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Her father was venting his ire, she reminded herself as she steeled herself against his venomous cut.

He had intended to use her as a pawn to make a second match that was advantageous—to him, not her—but Harriet was not participating in his schemes again.

Not now that she was a widow of independent means.

Feeling rather desperate, Harriet lunged in a bid to end the meeting. “I wish to have her address.”

Lord Hargreaves shrugged, his lean shoulders lifting with a deliberate nonchalance. “I could not say. I bid her to depart the house I keep, and I know not where she went.”

“Then give me the gifts you took from her, along with the money owed per your arrangement, and I will find her.” Harriet could hear her voice was a little shrill. It would not do to reveal any emotion, but her composure was eroding within his stifling presence.

“I would not concern myself if I were you.” It was worded as advice, but the menacing threat caused the last of her cool resolve to crumble.

“I shall inform Mother if you do not honor your agreements!”

Her father arched an eyebrow before breaking into laughter, appearing genuinely amused at the thought.

“My dear, are you going to travel all the way to Wiltshire to upset your goose of a mother? I think not. From what I hear, she is too foxed these days to keep up her correspondence.”

Curses!

He was right—that was a ridiculous threat to make. It was just so bloody appalling what he had done, but losing her temper would never work. Not with the Viscount of Hargreaves.

Trying to recollect the stratagem that her Mentor had advised, she tried again.

“Belinda Cooper is a gracious woman. She took care of your needs these many years. Surely, you wish to do right by her as her former benefactor. She earned those gifts, and you promised her a settlement when the time came to end the arrangement.”

Lord Hargreaves stared at her, unmoved by this appeal to his better nature. Probably because it did not exist.

Harriet sought a different tactic, her mind working to find a more selfish reason for him to keep his commitments. “If word gets around, women will not be willing to enter similar arrangements with you.”

“It is none of your business, Harriet, but rest assured my current mistress has already moved in, and she is delightful.” He paused, piercing her with those irises of frost as he inspected her face in minute examination to deliver the killing blow to her self-esteem, his point as clear as crystal. “And young.”

He was masterful—precise—in his attack on her vanity, Harriet forcing her hands to still in her lap lest she reach up to check the delicate skin around her eyes and ensure no lines were visible.

She might be a widow, but she was yet a young woman—young enough to bear children.

Somehow her father’s razor-sharp barbs made her feel like an old hag.

It was his special gift to shred the confidence of any who dared confront him.

Blazes!

Harriet genuinely liked Belinda, having met her on several occasions at private events. The other woman often played cards with the Carlton Set while waiting for the viscount to return from discreet meetings in some quiet drawing room or tucked-away study within those aristocratic homes.

Harriet had truly hoped to mitigate the situation after hearing the whispers of her father’s perfidy toward his loyal mistress of so many years.

Perhaps assisting Belinda would finally assuage the gnawing shame of Harriet’s past, representing an opportunity for redemption.

But it had been a wager against the odds to attempt this.

Appealing to his good nature was a laughable endeavor.

Despite the low odds of success, the disappointment still ran deep as she admitted failure.

If she were to effect a rescue of the wronged woman who was the current subject of high society’s whispers, she would need to find another way because the contemptuous viscount was not going to lift a finger in aid.

Sebastian walked up to the door, and raising the brass knocker brought it down with a hard tap before stepping back. He was a large man of six foot five and most were intimidated by his stature, so he usually did his best not to loom in doorways and startle others.

After a minute or two, he stepped forward to knock again, signs of activity being absent. As he raised his hand, the door unexpectedly swung open to reveal … well … he was not certain what had just been revealed.

Instead of the customary footman or butler, he found his gaze dropping to find a short, stout woman with a frizzle of gray hair escaping a limp white mobcap.

An apron covered her gray-brown dress, and the dress sleeves were rolled up to reveal the scars of old burns on her strong arms, along with a faint scar curved around one of her eyebrows which were arched in question.

She tutted, craning her head back to view him with exasperated curiosity.

“Blimey, ye’re a big ’un, ain’t ye?”

Sebastian stepped back again, realizing he was towering over the … servant? If he were not standing on the steps of a gracious townhouse just off Grosvenor Square, he would have sworn the older woman was a tavern maid.

