“He does?”
Her eyes held kindness as she replied, “Indeed. He said that you are the best thing to happen to Lord Warwicke since he returned from the war. And I daresay he’s right.”
Before Dorothea could respond, Lady Bedford gave an unladylike scoff and interjected. “As does mine since I told him—in no uncertain terms—that supporting this annulment would be a mistake. A grave one. Honestly, it’s sheer madness.”
Dorothea’s lips parted in astonishment. The honesty, the unexpected solidarity—it was more than she had anticipated from women who were practically strangers.
“I… I don’t know what to say,” she admitted, her voice thick with emotion. “Thank you. Both of you. Truly.”
“You don’t have to say anything at all,” Lady Westcott assured her. “Just know this—despite what the gossip columnsmay imply, not everyone in thetonis against you. There are some of us who see you clearly, and we are most certainly in your corner.”
Dorothea blinked back the sting of sudden emotion. The kindness was unexpected and so genuine that it nearly undid her. She nodded, unable to find the words, but grateful all the same.
Lady Bedford, who had been watching with an amused gleam in her eyes, sat back against the settee and declared, “And if all else fails, we are not above kidnapping Lord Warwicke until he comes to his senses.”
Lady Westcott sighed, though there was no true reprimand in her tone. “We discussed this, remember? No one is going to be kidnapped.”
“But I’ve never arranged a kidnapping before,” Lady Bedford declared. “I was rather hoping it would be as thrilling as it sounds. Perhaps we could lure him into a carriage under the pretense of a parliamentary emergency.”
“Absolutely not,” Lady Westcott said with a shake of her head. “I don’t believe kidnapping one of the peers of the realm is the best way to show our support.”
Dorothea laughed at the exchange, and she found herself sinking a little more comfortably into the settee cushions. For the first time in days, she felt less alone—less like she was fighting an invisible battle no one else could see.
“You two are quite unlike anyone I’ve ever met,” she said, smiling.
Lady Bedford smirked. “That is the highest compliment you could have given us.”
“And we fully intend to be the most meddlesome, loyal friends you never asked for,” Lady Westcott added with a wink.
Dominic sat stiffly in the rancid interior of the hackney. His boots stuck to the grime-slicked floor with every jostle of the wheels, but he scarcely noticed. That was the least of his concerns. What he needed now was information and there was only one man in London who might possess it.
The hackney jerked to a halt along a narrow, soot-streaked street on the east side of Town, far from the polished boulevards of Mayfair. Dominic pushed open the creaking door and stepped down onto the uneven pavement. He adjusted the hem of his weathered blue waistcoat and glanced up at the sign swinging on rusted chains above him:The Black Vulture.
He handed a few coins to the driver and didn’t wait for thanks.
Dominic noted the men idling in the shadows—ragged figures leaning against soot-blackened walls or tucked into the mouths of alleys, eyes glinting with suspicion or malice. They watched him, weighing the cut of his coat and the scuffed quality of his boots. He met their eyes with quiet warning. He was in no mood to be trifled with.
He had come for answers.
Answers about the man who dared infiltrate his household in the guise of a footman. The man who had tried to hurt Dorothea.
The Black Vulture was just as he remembered it. A thatched roof in desperate need of repair. Greasy windows coated with grime. Nothing had changed.
Dominic reached for the handle, but the door swung open before he could touch it. A man stumbled out, his coat askewand his breath reeking of stale ale. He collided with Dominic and gave a bleary scowl.
“Watch where you’re goin’, Mister,” the drunk slurred, before lurching off down the street.
Dominic didn’t respond. He stepped inside and was immediately assaulted by the pungent smell of tobacco, sweat, spilled ale, and something acrid he couldn’t name. The pub was dimly lit, its rafters low and blackened with age and smoke. Familiar, in the worst possible way.
The tables were crowded with rough men nursing tankards and secrets. Dice clattered. Laughter barked. And in the far corner, half-shrouded in shadow, sat the man he’d come to see.
Blackthorn.
Once a colleague of sorts, now a seller of secrets to the highest bidder. If knowledge was currency, Blackthorn was among the wealthiest men in London.
Dominic wove his way through the hall, skirting spilled drinks and overturned chairs, until two hulking figures rose from a nearby table to block his path.
“I’m here to see Blackthorn,” Dominic said without slowing.
