Lady Lyte's Little Secret

“I’m incapable of being silly.” He made the remark in such dire earnest, it might have been amusing.

But Felicity was not inclined to laugh.

“You make it sound like a crime,” she chided him. “It isn’t. There are far too many silly people in this world, and they cause no end of trouble for us sensible folk. These two youngsters of ours, for instance. The way you barged in here tonight leads me to believe you’re no more in favor of this ridiculous elopement than I am.”

“Of course I’m not.” Thorn looked offended that she might believe otherwise. “My sister is much too young to know her own mind when it comes to an important matter like marriage.”

Ivy Greenwood could be no more than eighteen, Felicity reckoned. The same age at which she’d embarked on her own misadventure in matrimony.

Thorn shook his head. “And, as you’ve said, they are a vastly ill-suited couple.” He glanced heaven-ward. “My sister—the wife of a scientist. Ivy is sweet-tempered and goodhearted,” he amended, “but rather…”

“Impulsive?” suggested Felicity. “Fickle?”

Thorn looked ready to contradict her, then he shrugged. “You’re probably right. I imagine Ivy has got it in her head that an elopement is terribly romantic. But she’s seen so little of the world. How can she know young Armitage is the man she’ll want to spend the next fortnight with, let alone the rest of her life?”

“How, indeed?” Felicity expelled a sigh of relief. She and Thorn were in agreement about this situation, at least. They had all the same reasons for wanting to stop her nephew from marrying his sister.

Almost all.

She had an additional one that Thorn must not know about on any account. The same reason she had ended their affair prematurely when she would much rather have lingered to the very last second of the Season then perhaps made plans to take up where they had left off again next year.

Now, that could never be, just as her nephew marrying into the Greenwood family must never be.

“We’re in agreement, then?” Thorn cursed himself for having let that remark about boring her slip out. What could be more tiresome than a cast-off lover who refused to take his leave quietly? “They must be intercepted, made to see sense and brought home.”

A look of dismay clouded Felicity’s luminous tawny eyes. Then she gulped a deep breath and squared her slender shoulders. “Very well. I’ll toss a few clothes into a portmanteau and leave tonight. They can’t have more than twelve hours’ head start. I’ll probably catch up to them before they reach Gloucester.”

She started for the door. In her virginal white dressing gown with her rich dark hair falling over her shoulders, she looked little older than Ivy.

“Don’t be ridiculous.” Thorn reached out and caught her wrist. It felt so fragile beneath his fingers. “You can’t go tearing off the length of England—a woman alone.”

Shaking her hand free of his, Felicity glared at him. “I’ll hardly be alone. I plan to take my traveling carriage, of course, with a good experienced driver and at least one footman.”

As if that settled the matter, she slipped out of her nephew’s bedroom and headed down the hall toward her own. Thorn trailed after her.

“Besides.” She glanced back at him. “I won’t have to chase Oliver and your sister every mile of the way to Scotland. Heaven only knows what they’re using for transport. A hired vehicle, most likely. With luck, I’ll overtake them tomorrow. Then I can deliver Ivy safely back to you the following day.”

She paused in her bedroom doorway and held out her hand. For a moment, Thorn wondered if she wanted him to bow over it in parting. Then he understood that she was asking for the lamp.

Stubbornly, he hung onto it. “Do you honestly believe you’ll just pull up behind them on the road, flag them down and cart Ivy back to Bath? What if they’ve stopped at an inn to change horses and you drive clean past them?”

The look that flitted across her face told Thorn she hadn’t taken that, or a great many other possibilities, into account. To be fair, he’d had more time to consider and plan since he’d discovered Ivy missing from their modest rented premises in a less fashionable part of town.

“I’ll inquire after them whenever I stop for refreshment or a change of horses.” Felicity took up the gauntlet of his challenge. “It shouldn’t be that difficult to pick up their trail. And if I must follow them all the way to Gretna, I’m quite prepared to do it. Now kindly give me the light so I can see to dress and pack.”

Almost as an afterthought, she added, “You could oblige me by waking my driver and footman and informing them of the urgency of my errand.”

“No, Felicity. I won’t let you do this.” Thorn held the lamp away from her when she lunged for it. “It will be a difficult journey, perhaps even dangerous.”

Her eyes flashed like a pair of finely cut topaz. “You are not my keeper, Mr. Greenwood. And though you have shared my bed, you are not my husband. If I elect to do this, you have no power whatsoever to prevent me.”

Impossibly mulish woman! Did she have to fling both her rejection and her superior station in his teeth? Thorn fought to quell his slow-burning temper. It would serve her right if he let her indulge in this folly.

To his surprise, she caught his free hand in both of hers and softened her voice. “I thought we agreed Ivy and Oliver must be stopped. Why are we arguing, then? What other choice do we have?”

Wasn’t it obvious? Thorn battled the intoxicating effect of her touch to frame the only reasonable alternative. “I shall go, naturally. I can make better speed on horseback. Ride cross country, if need be, to intercept them.”

She appeared to give his offer at least passing consideration. Though his pride bristled at the notion that his taking action in the matter had never crossed her mind, Thorn tried to marshall his arguments in good order.

“I can seek information from hostlers, toll collectors or other folk a lady might hesitate to question.”

He was winning her over—Thorn sensed it. He battled an inclination to spout any nonsense that might keep Felicity holding on to his hand a second longer.

