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“Not by far,” Lucas said drily. His innate skepticism wouldn’t let the matter rest. “Lady Diana attended that ball fully aware of her situation, then,” he mused aloud. “It was either a deliberate act of defiance to try and establish her innocence, or she was looking for a protector.”
A shrug lifted his friend’s shoulders. “Perhaps it was a bit of both. As for Harrow, I understand he was a right rogue before he married Lady Harrow, so it surprises me not that he snapped her up.”
“I remember,” Lucas said, a smile tugging at his mouth. “I wanted to be just like him and was rather disappointed when he put on the shackles. But I thought he was sensible about it, at least. He married a childhood friend, and I, along with everyone else, assumed it to be a love match.”
“It certainly had every appearance of one in the beginning,” said his friend. “They retired to his country estate after the wedding and disappeared from the London scene entirely for some time. When they came back following the birth of their son, Harrow seemed a changed man. Gone were his days of cheerful whoring, and there were no more high-stakes wagers. Everyone thought his fangs had been pulled until he took up with Lady Diana.”
“You think she corrupted him?”
“I think that woman could corrupt a saint.”
“I think you may be right about that,” Lucas agreed, chuckling. “But I don’t think she corrupted Harrow.” He sucked a breath between his teeth. “I tell you, the air between them is not what it should be. There’s a calculated quality to their interactions, almost as if they’ve been rehearsed. And they’re far too cool for a couple having a torrid love affair.”
“Not every man is ablaze with lust every minute of the day, you know.”
Lucas looked at him steadily. “If she were my mistress, I certainly would be.” He pressed on over Westing’s groan. “I’m not sure what she is to him, but she’s not his lover.”
“Does it bloody well matter?” exclaimed Westing. “He’s killed men over her—ran a man through only last year for putting his hands on her—and he’s given a goodly number of nasty scars to several others for merely offering her insult. Whether or not she’s wrapping his maypole is irrelevant.”
But it does matter. For some unknown—and likely insane—reason, it mattered to him a great deal. Their arrival at the Cork Street address ended the conversation before Westing could further lament his apparent madness. A glum-faced Rothschild was ready and waiting for them, deed in hand, with his younger brother to stand as witness to the exchange.
Rothschild’s manner was stiff, but not impolite as he shook Lucas’s outstretched hand. “You’ll find everything ready and in order.”
Lucas could hardly blame him for being sullen. “Likewise.”
The gentlemen exchanged no further pleasantries, for Rothschild chose not to linger while Lucas inspected the premises. From the kitchens below to the rafters above, the house’s new owner filled his eyes with his winnings and was well pleased. The first-floor rooms were more lavishly decorated than those of his former residence, as were the private chambers upstairs. Even the servants’ quarters in the attic were first rate as such things went.
They were walking through the ballroom’s outer doors and onto a shallow terrace overlooking his new back garden when it really hit him. It wasn’t a large garden, and it was in a terrible state of disarray, but it was private.
And it’s mine. “Well, Westie? What think you? Have I risen in the world?”
“Indeed you have. Enough to warrant your mother’s attention, I’m certain,” said Westing. “Upon learning of your upward progress, she’ll no doubt demand that you host a party at once. Your neighbors will certainly expect it.”
Lucas grimaced. “I’ll have my secretary discover their names and send out invitations once it’s been arranged.” Movement in his rear neighbor’s much-larger garden caught his attention. His breath stilled. Surely, it cannot be…
“George’s pudding prick,” breathed Westing, coming up beside him. “Is that—by the dog’s bollocks, it is. I don’t believe it!”
Softly, Lucas laughed. “What was that you were saying earlier about Fate?”
“No wonder Rothschild was so sour,” muttered Westing.
A slow smile formed on Lucas’s lips. There, in the garden immediately abutting his own, dressed in a pale yellow morning frock, was none other than the woman who’d piqued his curiosity and robbed him of sleep: the one and only Lady Diana Haversham.
Chapter Six
“How can this have happened?” Diana railed, flapping the offending invitation in the air. “He had to have known. There can be no other explanation!”
“He could not possibly have known,” said Harrow with irritating calm. “Everything was arranged and managed through my solicitor—a man I’ve trusted for the last twenty years. Neither Lady Buxton nor her solicitor knew me for the purchasing party until the sale was final, which was not until a fortnight prior. Rothschild lost his bet with Blackthorn nearly two months ago and only recently vacated the premises.”
It sounded reasonable, but her panic wouldn’t allow her to calm herself. “He’ll find out. How can he not? He’s probably watching us now.” Her gaze flew to the window and across the space between their houses.
“Then we will make certain he sees only what we want him to see,” insisted Harrow, taking her by the shoulders to gently turn her back around.
Diana burst into tears.
Her best friend’s arms wrapped around her like a warm blanket and pulled her close. “Hush now. You must stop this incessant worrying—all will be well.”
“You cannot bring René here now,” she choked out, taking the kerchief he offered and blowing her nose. The tender-hearted musician was to move in tomorrow under the guise of being her instructor. “It’s too dangerous. In fact, you should sell this house at once, and I’ll move elsewhere—back to my old one, since I’ve yet to sell it. The servants here are sure to strike up an association with the neighboring staff, and if any of them learn the truth—”
