trousers were a purchase he regretted. He didn’t mind their being tailored for me and he definitely didn’t want them back.”
“Sommers would not let me own a pair,” Ashmont said.
“I think they look better on women, actually.”
“So do I. Please keep them. For after we’re married. For private . . . erm . . . theatricals.”
“Private, indeed. If anybody recognized me in these—not in an amateur theatrical but traveling the streets of London—”
“Let’s not think about that,” he said. “We simply won’t let it happen. Tell me your idea.”
Meanwhile
It would not be too much to say that Mr. Titus Owsley was shocked out of his wits. Of all the accusations one might hurl at the Duke of Ashmont, the last Owsley would have considered was what he’d witnessed. After all, the duke flaunted his mistresses—in the very same box, for instance, that had a few weeks earlier held Miss Pomfret and two ladies of her family. The duke was a known habitué of Carlotta O’Neill’s den of iniquity and others nearly as famous.
Though the two figures left the window, Owsley remained gazing in disbelief at the place where they’d been. While he’d believe the Duke of Ashmont capable of anything, this was beyond comprehension. Was it a joke? A game? Did he know Owsley was watching? It would be like Ashmont to play such a prank. More likely than . . . no, it was impossible.
If the duke belonged to that category of . . . men, one would have heard whispers. One would have caught a hint, a sly reference here and there. Beyond question, Owsley had kept all his senses alert for some time now, seeking hints. When a man lived as openly and shamelessly as Ashmont did, it was nigh impossible to discover dark secrets.
“It’s a trick,” Owsley muttered to himself. “Or a game of some sort being played in that house. How do I know who else is there?”
And so he waited and racked his brains and stewed over the problem. There had to be a connection between what he’d observed and the volumes of the duke’s far-from-secret history.
By this time darkness had fallen, and the streets were busy. Periodically he took out his watch, pretending to be waiting for somebody, though for all he comprehended of the watch’s face, it might as well have been a seashell.
He was staring at the timepiece for what felt like the hundredth time, and wondering whether he was becoming too conspicuous, when he saw two masculine figures emerge from the duke’s garden and hurry toward Grosvenor Street. As the pair passed under a gaslight, he recognized the Duke of Ashmont’s tall figure. The other was not quite as tall, and there was something familiar in his walk.
Once, Ashmont glanced back, but Owsley kept his head down and crossed the street. Heart racing, he followed them into Grosvenor Street and watched them walk to a hackney stand. The duke spoke, and the other fellow answered, and Owsley stopped, so suddenly that he stumbled.
He couldn’t make out the words but the voice . . . He knew that voice. How could he forget it?
Mr. Owsley, in recent weeks some pieces have appeared in the London journals.
I don’t see how the facts could be plainer.
He would not mistake that voice had he heard it among a hundred. Hers had the same effortlessly compelling quality her father used so brilliantly in the House of Commons. She’d inherited her father’s mind as well.
Lady Bartham’s remarks echoed in his mind: . . . should have groomed her to be a great political hostess . . . achieve great things with her by his side.
He clenched his hands. He’d dared to believe so. Until now.
Cassandra Pomfret was the other figure he’d seen in the window. She was the one Ashmont had kissed so passionately.
She, ruined. What had possessed her to throw away her future, her good name?
But no, he could not, would not believe it. She could not possibly hold herself so cheap. But why had she been there? How had she been lured into a situation so dangerous? She was daring. Everybody knew this.
“No,” he told himself. “It is impossible. She would never . . . I don’t believe it. There’s another explanation.” Yet intelligent women made ghastly mistakes like this time and again. The streets were filled with women who’d allowed themselves to be led astray.
No, not she. Impossible. It made him sick to think of it—of that handsome young woman in the duke’s