9
Richard sat in the far corner of White’s, holding a drink in his hand. The gentlemen's club was unusually subdued for the afternoon, the soft murmur of conversation and the occasional rustle of a turning newssheet providing the only interruption to his thoughts. He had arrived early—deliberately so—and now found himself alone with his brooding.
He told himself he didn’t mind the quiet. In truth, he welcomed it. The stillness allowed him to think, though his thoughts inevitably turned where he didn’t want them to go: Miss Theodosia.
He had spent the better part of the last few days convincing himself that she was complicit in Mr. Smith’s deceit. A woman of secrets. A liar by association, if not in action. However, whenever he recalled her expression when she spoke of books she loved, or how her eyes lit with quiet fire when she challenged him, something inside him faltered.
It should not matter that she was beautiful. That she was clever. That she had been, at times, genuinely kind. None of it should matter.
He was here to right a wrong. To force justice on the man who had married his sister and vanished. Mr. Smith would answer for what he had done. And if Miss Theodosia was a casualty of that justice, then so be it.
Still… there was that irritating prick of guilt. Guilt he had no business entertaining.
A familiar voice broke through his reverie.
“Why the long face, Wilton?” Lord Bedford asked. “Has being a marquess finally worn you down?”
Richard looked up to find Bedford standing beside Lord Westcott, both of them eyeing him with interest.
“I see the pair of you finally decided to grace me with your presence,” Richard said dryly.
Westcott checked his timepiece with a flourish. “On the contrary, we are precisely on time. You, as usual, are early.”
Richard gestured towards the empty wingback chairs at his table. “Sit down. I’ve no idea when Alcott or Addington will appear.”
The two lords took their seats, their gazes settling on him with barely concealed curiosity.
“Well?” Westcott prompted. “Did you find this mysterious Mr. Smith?”
“I tracked him to a village, but he was already gone by the time I arrived,” Richard said, leaning forward. “But I’ve devised a solution. A plan.”
Bedford quirked a brow. “Do tell. Is it a good plan, or the kind that ends with us reading about you in the scandal sheets?”
“I think it’s rather inspired,” Richard replied. “While I was in the village, I discovered a young woman—Miss Theodosia Smith—who appears to be closely connected to him. I persuaded her to come to London under the pretense of acting as a companion to my sister.”
“You persuaded her?” Westcott repeated, voice sharp with skepticism.
“I left a note for Mr. Smith,” Richard continued, ignoring the tone. “Told him that if he ever wanted to see her again, he would have to come to London. He will come. He must.”
There was a long pause.
Bedford blinked. “You abducted a woman?”
“Not exactly,” Richard said, though his tone lacked conviction. “She came willingly, just not with all the facts. The important thing is that Mr. Smith will have no choice but to act.”
Westcott leaned back in his chair, his expression unreadable. “And this young woman, Miss Theodosia… she’s nothing more than a pawn to you?”
Richard exhaled. “Yes.”
Bedford and Westcott exchanged a pointed glance.
“And what do you intend to do with her once your scheme succeeds?” Westcott asked at last.
Richard shrugged. “I will return her to her village. Or allow the law to determine her fate if she proves to be as deceitful as I suspect.”
Bedford’s brow furrowed. “You truly see nothing amiss in what you’re doing?”
“She harbored Mr. Smith. She lied about knowing him. She deserves to be held accountable,” Richard explained.
