Page 28

He shifted, glancing through the slit of the carriage curtains toward Harriet’s townhouse. The street was quiet, the distant clatter of hooves and wheels a reminder of life continuing elsewhere. Yet he remained, his carriage parked discreetly down the street, as if he were some lovesick youth loitering in hopes of a glimpse.

Ridiculous.

He ran a hand through his unruly hair and exhaled slowly. He should have left by now. The rational part of him, carefully cultivated over years abroad, urged him to return to the Scotts’ townhouse. To forget the afternoon entirely. But his heart was refusing to obey.

The museum visit had started simply enough. Conversation about the exhibits, light recollections of shared memories. Yet with each step, each quiet room, he had felt the old pull, the dangerous familiarity that Harriet still possessed in abundance. The gleam in her eye when she had spoken of the Rosetta Stone, the subtle curve of her smile when discussing ancient secrets … it had all reminded him of the girl he had once loved.

But was that who she truly was now?

Sebastian leaned back and closed his eyes, recalling the years he had spent hearing whispers of Lady Slight’s exploits. The rumors had been plentiful and pernicious. Tales of lovers taken and discarded, of reckless wagers and scandalous behavior. Harriet had become known for her beauty and her disregard for society’s expectations while maintaining just enough respectability to preserve her status in polite society.

Had any of it been true?

This afternoon, he had caught glimpses of the Harriet he remembered. Intelligent, curious, with a quick wit that could disarm even the most rigid members of society. Yet the rumors pressed upon him. They clashed violently with the woman who had gazed at ancient statues with something like reverence. Was she simply playing a role for his benefit?

Sebastian cursed softly under his breath. He hated uncertainty. And Harriet Hargreaves—nay, Lady Harriet Slight—was an enigma he could no longer ignore.

The rational course would be to walk away. To leave England as soon as Lorenzo’s business was concluded and return to Florence, where life was simpler, where art was the enigma to be solved rather than the clutter of actual people. Yet here he sat, unable to bring himself to order his coachman onward.

His gaze drifted once more to Harriet’s townhouse. The door remained firmly closed. Was she inside, reflecting on their day as he did now? Or had she already dismissed him from her mind, her attention claimed by another?

The thought twisted unpleasantly in his chest.

He had almost convinced himself to depart when movement caught his eye. His posture sharpened instantly, every sense alert.

An unmarked carriage, a sleek black one without any identifiable crest, rolled to a stop before Harriet’s residence. The door opened smoothly, and his breath caught when Harriet stepped out the front door.

But she had just returned not an hour past. Where could she be going now?

Sebastian leaned forward, narrowing his gaze.

Harriet’s appearance had changed. Gone was the elegant pelisse and bonnet she had worn to the museum. Now she was dressed in a demure dark blue walking gown with a matching cloak draped over her slender shoulders. Her distinctive hair was pinned up higher, concealed by a large but modest bonnet. She was dressed for a private visit, not a public outing, and Sebastian had the sense she was hiding her identity. He would have known her bearing and her step anywhere: that particular uprightness of posture, the unhurried deliberateness of her movement that no bonnet or cloak could disguise. He would have known her as surely as he had recognized her across the crowded rooms of Avonmead all those years ago, long before he had understood what such recognition meant. That notwithstanding, he felt the familiar unease of a man who had labored long and hard to leave certain memories behind, watching the woman responsible for them step into a discreet vehicle.

He craned his neck forward in frustration as he considered the reasons that she would own a carriage which was impossible to identify, and the answers he found stoked his jealousy. He felt like a cad for being suspicious, but his instincts stirred. He rapped twice on the roof of his carriage, signaling his coachman.

“Follow that carriage,” he ordered and his own vehicle pulled into a slow roll behind Harriet’s.

As the two carriages wound their way through the quieter streets of Mayfair, the streetlamps hissed softly as they flickered to life, casting a pale glow over the refined streets of the prestigious neighborhood. The early twilight of winter draped the district in a silvery veil, the grand townhouses standing in elegant rows, their symmetrical fronts framed by wrought-iron balconies and tall sash windows. The faint scent of coal smoke from drawing-room fires mingled with the sharper tang of the winter air. From behind silk curtains, the muted notes of a harpsichord drifted into the street, preparations perhaps for an evening soirée.

Sebastian’s carriage followed Harriet’s unmarked vehicle at a cautious distance, the steady clatter of hooves on cobbles echoing between quiet streets. Gas lamps glowed before exclusive clubs and well-tended gardens, casting long shadows where liveried footmen waited at imposing doorways. This was Mayfair, respectable and dignified, a bastion of wealth and decorum.

But as the carriages turned onto narrower lanes, the atmosphere shifted. The houses grew less grand, their façades darkened by soot. St. James’s Market loomed ahead, where gambling hells, taverns, and less reputable establishments thrived. Sebastian leaned forward, unease tightening his chest.

What the deuce is Harriet doing here?

As they passed St. James’s Square and edged closer to St. James’s Market, Sebastian felt his frown deepen. This neighborhood was not where a respectable viscountess would be expected. The area had a reputation. The realm of degenerate gamblers, fortune-seekers, and those with secrets best kept in shadows.

The black carriage ahead slowed, preparing to turn, but just at that moment, a cluster of vehicles clogged the narrow street. Sebastian’s coachman called out as a delivery cart overturned some barrels. Sebastian thrust open the carriage door and leaned out.

“Can you get us through?” he demanded.

“I will try, m’lord,” the coachman replied, tugging the reins.

But it was too late.

By the time Sebastian’s carriage cleared the obstruction, Harriet’s vehicle was gone.

He stepped down from the carriage, scanning the street with narrowed eyes. The black coach had vanished, swallowed by the warren of streets near the market.