Page 11 of One Waltz with the Viscount

‘You’re worried about something,’ Miss Shepherd said, making to look over her shoulder.

‘Don’t look, not yet. It may alert whoever is following us that we are aware of them and force them to make a move.’

‘You think they mean to rob us?’

‘I cannot see why else they would be following us at three o’clock in the morning.’

She chewed her lip and Henry realised Miss Shepherd didn’t like not being in control of a situation. Although he knew little about her, he could tell she had spent much of her life being sensible and making the difficult decisions needed to keep a family afloat. Even the story of how she had come to London—having to postpone starting her new job to chase after a sister whose actions were at best reckless, but also could be viewed as highly selfish.

‘It is only a couple of minutes to my lodging house,’ she said, motioning with her hand in the general direction of Fleet Street. ‘If we run for it, I am sure whoever it is will not be able to catch us before we make it.’

‘Do you have a key?’

‘Yes. There is a woman who rents out the rooms, Mrs Angel. She has a bedroom close to the front door, but I expect she will be sleeping. There is a rule that no men are allowed in the lodging house, but I am sure even Mrs Angel will not begrudge you stepping over the threshold to keep you safe, if the thief does decide to follow us.’

‘As long as you are delivered home safe,’ Henry murmured, risking another glance over his shoulder. For a moment he wondered if he were imagining the muted footsteps matching their speed, and then he saw another dart of movement in the distance.

‘Make haste, Miss Shepherd.’

She slipped her hand into his, and he was surprised by the familiarity of the movement, but he gripped hold of it. As one, they ran. Without looking back they darted along the streets, Henry matching his speed to hers, and before long they were outside the door to a respectable lodging house, and Miss Shepherd was fumbling with a key.

Henry stood with his back to the door, his eyes darting in all directions.

‘I think somewhere back there they gave up,’ Henry said.

‘What if they are waiting for you when you return, alone?’ There was genuine concern in her eyes and Henry felt touched. Miss Shepherd had her own troubles, but she was not so caught up in them that she ignored everything else going on.

‘I will be fine,’ he said with a shrug. ‘I have nothing they could wish to steal anyway. I did not come out with any money, and I do not carry an expensive pocket watch or similar. I doubt they will risk a fight to take nothing more than the shirt from my back.’ He motioned at the earrings that sat in her ears. ‘I was more worried about your jewels.’

Her hand flitted to her ears and she touched the little sapphire earrings. They were only small, but probably were the most expensive thing she owned.

‘Do you wish to come inside to wait a little longer?’

‘No, thank you, Miss Shepherd. I will not risk the wrath of your landlady. I do not want her throwing you out on the street.’

Suddenly he realised quite how close they were standing. Miss Shepherd looked up at him and, for a moment, he was transported back to the moment in the library, as the last notes of the waltz had played, the moment when he’d had an overwhelming urge to kiss her. It was a foolish idea, one he had banished as soon as it had occurred, yet here it was again. His hand even started to move up, ready to cup her face, to pull her towards him.

Quickly he stepped away, clearing his throat. The thought was unforgiveable. Miss Shepherd was nothing like the sort of young lady he needed to focus his attentions on. Once before he had married a woman of a different social class to his own, thinking love would conquer all. Despite his youthful optimism it had been a disaster, and never again would he think he could overcome society’s rules and prejudices. If he did decide to find another wife in the next few years, he would force his head to choose, not his heart.

‘Goodnight, Miss Shepherd,’ he said, somewhat stiffly.

‘Thank you again, Lord Routledge.’

‘I will send a note with the details once I’ve set up a meeting with Agnes Pepper.’

Chapter Five

It felt as though his head had only just hit the pillow before the pounding at the front door forced him awake. Somewhere below one of the servants opened the door, and he heard distorted voices drift up through the floorboards. Even without being able to hear the words he knew who it was that had deigned to pay a visit so early in the morning.

With a groan he sat up. For five years his father had refused to speak to him. From the moment he found out about Henry’s intended marriage to Anne, a woman of a much lower social class, Lord Burwell had met with his only son once, to warn him off the marriage, and then no more. When it became apparent Henry was going to go through with the union—with or without his father’s blessing—Lord Burwell had cut him off. Henry had been married for four years and not once had his father broken his vow to cut Henry out of his life. Even after Anne’s death, his father had remained silent, choosing his frosty displeasure over sending any sort of condolences to his heir.

It had only been in the last few months Henry had looked to repair the relationship. His father was a narrow-minded, pompous man who did not have many redeeming features, but Henry had been forced to admit that, in one way at least, his father had been right. A marriage between two people of vastly different classes could not work out.

Right now, having had only three hours of sleep, he couldn’t bear to face the man, but he hauled himself up out of bed all the same, quickly pulling on his trousers and a shirt that was draped over the back of a chair. His father would not think twice about bursting into his bedroom uninvited if Henry did not meet him downstairs.

‘Good morning, Father,’ he said, running a hand through his hair as he descended the stairs. ‘Do come up.’

He was currently living in a set of modest rented rooms. His home was upstairs and another young gentleman, recently graduated from Oxford and trying to make his fortune like so many others in London, lived downstairs. They shared one entrance, as well as a maid and a footman, who also fulfilled the role of valet as needed.