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He doubted whether she even suspected her mask was so thin. She was definitely not in love with Harrow. And Harrow was definitely not in love with her. Westing was wrong. They would never marry. Not even if the current Lady Harrow were to drop dead tomorrow. For some reason this thought greatly pleased him.
Now that he’d determined once and for all his stance on the matter, curiosity ate at him. What was she to Harrow, really? And what was he to her? What was she like when she wasn’t pretending to be a courtesan? Was she indeed content with her life?
As Lucas at last began to nod off, one coherent question stuck out from amongst all of the other disjointed thoughts meandering through his mind: if happiness was subjective, then what constituted happiness for Lady Diana? On the heels of that question followed another: What constitutes happiness for me?
In spite of the restless night, the cursed internal timepiece that awakened him at precisely eight o’clock every morning was without fail. Grudgingly, he rose and called for his valet, who responded bearing the coffee his employer required in order to properly function. Gulping it down, Lucas dressed and made ready.
There was no time to waste, for this was a red-letter day. It was moving day, and his prestigious new address awaited its lord and master’s arrival. Number Five, Cork Street had quite literally fallen into his hands by means of a card game played only days after his arrival back in London. Happy chance had provided him with an overly confident opponent in the brash—and now much wiser—Honorable Mr. Rothschild, as well as plenty of witnesses to back his claim to the forfeit. Rothschild had not possessed the means to offer him a substitute of equal value and had had no choice but to honor the wager.
Lucas grinned, blessing his good fortune. He’d been kind enough to offer an exchange of residences rather than simply selling this place and sending Rothschild home to his father in disgrace. He’d been humbled so once himself and felt no young man ought to be subjected to such humiliation. At least the poor fellow would still be able to hold his head up in public—and he’d learned a valuable lesson: never wager something with which you cannot bear to part. Any prize offered up in a wager must be considered lost until one has won it back. So his father had always told him.
And so it is.
Everything had been drawn up right and proper by their solicitors, signed and sealed by both himself and Rothschild, and the exchange of deeds and keys would occur at the eleventh hour this very day. It was an excellent trade. A Leicester address was nothing to sniff at, but it was much more removed from the center of things and therefore far less desirable than Mayfair. Perhaps it would benefit young Rothschild to be a bit farther away from the friends that had urged him to make such a rash wager, but privately he doubted it. There were troublemakers aplenty in this part of London.
Myself being one—but not for much longer!
Looking in the glass held up by his man, he straightened his cravat. Mother would be pleased, at least. Now she’d be able to tell her friends her son lived in Mayfair. Of course, the move had its drawbacks. The pleasures of Covent Garden would be farther away—though that would likely please his mother even more.
Satisfied with his appearance at last, he turned to his valet. “Have the carriage brought around.”
“What of breakfast, my lord?”
“I’m meeting Westing at Oxley’s before seeing Rothschild. I’ll breakfast there.” He looked around at the sparsely furnished room with satisfaction. Most of his belongings had already been packed and awaited transport downstairs. It had been a very busy week. He’d had to hire additional staff, purchase new furnishings, and refurbish his wardrobe. Tonight, he would stay at the Rose & Crown. Tomorrow, he would take up residence in Mayfair and start anew.
The journey to Oxley’s took an eternity thanks to an overturned cart they’d been forced to circumnavigate. By the time he arrived at his destination, Lucas was annoyed, hungry, and short of time.
“I was beginning to wonder if you’d forgotten,” said Westing.
“The delay in my arrival was not of my making,” Lucas told him, pausing to call a serving maid over and place his order. “It’s uncouth to bolt one’s food, but it seems I’ve little choice. Bloody thoroughfares are getting more congested every day. It took me nearly an hour to get here, and all because of a blasted overturned cart.”
“It’s only going to get worse,” muttered Westing as he sipped his tea. “More people in Town this year than I can ever remember.”
Thankfully, the service at the establishment was swift and the meal savory, mollifying most of Lucas’s disgruntlement. Just as he was finishing, a conversation between two gentlemen seated nearby caught his attention.
“By the bye, I heard Harrow’s ladybird sprouted wings,” said one of the men. “Hart told me yesterday that he passed by her nest a week ago and marked it was being emptied. Said she’d gone and gotten herself a new lord and master.” He sniffed. “I suppose we’ll find out who the lucky bastard is soon enough.”
The other man snorted. “Don’t believe everything you hear, lad. I have it on good authority it were Harrow himself what moved her to Mayfair.”
Lucas flicked a glance at Westing, whose face took on a distinctly discouraging look.
“Convenient, that,” grunted the first man. “I should wonder what his wife thinks of it. It’s one thing to keep a bit o’ sweet on the side, but to move her into one’s own neighborhood?” An incredulous bark of laughter burst from him. “M’ wife would murder me in m’ sleep.”
“As would mine, but everyone knows Lady Harrow gets on well with her lord’s lover.”
“Think you it might be true, what they say? That the wench is servicing both master and mistress?”
“Damned if I knows,” said the second man. “If ’tis, then I’ll burn for envy. How bloody lucky can a man get?”
Lucas’s ears grew hot. He’d heard of—and seen—such things before, but for some reason his gut rebelled at the thought of her doing it. He nodded at Westing, tossed coin on the table, and together they departed.
He couldn’t help mulling over what he’d heard: she’d been removed to Mayfair. He’d find out her whereabouts quickly enough. If he didn’t see her in passing himself, he was sure to learn the location from his no doubt scandalized staff or neighbors.
“Take us to Cork Street,” he ordered his driver. To Westing, he said, “I appreciate your serving as a witness to the transfer. I’m sure everything will be in order.”
“It’s my pleasure.”
They rode in silence for a few minutes, Lucas well aware he was under intense scrutiny.
