A Secret Surrender - Darcy Burke Page 0,11

been orphaned. Then he’d sent her away to Mrs. Goodwin’s Ladies’ Seminary to keep her even safer and to ensure she had a better chance at a future than she would have had in the East End.

How wrong he’d been.

Mayhap her life had been better. There was no way to know. Either way, here she was, nearly right back where she started. And Rafe was gone.

So while she might not get what she wanted, she’d seize the next best thing: revenge.

Chapter 4

Harry slipped his finger between his neck and his overly starched collar and cravat and gave the fabric a gentle tug. His valet had gone to excess with his costume this evening, but then it had been a while since Harry had attended anything but a family dinner at his parents’ house.

The discomfort of his overly elegant clothing extended to his mood—he didn’t like these kinds of events. Pomp, fabrication, and excess. Though his parents did better than most as far as whom they invited and the expense they laid out, it was still far and beyond what Harry thought was necessary. Why not just invite a handful of friends over to play cards?

Because there will be dancing!

Harry heard his mother’s dissenting opinion in his head along with her effusive laugh and couldn’t help but smile. Yes, dancing, and he’d avoid it like the bloody plague.

Settling back against the squab and dropping his hand to his side as the hack turned onto Bond Street, he thought back on another pointless afternoon watching The Ardent Rose. The past five days, he’d either stationed himself across the street or observed the alley, onto which the back entrance opened. He had yet to see Madame Sybila leave the perfumery. She was either watching him and adjusting her departure, or he was incredibly unlucky.

Four days, actually, since he’d deduced that she hadn’t been there on Thursday. He’d paid someone to go in and ask about the fortune-teller’s schedule. She didn’t make appointments on Thursdays—or of course Sundays.

What he really needed, however, was to learn what she did during her appointments. He supposed it was possible she wasn’t up to anything fraudulent, but he wasn’t going to wait for her to cheat his mother or one of her friends to know for certain.

His mind turned to the other investigation weighing on him: that of the Vicar. Harry had visited St. Dunstan-in-the-West and asked to see the Vicar only to be told there was no person by that name, just the actual vicar of the church. So Harry had watched the church for hours at a time—and seen nothing. He’d also asked around Blackfriars and learned that there was still no one willing to discuss the Vicar, let alone give a description of what he looked like. The man either paid people well or inspired a deep loyalty.

The hack turned onto Grosvenor Street, and soon cut through Grosvenor Square before turning onto Charles Street, where Harry got out.

He strode into the mews behind his parents’ house, where he greeted one of the grooms. “Good evening, Barker.”

“’Evening, sir,” Barker said. “Surprised to see you here tonight. But not surprised you’re stealing in the back.” He chuckled.

“You know me well.” Harry winked at the groom, then took himself to the house, entering through the back door that the servants used.

Sounds from the kitchen carried up the backstairs, giving indication of how busy they all were for the soiree. It was early yet, and Harry could only hope Lady Gresham and her sister arrived near the start so he could leave as soon as possible.

Harry opened a door and stepped into the corridor that led to the library at the back of the house, where his family typically gathered before dinner—and before events such as this. He heard their voices before he stepped inside.

His brother Jeremy, Viscount Northwood, and whom everyone but Harry called North, stood just over the threshold and noticed him immediately, his dark auburn brows climbing his forehead in a combination of surprise and amusement.

Harry put his finger to his lips. He wanted to see how long it took before anyone else noticed he was there.

“That’s a beautiful color on you,” his youngest sister, Imogen, was saying to the oldest of his three sisters, Delia. “And the drape is perfection. It’s hardly possible to tell you’re increasing.”

“That can’t be true,” Delia said. “I feel as large as Lord Blakesley’s ridiculous new coach.”

“An absolute monstrosity,” Delia’s husband, Edward, Baron Moreton, said with a sniff.

Delia arched a