If He's Tempted (Wherlocke #5)
Hannah Howell
Chapter I
London
Fall, 1790
Lady Olympia Wherlocke hated crying women. The younger the woman crying the more she hated it. All her mothering instincts leapt to the fore at the sight and she did not wish to feel motherly. She was too young herself to feel that way toward a young woman who looked almost ready to begin the hunt for a husband, at least in a year or two. The huge gray-blue eyes of the young woman standing on her doorstep were so full of tears, however, that Olympia expected the flood to begin at any moment.
When she noticed the girl stood alone on the doorstep, Olympia had to bite back a curse. The expensive gown the girl wore and her gently refined looks spoke of quality. The cape she wore in a vain attempt to disguise herself would fetch enough in the secondhand market to feed a poor family for a year, perhaps even longer. There should be a maid accompanying the girl, even a burly, armed footman or two.
“I need to speak to Ashton, to Lord Radmoor,” said the girl.
“He is not here,” replied Olympia, glancing up and down the dusk-shadowed street and seeing that this small confrontation was beginning to attract far too much attention. Her family might be slowly buying up all the houses on the street but there were still a good number of strangers living near at hand. People who had no blood loyalty to her or her family would not hesitate to gossip about them.
“Come inside,” Olympia demanded even as she grabbed the girl by one slim arm and yanked her into the house. “You do not truly wish to discuss whatever troubles you have out here on the street,” she said as she led her uninvited guest into the drawing room.
“Oh, no, of course not,” the girl whispered as she hastily sat down in the chair Olympia waved her toward. “Word of our conversation might somehow make its way to Mother’s ears.”
That the girl was concerned about such a thing did not bode well, Olympia thought. It implied that this young lady might be seeking to drag someone into the midst of a battle between her and her mother. Olympia busied herself serving her guest tea, briefly regretting the fact that the tea and cakes she had planned to quietly enjoy would now have to be shared. As would the sweetness of some time all alone with her own thoughts and no sign of trouble on the horizon.
“Might you tell me exactly who you are?” she asked the girl and watched her pale cheeks redden with obvious embarrassment.
“I am Lady Agatha Mallam, sister to Brant Mallam, Earl of Fieldgate,” she replied.
It was not easy, but Olympia fought down the urge to snatch back the cup of tea she had served the girl and throw her back out onto the street. It was not because Lord Fieldgate had made himself increasingly notorious over the last few years, either, for her own family had its share of rogues and debauchees. It was because this young lady’s mother was a woman Olympia would prefer to avoid at all costs. Brant might well be notorious for his drinking, gambling, and wenching, but his mother was known throughout society for the cold power she wielded without mercy. The shine of perfect manners, style, grace, and excellent bloodlines could never again hide the rotted heart of Lady Letitia Mallam from Olympia, or from the others in her family who knew how the woman had sold an innocent young woman to a brothel to keep her son from marrying the girl. That cruel act had led to the girl’s death and, Olympia strongly suspected, Brant Mallam’s slow sinking into the murky waters of debauchery.
Olympia nodded in response to the girl’s introduction of herself and responded in kind. “I am Lady Olympia Wherlocke, the Baroness of Myrtledowns.”
“I know. We have never met, but I have had you pointed out to me. Do you know when Ashton will return?”
“I believe he intends to bring everyone back to the city in the fall, once my niece recovers from delivering their child. The city is not a good place for small children at this time of year.”
And now the girl’s bottom lip was trembling, Olympia noticed with alarm. She hastily pushed the plate of cakes and biscuits closer to the girl. She was not certain that tea was the wondrous panacea so many claimed it to be, but she hoped crying would prove to be impossible while drinking it, or while eating some cake.
“That will be too late to save me.”