Unwelcome Discovery
The Swordsman’s Societywas nearly empty at this hour, most members having retired to their clubs or brothels. Hereford drummed his fingers against the polished table, irritation mounting with each passing minute. Patrick Adams was never late—except tonight, when Hereford’s nerves were already frayed from another evening of wondering where his wife had disappeared to.
When Patrick finally arrived, the grim set of his mouth made Hereford’s stomach tighten.
“What’s happened?” Hereford demanded without preamble.
Patrick slid into the chair opposite him, signaling for port without meeting Hereford’s eyes. “It’s about Lady Hereford.”
A cold weight settled in Hereford’s chest. He’d known, hadn’t he? Known something was wrong from those late returns, those vague explanations, the way she couldn’t quite meet his gaze over breakfast.
“Tell me,” he said.
Patrick swirled the port in his glass, staring into it as if seeking courage. “She’s been seen meeting someone. After dark.”
The cold in Hereford’s chest crystallized into something sharp and painful. “Who?” The single word scraped his throat raw.
“No one can say for certain.” Patrick leaned forward, lowering his voice. “Jenkins spotted her five nights ago near the Blind Beggar tavern in Whitechapel. And again three nights ago, entering the Crimson Harp off Cheapside. She arrives around ten in the evening.”
Hereford’s mind raced through possibilities—newspaper business, reform meetings, charity work—each explanation more desperate than the last. “Perhaps—”
“At places no respectable woman would visit, Charles,” Patrick cut him off gently. “Dressed in a way no marchioness would appear in public.”
The room seemed to tilt slightly. “What do you mean?”
Patrick’s hesitation only made the roaring in Hereford’s ears grow louder. “Jenkins said she wore a gown that mimicked those of the working girls—cut low. Her hair down, face painted like…” He trailed off, clearly uncomfortable.
“Like a woman meeting a lover,” Hereford finished, the words tasting like ash. Something fierce and primal clawed at his insides. Not just jealousy, though God knows that burned hot enough, but something deeper. Betrayal. Humiliation. And beneath it all, a bewildering sense of loss.
His fingers tightened around his glass until he feared it might shatter. With deliberate control, he set it down and spread his hands flat on the table to hide their trembling.
“She stays for about two hours,” Patrick continued, watching him warily. “Always leaves around midnight.”
Hereford surged to his feet, needing to move before the violence building inside him found release. He paced the length of their alcove, every step carefully controlled when what he wanted was to tear the room apart with his bare hands. The thought of Amelia—his Amelia—touching, baring herself to another man… It was an agony he’d never felt before.
And what of him? The notorious Marquess of Hereford, known for bedding other men’s wives, now cuckolded by his own. The irony would delight Society’s gossips.
“What will you do?” Patrick asked after a long silence.
The real question hung unspoken between them: would he callher out? Lock her away in the country? All the usual remedies of betrayed husbands.
But beneath his rage, another emotion writhed like a wounded thing: desperation. The thought of losing her, even after this betrayal, created a hollow ache in his chest he couldn’t name.
“Find out who she’s meeting,” he said finally, his voice rough with suppressed emotion. “And why my wife feels compelled to dress like a…” He couldn’t bring himself to say the word, not about Amelia.
“Charles…” Patrick’s warning tone cut through his thoughts.
“What?”
“Be careful. Don’t jump to conclusions however it may look.”
Hereford’s jaw clenched as he reached for his coat. His mind flashed to the connecting door between their chambers, to the nights he’d stood listening to her move about her room, wanting nothing more than to cross that threshold. Had she been preparing for another man’s touch those nights? The thought was a knife twisting in his gut.
“If someone is taking advantage of her,” he said, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper, “there won’t be a corner of England where they can hide from me.”
“And if it’s not that?” Patrick asked quietly. “If she’s chosen this?”
The question hung in the air between them. Hereford paused at the door, the mask of aristocratic indifference cracking just enough to reveal the wounded man beneath.
