Rafe reluctantly crawled out from under the table and took a seat just as Porter returned with Nicholas’s port and a plate of steaming food. Nicholas’s stomach rumbled. He was hungry after a day of travel. As soon as Porter left them, Rafe leaned over the table and looked from one side to the next as though making sure they were not observed. Which was ridiculous as no one else was in the room.
“I came back to see my parents. My stepmother wrote that my father was not well. Indeed, I believe he was quite ill over the winter and is only now recovering. But his recovery was not at all assured, and as it takes weeks to cross the ocean, I didn’t want to wait.”
“I hadn’t heard Lord Haddington was ill. I’m glad he is improving,” Nicholas said. “But that doesn’t explain why you are here, hiding under the table.”
Rafe gave him a look that said the answer to that question should be obvious. “Draven said I might come back in a few years when the entire collaborating-with-a-spy-nonsense blew over.”
“But the woman was a spy and you married her,” Rowden said. “I’m not sure that qualifies as nonsense.”
Rafe waved a hand. “She was only spying to protect her father. She never passed any information along, and now they’re both in Bos...in an undisclosed location in the Americas, and I thought I might test the waters here, so to speak. But I’d only been at the earl’s town house for a few days when Draven came to call and told me the Foreign Office was aware I was here and preparing to take me in for questioning.”
“It sounds like the spy nonsense hasn’t blown over.”
“Apparently, not. Thank God I didn’t bring Collette or the baby.”
Nicholas choked on his port. “You have a baby?”
Rafe’s chest puffed up. “I do. A boy who is almost one now, and sink me if he isn’t the most handsome young lad you’ve ever seen. I’ll bring him next time.”
“Next time?” Rowden sputtered. “Do you think there should be a next time?”
“Hell’s teeth, there has to be. Boston—er, the undisclosed location—isn’t completely devoid of fashion and Society, but I’ll not stay there forever. London is home. Just not yet.”
Nicholas managed to eat a few bites of mashed turnips. “What will you do now? Hide here until you can book passage on a return voyage?”
“That was the plan when Draven sent me here, but he said it might be weeks before I can chance appearing at the docks. They’ll be looking for me. I’m to stay here until he says it’s safe.”
“Then you’d better listen to him,” Rowden said.
“And what if they trace me here? Then not only will I be taken into custody, Draven’s loyalty will be questioned. He could lose his position.”
Rowden made a show of looking under the tablecloth.
“What are you doing?” Nicholas asked, conscious of his crippled legs underneath.
“Looking for the real Rafe. He never thought about anyone but himself.”
Rafe eyed Rowden, unamused. “That’s not true, and you know it. I always think of the lady and make sure she climaxes first.”
Nicholas was glad he was not drinking when Rafe said that. He probably would have spit the liquid out.
“Of course, there is only one woman now, and I assure you, Collette—”
“Rafe.” Rowden raised a quelling hand. “Your time might be better spent thinking of a plan rather than boasting of conquests.”
“I have a plan.”
Rowden and Nicholas exchanged a look. Nicholas started, “You just said—”
“I said I didn’t want Draven to be in danger, which means I need to leave the club. I’ll go with you.” He pointed to Nicholas. Nicholas was all but ready to glance over his shoulder.
“Me?”
“Yes. You never write, but Phin does, and he says you’re almost as much a recluse as Nash. I had thought to go to Wentmore, but Nash is too far away. You’re hiding away at Battle’s Peak, and that’s only a few hours.”
“I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
“Why? Are you not returning to Hungerford?”
“I am. My brother will be here in a few hours with the coach.”
“Which brother?” Rowden asked. “Henry or Richard?”
“Henry.”
“Ah, he’s a good chap then,” Rafe said. “We can trust him.”
“Yes, but my mother is at Battle’s Peak and my sister and well...there’s another snag.”
Rafe shrugged. “Nothing we can’t handle, I’m sure.”
Nicholas rather thought it was something he couldn’t handle. “I’m marrying in the morning.”
Six
Amelia stared at herself in the mirror over her dressing table. It only showed half of her body at a time, but she had never thought she wanted a full-length mirror before now. She’d chosen a white muslin dress with sprigs of green in a pretty pattern throughout and an apple green ribbon at the waist. She’d tied the ribbon at least three times, but she couldn’t see her back and still wasn’t sure if it was straight. Her hair looked presentable. She’d been doing her own hair for years, and had pulled most of it up, leaving a few tendrils to fall over one shoulder. That seemed to be the style lately. Thus far she had not heard a sound from her mother’s room down the hallway. She supposed that meant she would be dining at Battle’s Peak alone.
Not that she blamed her mother. It couldn’t be easy to learn that your daughter was not the person you’d believed for all these years, especially when she was the only family you had left.
But Amelia wouldn’t think of that now. If she did, she’d start weeping, and then her nose would be red.
She took a deep breath, pulled on her white gloves, and opened the door to her room. Lifting her skirts, she descended the stairs, keeping her head high. The dowager had said she would send a carriage, so there was no cause to worry about soiling her slippers on the walk over. She had taken the added precaution of feeding Sweetie a little extra this afternoon and then closing her in the library so she could not get out to forage for more or harass the coachman when he arrived.
Amelia went to the window and parted the curtains, looking for any sign of a carriage when she heard a step behind her. She turned and gasped.
Her mother stepped into the front parlor wearing a deep purple dress that brought color to her cheeks. She looked ten years younger.
“Mama!” Amelia finally managed. “You look...” But she didn’t have the words to describe how lovely her mother looked. Yes, the dress was out of fashion and subdued as befit a widow. The garment was probably ten or more years old, but it fit her well and highlighted her lovely white neck and collarbone. Mrs. Blackstock had pulled her dark hair into a fashionable twist and the gray that streaked through it actually looked very distinguished. At her ears were a pair of glittering lilac gems.
She caught Amelia looking and touched them gingerly. “They are just paste, but I like how they glitter.”
“You glitter,” Amelia said. “You’re beautiful!”
“I don’t feel beautiful. I feel old, but I hope I make a good show. I don’t want to embarrass you.”