“Lord Sebastian Markham, to see Lady Slight?” He proffered a card, wondering if he perhaps had the wrong address.

Just then, a waif of a girl, who looked no older than twelve, came darting up the hall.

“Missus Finch, Cook says she needs ye right quick!”

The servant—Mrs. Finch, apparently—harrumphed before spinning on her heel to hurry away.

“Take the gent to the painted room, Jem,” she threw over her shoulder as she disappeared in the direction the waif had come.

Sebastian found himself staring down at the young girl, who barely stood four and a half feet tall, making him feel like a giant by comparison. Now that he had a proper look at her, he suspected she was a few years older than his original assessment.

Her large hazel eyes spoke of worldly experience, despite her slender frame.

A shock of copper-brown hair and a crowd of freckles added to the impression of youth, but her gaze was inquisitive and steadfast. Even challenging, perhaps.

She could easily be mistaken for a foundling, if she had not been dressed in the clothes of a maid.

“C’mon, then,” she abruptly announced before leading him down the hall. Stopping at a door at the far end, she swung it open, then skipped away without another word. Her skirts flapped soundlessly as she disappeared around a corner.

Sebastian shook his head, nonplussed. These were not the sort of servants one customarily expected in the home of a wealthy viscountess, but as the London Season had ended, perhaps Harriet’s usual staff had left for the country to prepare for her arrival?

He set these musings aside to enter the drawing room and stopped in surprised fascination.

The small, gilded parlor was simply beautiful, more of a private space for the owner’s enjoyment than a public room.

Every surface had been covered with intricately painted floral patterns and deities frolicking.

On the smooth vertical space of the mantelpiece was a frieze of Romans going about their business while a musician strummed a string instrument.

It brought to mind a happier time, when he and Harriet had enjoyed the art in Avonmead’s attic with avid debate over brushstrokes, colors, and the subject of the paintings they beheld.

Then he registered a presence seated in a regal blue-green armchair with a gilded frame. He frowned, searching his memory for the name of the dainty blonde woman who stared back at him with the same startled recognition that must be evident on his own face.

Finally, he broke the silence with a polite bow. “Lady Wood.”

The noblewoman rose gracefully, setting her book aside. “Lord Sebastian. You have returned from Italy.”

His lips curved into a polite yet warm smile. “I have. I was hoping to speak with Lady Slight.”

“She is not at home at present,” Lady Wood replied. “I cannot say with certainty when she will return.”

A pang of unexpected disappointment stirred within him. After all the anticipation leading up to today, Harriet was not even at home?

“I see. Then perhaps you would be so kind as to convey a message?” His voice remained pleasantly neutral, though irritation threatened beneath the surface. “I will call again tomorrow.”

Lady Wood regarded him carefully, her delicate features thoughtful, almost hesitant.

“I shall deliver your message, of course. But, Lord Sebastian, I feel compelled to say …” She paused, as if weighing her words.

Sebastian waited.

“Lady Slight … no longer entertains … visitors … in her home.”

It was stated with deliberation, as if she were warning him away.

Sebastian’s frown deepened ever so slightly as he tried to parse the meaning of her words.

No longer entertained visitors? Had Harriet withdrawn entirely from society?

And yet, here was Lady Wood, sitting alone in Harriet’s drawing room, as though she belonged there.

Why was Lady Wood unattended at Harriet’s home? Was she in residence?

Before he could stop himself, he raked a hand through his tousled hair, an old habit of his when confronted with the tiresome subtleties of high society. After so many years abroad, he had forgotten how aggravating it was to navigate the things left unsaid.

“There is no need for entertainment,” he said at last, his tone carefully measured.

It seemed Lady Wood was warning him off from pursuing her hostess like some sort of besotted lordling.

“I merely wish to put a question to her. About … just … something from our youth.” He did not know how to explain why he was here.

His expectations had been simple—to be greeted by a pompous butler, to put his request to Harriet, and then to depart.

Instead, he had found himself amidst a rather eclectic household, and Harriet was absent.

Lady Wood inclined her head. “Then I shall inform her of your return.”

Sebastian bowed once more, his head swimming with odd observations as he made his departure and wondered about the strangeness of Harriet’s home. Nothing about this visit had unfolded as he had imagined.