Page 14

Your vows, like gold, so pure and true,

Inspire my heart with faith anew;

No doubt shall dim the love we share,

For in your words, I place my care.

The New Ladies’ Valentine Writer (1821)

S ebastian sat motionless in the dim interior of his borrowed carriage, the leather seat cool beneath him despite the faint warmth of the afternoon sun that filtered through the drawn curtains. His gloved fingers drummed a slow rhythm on his thigh, betraying the tumult within him.

The visit to the British Museum with Harriet had unsettled him far more than he had anticipated.

He had expected polite conversation, perhaps some lingering awkwardness after all these years.

Instead, he had found himself treading perilous ground, where glances held too much meaning and silences whispered of unspoken truths.

He shifted, glancing out the slit of the carriage window toward Harriet’s townhouse.

The street was quiet, the distant clatter of hooves and wheels a reminder of life continuing elsewhere.

Yet he remained, his carriage parked discreetly down the street, as if he were some lovesick youth loitering in hopes of a glimpse.

Ridiculous.

He ran a hand through his unruly hair and exhaled slowly. He should have left by now. The rational part of him, carefully cultivated over years abroad, urged him to return to the Scotts’ townhouse. To forget the afternoon entirely. But his heart—damn it—his heart was refusing to obey.

The museum visit had started simply enough.

Conversation about the exhibits, light recollections of shared memories.

Yet with each step, each quiet room, he had felt the old pull, the dangerous familiarity that Harriet still possessed in abundance.

The gleam in her eye when she had spoken of the Rosetta Stone, the subtle curve of her smile when discussing ancient secrets—it had all reminded him of the girl he had once loved.

But was that still who she was now?

Sebastian leaned back, recalling the years he had spent hearing whispers of Lady Slight’s exploits.

The rumors had been plentiful and pernicious.

Tales of lovers taken and discarded, of reckless wagers and scandalous behavior.

Harriet had become known for her beauty and her disregard for society’s expectations while upholding just enough respectability to maintain her status in polite society.

Had any of it been true?

This afternoon, he had caught glimpses of the Harriet he remembered—intelligent, curious, with a quick wit that could disarm even the most rigid members of society.

Yet the rumors gnawed at him. They clashed violently with the woman who had gazed at ancient statues with such appreciation.

Was she simply playing a role for his benefit?

Sebastian cursed softly under his breath. He hated uncertainty. And Harriet Hargreaves—no, Lady Harriet Slight—was an enigma he could no longer ignore.

The rational course would be to walk away.

To leave England as soon as Lorenzo’s business was concluded and return to Florence, where life was simpler, where art was the enigma to be solved rather than the clutter of actual people.

Yet here he sat, unable to bring himself to order his coachman onward.

His gaze drifted once more to Harriet’s townhouse.

A home of luxury that he could not have provided her with when he had left for Florence.

Fortunately, these days, his circumstances were vastly different from that time.

The door remained firmly closed as he considered their day together.

Was she inside, reflecting on their day as he did now?

Or had she already dismissed him from her mind, her attention captured by another?

The thought twisted unpleasantly in his chest.

He had almost convinced himself to depart when movement caught his eye. His posture straightened instantly, every sense sharpened.

An unmarked carriage—a sleek black one without any identifiable crest—rolled to a stop before Harriet’s residence. The door opened smoothly, and his breath caught when Harriet stepped out the front door.

But she had just returned not an hour past. Where could she be going now?

Sebastian leaned forward, narrowing his gaze.

Harriet’s appearance had changed. Gone was the elegant pelisse and bonnet she had worn to the museum.

Now, she was dressed in a demure dark blue walking gown with a matching cloak draped over her slender shoulders.

Her distinctive hair was pinned up higher, concealed by a large but unassuming bonnet.

She was dressed for a private visit, not a public outing, and Sebastian got the sense she was hiding her identity.

That notwithstanding, he would recognize those lush curves even if he were drunk to the point of blindness—as he had been when he first reached Florence and made a laudable attempt to drown his memories of the female now stepping into the discreet vehicle.

He stretched his neck in frustration as he considered the reasons that she would own a carriage that was impossible to identify, and the answers he found made his nerves ferment with jealousy.

He felt like a cad for being suspicious, but his instincts stirred.

He rapped twice on the roof of his carriage, signaling his coachman.

“Follow that carriage,” he ordered as his own vehicle pulled into a slow roll behind Harriet’s.

As the two carriages wound their way through the quieter streets of Mayfair, the streetlamps hissed softly as they flickered to life, casting a pale glow over the refined streets of the prestigious neighborhood.

The early twilight of winter draped the district in a silvery veil, the grand townhouses standing in elegant rows, their symmetrical facades framed by wrought-iron balconies and tall sash windows.

The faint scent of coal smoke from drawing-room fires mingled with the sharper tang of the winter air.

From behind silk curtains, the muted notes of a harpsichord drifted into the street—preparations for an evening soirée in full swing.

Sebastian’s carriage followed Harriet’s unmarked vehicle at a cautious distance, the steady clatter of hooves on cobbles echoing between quiet streets.

Gas lamps glowed before exclusive clubs and well-tended gardens, casting long shadows where liveried footmen waited at imposing doorways.

This was Mayfair—respectable, dignified, a bastion of wealth and decorum.

But as the carriages turned onto narrower lanes, the atmosphere shifted. The houses grew less grand, their facades touched by soot. St. James’s Market loomed ahead, where gambling hells, taverns, and houses of ill repute thrived. Sebastian leaned forward, unease tightening his chest.

What in the deuce is Harriet doing here?

As they passed St. James’s Square and edged closer to St. James’s Market, Sebastian felt his frown deepen.

This neighborhood was not where a respectable viscountess would be expected.

The area had a reputation— the realm of degenerate gamblers, fortune-seekers, and those with secrets best kept in shadows.

The black carriage ahead slowed, preparing to turn, but just at that moment, a cluster of vehicles clogged the narrow street. Sebastian’s coachman exclaimed as a delivery cart overturned some barrels. Sebastian thrust open the carriage door and leaned out.

“Can you get us through?” he demanded.

“I will try, m’lord,” the coachman replied, tugging the reins.

But it was too late.

By the time Sebastian’s carriage cleared the congestion, Harriet’s vehicle was gone.

He stepped down from the carriage, scanning the street intently. The black coach had vanished, swallowed by the warren of streets near the market.

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

The area was alive with noise now—hawkers calling out, the raucous laughter from nearby establishments, and the clatter of passing carts. But Harriet was nowhere to be seen.

Sebastian raked a hand through his hair again, frustration prickling 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 lover, 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—rumors 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 racing 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 gnawing at him.

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

And why did he care so damned 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.