even resided in Clayton House. Mo Chridhe, a volume of poems, had already taken permanent residence in the library.
“Hey! Watch where you’re going!” a voice cried out.
He jumped back as a hackney carriage thundered past with the crack of a whip and rattled into the distance. He lifted his hand in a gesture of appeasement, then set off in the opposite direction.
By the time he reached the familiar street, the light had already begun to fade. The low winter sun cast its rays over the buildings, giving them the soft purple hue, which often signaled the onset of snow.
Most of the houses on the terrace were occupied. Lights flickered in the windows, and silhouettes moved about. The occasional pale face looked out from the top floors—servants taking a glimpse of the world outside before being summoned to service the shivering creatures who employed them.
None of the houses held any interest for him, save one. Three houses from the end of the street, its dark windows gave it the forlorn appearance of an abandoned orphan. The last time he’d seen the building, it vibrated with life and passion—the anger of a matriarch, the despair of a young woman, and the triumph of a rival.
He looked up, searching for evidence of life. But other than the reflection of the sunset winking in the top windows, the house showed no sign of it.
Perhaps it was for the best that the house was empty. What would he have said to her if she’d been there?
Was she happy? Or had that freedom of spirit, that fire, been doused by the cold waters of reality?
Would there ever be a woman to measure up to her?
Light footsteps approached, and he hunched his shoulders and stared straight ahead as if to render himself invisible.
A hand touched his arm, and a female voice spoke. “It is you! I thought as much.”
Clad in a scarlet, fur-trimmed jacket, her blonde hair peeking out from beneath her bonnet, Anne Pelham stood out among the harsh winter landscape.
He issued a bow. “Mrs. Pelham.”
“I’m so glad to see you,” she said. “London is frightfully dull this time of year, but there’s nothing to compare to excellent company.”
“You’re too kind,” he said. “But if you dislike London, why do you stay? Don’t you have a house in the country?”
“Harold is here,” she said, “and I’d rather be by his side.” She blushed and smiled, the epitome of the well-satisfied and well-loved wife. Harold Pelham was, indeed, a lucky bastard.
“Tomorrow, I stake my claim on him,” she continued, “and we leave for Hertfordshire.”
“Then I count myself fortunate, having seen you today,” he said. “It seems as if all houses in London are empty.”
“All, or just one?” she asked, her gaze lingering on the townhouse before them. “Most houses on this street are occupied.”
“I suppose they are.”
“But the one in which you have a particular interest is not.”
She nodded toward the Hart residence.
“It’s been unoccupied for a month,” she said. “Mr. Hart is in the country with his new wife.”
“He’s married?”
“Just last month. A rather hasty affair, so I heard, and a most unsuitable woman.”
“And…the rest of the family?”
“Miss Hart’s in Bath,” she said. “She’s taking the waters for her health.”
“I didn’t know Miss Dorothea was unwell.”
“No, I meant Delilah.”
“Oh,” he said. “Lady Tipton.”
“Oh, good lord!” She cried. “You’ve not heard?” She shook her head. “I suppose being half a world away, the news didn’t reach you. The marriage never took place.”
Glendarron was hardly half a world away.
“What happened?” he asked. “Did she break off their engagement?”
“No, he did. The night before the wedding.” She lowered her voice, “Her dowry never materialized. Apparently, she invested the money—rather unwisely, it seems.”
“Invested it?”
“I don’t know the particulars, but Harold overheard mention of it in Whites. I’ll never understand why gentlemen accuse ladies of idle tattle when they’re equally at fault. But if men believe that gossip over brandy in a smoke-filled clubroom is akin to an intellectual conversation, then who am I to shatter their illusions?”
“And Mr. Pelham?”
“My husband knows better than to discuss his business openly. His ability to keep an open ear among so many loose tongues, serves him well.”
“And he trusts you with the secrets revealed in Whites?” Fraser asked.
She smiled. “There was little to relate other than the disappearance of twenty thousand pounds.”
He froze. “How much did you say?”
“Twenty thousand,” she said. “If you ask me, Delilah was at liberty to do what she wanted with her fortune, and if Sir Thomas spurned her as