Page 41 of Not his Marchioness (Daughters of the Ton #2)

She looked much the same as the last time he had seen her, perhaps even better. Not quite so drawn, not quite so beaten down.

“My Lord, I have not seen you in an age. I thought you had forsaken us forever, now that you have a beautiful young wife.”

Rhys managed a smile, though it was forced. He did have a beautiful young wife. A wife who, this very evening, had seemed suspicious of his story. He had given her a plausible one: Gideon’s father was hosting gentlemen that night. The trouble was that neither he nor Gideon had been invited.

Charlotte, perceptive as ever, had been suspicious.

Again, he wondered if he ought to have told her about the letter.

But then he reminded himself why he had not.

He was not certain whether its contents were true.

And Lizzie hardly looked like a woman in dire straits, much less one with a sickly child on their deathbed.

“How may I help you, My Lord?” she asked, drawing him out of his thoughts.

“I came because of the letter you sent.”

Her eyebrows rose. “You must be mistaken. I have sent you no letter.”

He drew a steadying breath. He had suspected as much.

He reached into his breast pocket, produced the folded paper, and handed it to her. She scanned the lines, her lips parting.

“My Lord, I swear to you, this is not my hand. And I have no child.” She looked up sharply. “Did you think this meant I had borne your child?”

He glanced around uneasily. There were too many ears, too many eyes. A few patrons had already turned in their direction. Lizzie, ever practical, slipped her hand through his arm and steered him toward the back of the room, where the was less noise.

“I was uncertain,” he admitted. “The letter spoke of a child. I thought—” His voice faltered. “I had not seen you in so long.”

“So you assumed I had hidden away to bear your child?”

He shrugged helplessly. “I did not know what to think.”

“I went away,” she said, her voice firm, “because your fellow lords launched their campaign to keep gentlemen from frequenting such establishments. I moved to Dover, where sailors have no qualms about our services. I did well enough for myself there. I may not have returned with a child, but I returned with enough money to buy this establishment.”

His eyes widened. “You bought it?”

“Indeed. With help. Aside from the sailors, I made the acquaintance of a wealthy gentleman. He saw fit to look after me properly. If you hoped to use my services again, My Lord, I fear you will be disappointed. I have a mind to transform myself from courtesan to publican.”

“I did not come to use your services,” Rhys said, flushing. “As you said, I am married. Still, I am glad you have done well for yourself. But this letter—it was signed with your name.”

She frowned, brushing back a stray auburn curl. “Yes… I cannot fathom why someone would use it.” Her eyes narrowed. “Is there anyone who would wish you harm, My Lord?”

He gave a dry laugh. “There are many I have crossed at one time or another in gaming hells and at the card table. But only one comes to mind who might go so far as to orchestrate this. Before my marriage, my wife was nearly affianced to another—Lord Emery.”

Her eyebrows shot up. “Emery? I know him. I banished him from these rooms not long after I returned from Dover. He started a brawl and vowed revenge when I kicked him out. If this is his work, it does not surprise me. Though why he would write falsehoods about a child, I do not know.”

“This is not about you,” Rhys said grimly. “It is about me. Emery could not stomach my marriage to Charlotte when he desired her for himself. This is his revenge.”

“Charlotte? Lady Charlotte Langley?” Lizzie’s lips curled into a wry smile. “I heard of her antics at the Swanson ball. She wore a scarlet gown, did she not? And announced quite boldly whom she would accept and whom she would not.”

“More or less,” Rhys replied tightly. “It is precisely why Emery hates us both. Yet I do not understand how drawing me here furthers his aims.”

Lizzie’s gaze flicked across the room. Rhys followed it to the man behind the bar, who was watching them with pointed interest.

“Barnes,” she murmured. “He served under the previous owner. Too loyal by half. I have long suspected him of sowing trouble. It was he who brought me your message to meet. I confess I found it odd—you, asking me to alert you if matters grew worse. I had no notion what situation you meant. But he handles all the notes that pass through here.”

“Do you think he works with Emery?” Rhys asked, his voice low.

“It is possible,” she replied. “He may have someone following you even now, to report back to your wife. If Emery cannot ruin your reputation, he may attempt to ruin your marriage.”

Rhys’s heart clenched.

Charlotte…

What would Emery tell her? Or worse, had he already told her something?

He must go back home. He must tell her everything. He never should have lied to her. She deserved the truth, and he would give it to her before Emery twisted it into something else.

The pieces fell together with sickening clarity. Emery had laid the trap with the forged letter, lured him here to be seen in Lizzie’s company, and no doubt arranged for whispers to find their way to Charlotte’s ear. Every moment Rhys lingered only tightened the snare.

He sucked in a sharp breath and inclined his head. “Madam, you have my gratitude for your honesty. But I must beg your pardon and take my leave. There is not a moment to lose.”

Lizzie studied him, something akin to sympathy in her eyes. “Go, then, My Lord. But tread carefully. If Lord Emery is playing such a game, he has not finished yet.”

“I know,” Rhys said grimly. “And I won’t let him win.”

With that, he strode out of the back room, past the curious eyes and muttered comments, and out into the cool night.

The street smelled of damp cobblestones and horseflesh, the lamps throwing long shadows. His pulse thundered in his ears as he hurried down the narrow road.

There, waiting where he had left it, was his carriage. Gideon was leaning against the wheel, his arms crossed, impatience etched into every line of his face. At the sight of Rhys, he straightened.

“Well?” he asked, opening the door as Rhys approached.

“No time,” Rhys muttered, climbing in. “We’ve been tricked. Emery set this snare, and I’ll be damned if I let him twist it further. We ride for Mayfair, now.”

The whip cracked, the horses surged forward, and he gripped the seat, hellbent on reaching Charlotte before Emery’s lies did.