Page 29

“Blast,” Sebastian muttered, glancing up and down the road.

The area was alive with noise now. Hawkers called out, raucous laughter spilled from nearby establishments, and passing carts clattered by. But Harriet was nowhere to be seen.

Sebastian raked a hand through his hair again, frustration needling at his skin. He had come so close. He turned in a slow circle, considering the possible destinations.

Why here? Was she meeting someone? An old acquaintance, perhaps? The thought sent a sharp pang through him, though he immediately cursed his own foolishness for caring.

He had to be careful. He had heard too many stories over the years. Tales of Lady Slight’s indiscretions, of her ability to ensnare hearts only to discard them when they ceased to amuse her. His own heart had paid the price once. He would not be a fool a second time.

And yet …

She had seemed so different at the museum. For a fleeting moment, she had appeared like the Harriet he had once known. But what was truth? What was performance?

Sebastian exhaled slowly, forcing his restless thoughts to settle. He would discover what she was about. He had not returned from Florence to be ensnared by the same troubles that had driven him away years ago. No, this time he would be careful.

But even as he climbed back into his carriage, instructing the coachman to head for home, Sebastian could not shake the unease pressing upon him.

What in the blazes was Harriet Slight doing near St. James’s Market?

And why did the answer matter to him so much?

* * *

Harriet paused before the narrow entrance of a weathered building, Belinda Cooper’s address above a shop in St. James’s Market. The streets here bore little resemblance to the refined lanes of Mayfair. Stalls crowded the thoroughfare, peddling everything from silk scraps to tarnished silver spoons, and the scent of roasted chestnuts mingled with the less savory odors of the market. The raucous voices of merchants hawking wares filled the air. This was no place for a viscountess.

Glancing back at her coachman, one of the few men still on her staff, she was relieved to see he had stepped down and taken up the position of a sentry, his stout figure stationed beside the carriage with an air of quiet authority.

Jonas Fletcher had been with Harriet’s household for several years, long enough to have seen her at both the pinnacle of her social triumphs and through her most recent trials. A man of perhaps five and forty, he bore the rugged features of someone who had spent his life exposed to the elements. His weathered skin hinted at years on the box, driving through misty countryside mornings and crowded London streets. His dark hair, streaked with silver at the temples, was tied neatly at the nape of his neck in the fashion of an earlier era, a quiet rebellion against more modern styles. A faint scar curved along his left cheekbone, though he never spoke of how he came by it. His blue eyes were sharp, ever watchful, and Harriet took comfort in the steady gaze that missed nothing.

Jonas wore his livery with unassuming confidence. The deep navy coat, though a few years old, was immaculately kept, brass buttons gleaming in the fading light. The faint scent of leather and horses clung to him, along with a quiet competence that set him apart.

Like many coachmen of his age, Jonas had grown stout from his sedentary position, but he had yet an air of discipline. He carried himself with the posture of a soldier, which some whispered he might have once been. Harriet had never pressed him on the matter. His loyalty had been proven when most of her household had scattered, and that was all that mattered.

For all his quiet reserve, Jonas had a way of putting the grooms in their place with a single look, and the horses responded to his steady hands like obedient children. He rarely spoke unless spoken to, but when he did, his voice was low and steady, with the faintest trace of a rural accent, Devonshire, perhaps.

Now, as he stood watch, arms folded behind his back, his eyes swept the street with a narrowed focus. No gambler, hawker, or street urchin would dare approach the carriage under his watchful gaze. Fletcher might not speak much, but his presence said everything.

I am here. I am watching. And I will protect what is mine.

And knowing Fletcher kept a pistol in the box beneath the seat certainly relieved her concerns. St. James’s Market could be a dangerous place, and despite the early hour, darkness had fallen to usher in a chilly evening.

Harriet gave a subtle nod of appreciation before turning back toward the staircase that led to the rooms above the shop. With Jonas standing guard below, she could face whatever waited for her within. She took a steadying breath and climbed the narrow steps. The faded door at the top rattled as she rapped sharply. For a moment, there was only silence. Harriet raised her hand again, but the door opened abruptly.

Belinda Cooper stood framed in the doorway, dressed immaculately in a deep plum gown that suited her average height and slender frame. Her hazel eyes, sharp and intelligent, widened slightly at the sight of Harriet, though she masked her surprise with admirable speed. Her dark brown hair was styled flawlessly, and despite her surroundings, she looked as elegant as ever.

But Harriet noticed it immediately. The redness on Belinda’s right cheek. As if Lord Lowe had struck her. What a despicable toad he was, frequently soused and always inappropriate.

“Miss Cooper,” Harriet said softly, stepping forward. “May I come in?”

Belinda hesitated, her shoulders stiffening. “Of course, my lady.”

The room was small but tidy, with two armchairs positioned around a threadbare rug covering the floor, and the scent of lavender soap lingered in the air. Belinda had arranged the limited furnishings with care, though Harriet’s gaze kept returning to the flush of red on her cheek, recalling the rumor that had helped her find Belinda. Lowe had lost his temper and manhandled her in the presence of others.

“You should not be here, Lady Slight,” Belinda said, her tone uneasy. “This is hardly a neighborhood for someone of your standing.”

“And yet here I am,” Harriet replied, removing her gloves. “Because you should not be here either.”

Belinda’s lips tightened. “Not all of us have a choice.”