Page 11

Ah, now they were come to the meat of it, Fanny’s jealousy in the attention he extended to Miss Kemp. He should have anticipated this.

“It cannot have escaped your notice,” Rowden drawled, doing his best to leash his temper, “that Miss Kemp is of an age to complement Giles more than myself. It never occurred to you I was trying to introduce Mary Kemp into the good graces of my cousin?”

And, more importantly, introduce Giles into the good graces of the girl, for something must be done about the lad, and both Rowden and Aunt Dobbs felt marriage might be the answer.

Fanny continued glaring, not at all inclined to reconcile. “Miss Kemp for Giles,” she repeated.

“Wouldn’t you think?” Rowden returned. It was ludicrous for anyone who knew him to think he could be entranced by a Mary Kemp. She was a quiet, sweet mouse of a girl, completely unobjectionable on every count, and when she held silent for too long, one forgot she was in a room. She was nothing like— No, Rowden would not entertain even the remotest thoughts of the girl he had once thought his ideal. She would have the courtesy not to touch his mind, thank you very much.

“We all think you are courting her.” Fanny glanced around at the crowd partaking of her spectacle and took solace in the nods of agreement. “Then what about the women seen entering your house today?”

“I haven’t been to the house, so I could not say,” Rowden answered. The tawdriness of this interview was wearing on his patience, which he didn’t have in abundance to begin with. “Why did you not pay a call and inquire?”

Fanny gave him the look she always cut at him when he was being unmanageable. “They did not seem my sort. Country women, I would guess, judging by their lack of town polish. Do tell the one it is not at all fashionable to have orange hair. No one powders anymore, and certainly not in that color.”

“It’s not powder,” Rowden croaked, his throat gone dry as dirt. Paralysis seized him, as if he were a rat taken up by a terrier. Any moment now, the shaking would commence, breaking all his bones.

She could not be here. Not here. He’d come to London to escape her, at least the reality of her, though she haunted his memories, his dreams. But if she had come in person… The gods would not be so cruel, could they?

Rowden gave himself a mental shake, trying to recall his wits. Fanny stared at him, bosom still heaving, waiting for an explanation.

“That is her natural hair color,” he said, hearing the feebleness in his voice. Sophronia. In London. For what possible reason? And what had he done to merit this torment?

No. He was a grown man, in full possession of his faculties, at the height of his maturity. He would be civil. He would be cool and calm. He would not break apart at the sight of her, still raked by the talons of that old betrayal. And even if he were foolish—if his heart would still persist in being stupid—well, he would not let her see it.

Yes. There. He was in control. In full possession of his faculties, in command of himself and the situation. He was that wounded, betrayed boy no longer. Never would be again.

Fanny watched him suspiciously. “Who is she?”

“An old friend of the family,” Rowden said. “No one of account.”

That was how his uncle the Baron had always dismissed Sophronia when he heard Rowden was running about with her. Why that gel, Victor? The glassmaker’s daughter? She’s no one of account.

When to the young, orphaned boy who had no other companions, she had meant everything.

What was Ro doing in his uncle’s house?

Rowden started across the foyer toward the small cloakroom, his walking stick clapping on the tile floor. “I thank you for the information, Fanny. That is to say, Mrs. Glass. I’m afraid I must take my leave of you now.”

“Wait.” Fanny hurried forward to place a gloved hand on his arm. “Have I been too hasty? You know my temper is one of my primary failings. But I also believe my passionate nature is one of the qualities you most cherish about me.” She fluttered her eyelashes at him, turning up her lips in a coy smile. “These women mean nothing to you? They are family acquaintances only? I would not like to see us break over something so silly.”

“Fanny, you were correct about one thing. I have betrayed you for the last time.”

She sucked in a breath, eyes narrowing, but kept her voice low. She knew not to vent her shrewishness among the audience she had gathered. “I cannot think you would be so foolish as to cast me off, Rowden. Me?”

“I understand I have been an uncongenial companion for some time now. What a relief to finally be free of me.” He took her hand and perfunctorily brushed his lips over her gloved knuckles.

“Do not be hasty, Rowden. I am willing to forgive you.” She kept up with his swift steps, gathering her skirts into one hand. Dismay overtook the calculation on her features. Rowden was young, he was appealing to look at, he gave her pretty gifts in payment for her company, and his sexual demands were neither onerous nor distasteful. She could have, and had, much worse in her bed. She had meant for him to scramble to conciliate her; Fanny did like to keep relations lively and reassure herself of her lovers’ devotion once in a while. But now he was walking away.

“Rowden!” she cried as he affixed his hat and reached for the outer door. “Do you not care for me at all?”

He paused to look at her, aware that others were listening, but the opportunity for freedom was too close, too tantalizing. And one need drove him: to see if her report could be real.

“My dear Fanny, I am aware that we have in the past amused one another, but I am willing to concede that our time together is at an end. I can only console myself that you are too canny to ever hang your heart on a man, and so I know I cannot truly have broken it. I bid you all a good night.”

Were they in her apartments, a screech and a thump of a flying missile against the door would have told him how Fanny felt about his exit. Inside the Albion there was only ominous silence.

Rowden turned up the high collar of his coat to keep out the cold drizzle of the night and pulled his hat more firmly about his ears.