She sighed. “I don’t suppose it’s proper for me to say, ‘Hang the ladies of Society.’”
She meant the words to amuse – spoke them with the perfect combination of ennui and wit to make a lesser man chuckle. A man who did not notice the underlying tone.
Sadness. Loss. Frustration.
“You don’t want it, do you?”
Her gaze turned surprised, but she did not pretend to misunderstand. He liked that about her. Her forthrightness. “This is my bed, Mr. West. In it, I shall lie.”
She did not want to return. She did not want this life. That much was clear. “Lady Georgiana,” he began, not entirely knowing what to say next.
“Good night, Mr. West.” She was already moving, trailed by an unassuming maid. Already down the steps headed for her carriage, which would take her away from this place, from this night.
From him.
She would regroup. Heal. And repeat the performance tomorrow.
And he would do his best to keep her safe from the horde.
He rarely took an interest in society, and even more rarely in its women, who were in large part more trouble than they were worth – all idle drama. But there was something in Lady Georgiana that seemed familiar, oddly. Something that echoed through him. Resignation, perhaps. Discontent. Desire – for what he did not know, but it was enough to intrigue him.
He watched her for a long moment, the way she moved, certain of her destination. Sure of herself. He found himself fascinated by the way her pale skirts seemed to chase after her, as though they might be left behind if they weren’t careful. The way one long arm reached out to keep her balanced as she lifted those skirts and entered her carriage.
He caught a glimpse of turned ankle in a gleaming silver slipper. For a moment, he was transfixed by that foot, slim and shadowed, until the door snapped closed and she was gone, her outrider – a massive man who had no doubt been hired by her wealthy brother to keep her safe – storing the stepping block away at the back of the carriage before climbing onto his perch and indicating to the driver that they should move on.
He imagined what he might write about her.
Lady G— is more than her reputation promises, more than scandal and past sins. She is something that we all wish we could have been – separate from our world. Somehow, ironically, despite her past, purer than all of us. Untouched by us. Which is perhaps her greatest value.
The words came easily. But then again, the truth always did write well.
Unfortunately, the truth did not sell papers.
He ascended the stairs to his curricle, pulling himself up into the seat and taking the reins, dismissing his groom for the night. He liked to drive himself; found solace in the rhythm of hoofbeats and the circling of wheels.
He followed behind the lady’s coach as it trundled at a snail’s pace, attempting to leave the Worthington property, and had no choice but to think of her, inside that carriage, with her thoughts. He imagined her staring out the window at the lanterns that hung on the carriages that remained along the street. Imagined her wondering how her carriage might have been with the others – might have been one of the last to leave that evening, after she had danced again and again and again, with a myriad of gentlemen until her feet were sore and her muscles straining from exhaustion. Imagined her thinking about the way she might have left the ball – not to escape Society, but as a queen of it.
If only she hadn’t been ruined.
He imagined her pretty eyes filled with regret, for all the things she might have been. All the things she might have done. All the life she might have led.
If things had been different.
He was so lost in thinking of the lady that he did not realize that she had missed her turn – the one to her brother’s home – and instead, she was headed through Mayfair, oddly, in his same direction.
He certainly wasn’t following her intentionally.
The carriage wheels clattered along the cobblestoned streets of Mayfair, turning down Bond – where the shops had closed for the evening – and then onto Piccadilly toward St. James.
It was then that he began to question where she was headed.
He allowed his curricle to fall back, for no reason at all, he told himself. He allowed a few carriages to come between them, barely able to make out the lanterns on her conveyance as it made the turn onto Duke Street, then cut into the labyrinth of streets and alleyways behind the men’s clubs of St. James. He sat up in his seat.
She was behind The Fallen Angel.
Duncan West was arguably the greatest newspaperman in London, but it did not take an investigative mind such as his own to recognize the truth.
Lady Georgiana Pearson, sister of the Duke of Leighton, with a dowry big enough to buy Buckingham Palace, and supposedly desperate for a restored reputation – one he had offered to secure for her – was headed straight for Britain’s most celebrated men’s club.
Which just so happened to be his club.
He stopped his curricle before making the final turn to the rear entrance of the club, leaping down and heading the rest of the way on foot, not wanting to draw attention to his presence. If she were seen here, her reputation would be destroyed forever. No man would have her, and her daughter would have no future.
It was a risk of outrageous proportions.
So what in hell was she doing?
West remained in the shadows, leaning against the alley wall, watching the great black carriage that had stopped, its occupant still inside. He realized that the carriage boasted no markings; there was nothing about it that would draw attention. Nothing but the enormous outrider, who climbed down from his perch, moving to bang on the heavy steel door that marked the back entrance to the club. A small slot opened, then closed when the servant spoke. The door opened, revealing a great black chasm – the dark rear entry to the club.