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“I am happy to catch you up, dear,” Mornington said. “But take care with your steps. Someone may have spilled their drink on their way to the library. I should hate for you to slip and hurt yourself.”

Of course, once they reached the ladies’ cloakroom, Lady Mornington declared that exact scenario to the hovering maids, starting a small circus as she announced their immediate departure and sent someone to inform Amy’s father. Amy found herself settled into a chair, her leg elevated, and successive cups of mulled wine pressed into her hand while others took over her fate.

A few minutes later, a maid rushed down the hall with sodden rags from the spill that hadn’t been there. Nobody even whispered of Lord Darby being in the library. And her father didn’t argue with Lady Mornington’s charitable offer to see Amy home. Either that or he was already too drunk to care because he didn’t storm in to shake her for being inconvenient.

“Your father’s quite relieved to have you taken care of, my dear. I assured him it was no difficulty.” Lady Mornington said it very kindly as they made a slow walk out to the carriages

They took care of everything. I won’t be marrying Darby. I’ll be in bed before Father comes home. The tears she’d desperately held back spilled down her cheeks as Lady Mornington’s footman helped her into the unfamiliar carriage. A rather delicate operation with one unsteady ankle, as it happened.

Mornington alighted with far less bother. She sat on the far side of the carriage, tutting sympathetically. “You are ... well? Darby didn’t do anything entirely unspeakable, did he?” she asked softly once the door shut. “Here, have my spare kerchief.”

“I—I ... thank you.” Amy took the square of linen, miserably pressing it to her face. “He only scared me. Really. I ... I thought when the others came in that I’d had it. Father would make me marry him a—after all.”

“There's no fear of that at present.” Lady Mornington sighed as the carriage jolted forward. “But if you’re being brave right now, and something did happen, you can come speak with me. Here’s my card.” She pulled it from her reticule and offered it to Amy. “I reside with my dear brother, of course, but he’s not as frightening as he looks.”

“L—Lord Clarendel’s not frightening.” Amy tucked the card away while Mornington laughed.

“Either your wits are lost, dear girl, or you’ve got stars in your eyes. My brother’s made of steel and flintlock. Always has been.”

“But he ... he dances well. And he helped me. Precious few would have.” He even made sure I was going home without my father’s wrath to face. Amy’s fingers tightened on the reticule’s latch, an idea kindling in her mind—a wild, foolish one.

“Not so few as all that, considering your inheritance,” Mornington cautioned. “I know the world is hard, Miss Sunderland, but you should be wary. Fix those lovely, dazzled eyes on some soft young suitor from the country who’ll bore you to tears with talk of lambing and haying and bring you so many gifts you can’t count them all.”

“Is that what you did?” The words were out before Amy could stop them. Thankfully, Mornington only laughed.

“Heavens no. I married a man who was all poetry and fire. I loved him. Unfortunately, the fever loved him too, in the end.” She shrugged, seeming far too blithe about it. But grief affected everyone strangely—Amy knew that all too well.

“I’m sorry for your loss, my lady.” I'm even sorrier that I can’t heed your advice. But soft country squires will never stand against Father. I must find someone who will. She ran her finger along the beaded front bag and the address of freedom it contained. “I hope I may call on you to thank you for your help.”

“You may call whenever you wish. We should be good friends, Miss Sunderland.”

They turned the topic back to the party and other people’s gossip until the carriage arrived at Amy’s home, and servants were called to help her out and up the stairs. She held onto the reticule until Staunton poured her bath. While her maid and the others were busy, she took the card out and slipped it under her pillow.

I’ll see how this idea looks by daylight. Then ... decide.

Chapter Four - Nicholas

(Clarendel townhouse, Mayfair. November 11, 1813)

"“My lord, you have a guest.” Crivens' stodgy voice pulled Nicholas from contemplating the cracked window frames and a curling corner of wallpaper just above his chamber door. His father's usual keen attention to decor showed itself to especial advantage in the gloriously weathered carpets and opulently smoking chimneys. The whole damn house needed new hangings—it hadn't been attended to since King George had a wet-nurse. And might not be attended to for another forty years if Nicholas couldn’t find himself a rich bride whose fortune could be invested and used in restoring the estates to profitability.

“It's damned early for Markham to be about.” Nicholas could think of few others bold enough to risk rousing him the morning after a ball.

“The guest is a young lady, my lord.”

The valet's hands gained sudden speed. Nicholas glowered. “You let a street urchin into—”

“My lord, she gave her name as The Honorable Miss Sunderland.”

“At hell's gates?" He laughed in shock. “Very well. I’ll see her.”

Assured that Thompson finished with the cravat, Nicholas consented to a splash of cologne, then adjusted his coat and hurried off to discover what the girl was up to. If she required further chivalric shows, she'd arrived at least four hours and a meal too early.

****

He found her in the parlor—a frantic angel pacing the faded oriental carpet. Her white sarsenet walking dress with its modest cut and her sensible black half-boots certainly lacked finesse if seduction was her aim. Nicholas paused in the doorway, watching her. She really was very pretty. Her face was oval, with lovely flushed cheeks and full lips she’d evidently been biting. He wanted to bite them, too. Sinking his teeth into her full breasts and flared hips might be fun, too. And the shapely thighs he’d glimpsed last night...

“I don't remember my sister setting up visiting hours today," Nicholas said, endeavoring to sound polite rather than suspicious. Or in desperate need of a fuck.