skirts swirling together to form a bell shape.
Lady Thornley tugged him inside. “You see, my daughter’s deportment teacher is giving a waltz lesson, but it is difficult without a partner.”
The music stopped, and the women separated.
Understanding washed over him like a cool, cool rain, and William exhaled, his shoulders relaxing for the first time since he had spotted Helene in the square.
