“Better that than a spinster with no man in sight,” Lady Harmsworth said with a smirk.
Lady Topple flushed. “I’ll have you know—”
“Enough,” Lady Farthing interjected. “Don’t stray off topic. Do you think she’s here, in London?”
“Who?” Lady Farthing and Lady Harmsworth chorused together.
“The Countess of Lancaster.” She threw up her arms. “Honestly, I don’t know why I bother.”
“The countess must be here, or else the earl wouldn’t have returned,” Lady Topple reasoned.
“Or he grew tired of his search and gave up,” Lady Farthing speculated.
“Or she’s dead. What?” Lady Harmsworth said defensively when her friends stared at her with mouths agape. “Oh, don’t pretend the thought didn’t cross your mind. Why else would she stay hidden all this time? Lord Lancaster is titled, handsome,andwealthy. If he were my husband I wouldn’t dare stray more than two feet from him. I’d bet my new beaded reticule with the pink silk ribbon that something happened to her. Something ghastly. And he’s come back to London to find a new wife as he doesn’t yet have an heir.”
Lady Topple perked up. “I’ll take that bet.”
“Shame on both of you,” Lady Farthing said with an admonishing cluck of her tongue. “We should pray for the best outcome, not bet on the worst.”
“I’ll let you borrow the reticule on Sundays,” Lady Topple offered.
“In that case, let us discuss terms . . .”
Chapter One
As much asit would disappoint Lady Harmsworth to learn (and cost her a new beaded reticule besides), Lady Abigail Highborn, Countess of Lancaster, was not, in fact, dead. But at the current moment, there was part of her that wouldn’t have minded if she were. After all, dead people did not have the problems of the living. Dead people did not owe debts. Dead people did not have to make their own sandwiches. Most importantly, dead people did not have to hide... and she was running out of places to go.
When Abigail had fled America for England, she’d known that her husband would eventually follow. Notrightaway. She’d left too many false clues behind for that, and it still pleased her to think of all the wild geese he had been chasing while she was busy setting up her new office and her new life an entire ocean away. But while Stephen was many things—arrogant, hotheaded, stubborn—he wasn’t nearly as dimwitted as he occasionally pretended to be. Behind those twinkling amber eyes and roguish grin was a sharp, startlingly keen intelligence. So she’d always known, in the back of her mind, that this day would come.
She just hadn’t anticipated it arriving so quickly.
Peering over her shoulder at the long, dark row of houses behind her, she hastened her step before turning up a private lane that led to a grand manor, its many dormers and dualchimneys covered in a dusting of snow. The soft yellow glow of candlelight in the windows indicated the occupants of the regal house were still awake and she raised her fist to the front door, pounding once, then twice before trying the knob. To her surprise, it turned in her hand, and she half stumbled, half fell into the entry hall, leaving a trail of wet snow in her wake.
Her spectacles fogged immediately, a chemical reaction of condensation created when warm air met cold. Snatching them off her face, she furiously cleaned the circular lenses on the cuff of her sleeve before popping them back on the bridge of her nose just in time to observe the Duchess of Southwick’s expression of shock as she froze at the base of the master staircase.
“Dr. Chadwick?” said the duchess, blinking rapidly. Her auburn hair, plaited neatly down the middle of her back, as well as the blue silk wrapper draped over her white dressing gown, indicated Abigail had caught the duchess—Mara to her close friends and family—on her way to bed. “Did we have an appointment I forgot about? Oh my. Did Ambrose send for you? Because I told him—”
“I require your assistance,” Abigail interrupted. “You have to hide me.”
“Hide you?” Frowning, Mara drew her wrapper in closer. “Hide you from what?”
“Not what,whom.” Even though she knew it was illogical for Stephen to be lurking in the doorway, Abigail couldn’t stop herself from glancing over her shoulder yet again. A movement that had been repeated over and over again ever since she’d learned he was in London. “My husband. The Earl of Lancaster. He’s here.”
“I...” Mara’s mouth closed. Opened. “I had no idea you were married.”
“It is not customary for a doctor to reveal private details of her life to a patient.”
A smile, half exasperated, half affectionate, flitted across Mara’s countenance. “While that may be true, Dr. Chadwick, surely we’ve become more than just a doctor and patient.” She placed her hands on top of her large belly. “In less than a month, you’re going to deliver my child.”
“Not less,” Abigail said automatically. “Unless your areolas have begun to darken.”
“If you can discuss my areolas, then I am confident we can discuss your husband. This calls for tea, Dr. Chadwick. Do accompany me into the parlor, if you would.”
“Mara?” The Duke of Southwick, a large, imposing man with black hair swept back off his temple and piercing blue eyes that had the ability to make grown men cower, emerged from an adjoining room. Those eyes narrowed when he saw Abigail, and he immediately went to Mara’s side to place a protective arm around her waist. “What is it? What’s wrong? Why is Dr. Chadwick here?”
“Nothing is wrong.” Mara patted her husband’s hand before neatly escaping his grasp. “The good doctor has merely come for a little chat.”
“A chat? At this hour? Why—”