“Once I manage to overtake them…” Thorn brought forth his most convincing argument. “…I do have the power, as my sister’s guardian, to compel her to return home with me. You would have no such influence over her or your nephew. For this and for all the other reasons I’ve mentioned, I am the logical choice to pursue them. Only…”

“Yes?”

Thorn would rather have cut out his tongue than admit this, especially to her. As the hot blood rose to burn in his cheeks, he let the hand in which he held the lamp sink so Felicity might not witness it.

“I do not have the resources at my disposal that I once had.” Though he mustered every scrap of dignity at his command, Thorn could not look one of England’s wealthiest women in the face as he tried to keep from gagging on those words.

They had never spoken of the enormous disparity in their fortunes. Indeed, they had never talked at length on any but the most superficial of subjects. Still, she must know his family had fallen from prosperity.

His humble address down the hill should have been a clue, in a town where the price of housing rose in direct proportion to the elevation of the neighbourhood. His clothes—well tailored, but several years out of fashion, could easily have given him away. The fact that he didn’t keep a carriage should have confirmed any suspicions.

In all likelihood she had known his situation before she’d ever approached him with her intriguing, potentially scandalous invitation to become her lover. A wealthier fellow might have taken offense.

Oh, just spit it out, man!

“My father left rather considerable debts behind him when he died, several years ago. I have been making good headway in settling them and have every hope of seeing my family prosperous again, one day.”

Thorn addressed himself to the doorjamb, several inches above Felicity’s head. “At the moment, however, I find myself short of ready money. Since we both have an interest in seeing your nephew and my sister prevented from marrying, I suggest we join forces. If you will finance the journey, I will spare you the bother of undertaking it by going in your stead.”

At some point during his little speech, Felicity had let go of his hand. Thorn held himself tall and tense as he waited for her answer. He still could not bring himself to glance down into her eyes, lest he see some gentle mist of pity in them to complete his humiliation.

The seconds stretched taut as a fiddle string, until Thorn feared something must snap with a harsh jangle.

It did.

In a single swift motion that left him agape and unable to stop her, Felicity pounced for the lamp, plucking it from his hand. Then she darted back over the threshold of her bedchamber and slammed the door.

Before Thorn could break from his paralysis to push it open again, a solid-sounding bolt snapped into place.

“Felicity!” He hammered on the locked door. “What’s the meaning of this?”

Her voice drifted out to him, cool and composed. “I think that should be obvious, sir. I regret I must decline your generous offer.”

Thorn heard scurrying footsteps and whispers from the first floor. Some burly young footman might arrive at any moment to evict him from the premises. He wondered that Lady Lyte’s servants had shown him so much forbearance until now.

He ceased knocking and lowered his voice. “Did you not listen to a word I said?”

“Listened, considered and made my decision,” came Felicity’s somewhat muffled reply. “I appreciate your offer to go in my stead, but I have elected to undertake the journey myself. I’m sure you overestimate the difficulties involved.”

“I’ve done nothing of the sort, in fact—”

“Mr. Greenwood, please!” Her voice sounded exhausted of patience. “I have made up my mind, and I will not be swayed, least of all by your bluster. Time is of the essence, and I have any number of preparations to undertake.”

And I need you to get out from underfoot. She didn’t say it, but the implication hung in the air, as palpable as the stench of glue rising from a hatter’s workshop.

“I pray you will spare your dignity and mine by letting yourself out quietly. Otherwise I shall be obliged to ring for one of my servants to escort you from my house.”

Inside her bedchamber, Felicity strained to catch Thorn’s answer as she tossed clothes into a case.

His arguments for being the one to go after Oliver and Ivy had been most compelling. She’d very nearly yielded to his logic. One final consideration had induced her to refuse.

Thorn Greenwood possessed too soft a heart, and his reasons for wanting to prevent this foolish marriage were far less urgent than her own.

What if, having intercepted the young lovers, Thorn allowed the pair to convince him that they were truly in love and fully understood the consequences of their actions? As if they could understand.

He’d probably relent, sanction their union with his blessing—even give the bride away. Then they’d all three return to Bath and present her with a fait accompli. What could she do about it then?

Felicity pushed down the little mound of clothing and snapped her case shut.

Thorn might have legal influence over his sister, but she had financial influence over Oliver, and she would not scruple to exercise it if necessary. This whole elopement put Felicity in mind of a high stakes card game. One in which she had by far the most to lose. She did not dare let her hand be played by proxy.

Still no sound came from beyond her door.

“Thorn, are you there?”

A moment’s hesitation. “Yes.”

He had such a pleasant voice. Not too high in pitch, not too low. A fine rich resonance. She would miss it.

“Did you hear what I said?”

“Yes.”

She needed to get dressed but somehow she could not bring herself to remove her clothes with Thorn so near at hand. Not even with a good stout door locked between them.

“Goodbye, then. I promise I’ll fetch Ivy back to you safe and sound as soon as I can.”

“If you’re so intent on going, Felicity, will you at least take me with you?”

Thankfully, there was a locked door between them. If she’d been obliged to look into his eyes, her traitorous lips might have given him a different answer. “No, Thorn.”

“I realize it could be awkward under the circumstances, but you and I are civilized adults. Surely we could travel together for a day or two without…”

Felicity grasped the bell pull and jerked it vigorously.

“What you propose is out of the question, Mr. Greenwood. Now, please, please go.”

She heard rapidly approaching footsteps out in the corridor, then Thorn’s voice. “Very well. I’ll leave.”

Whether those words were addressed to the servants or to her, Felicity could not be sure.

While she waited for the commotion in the corridor to subside, she took a seat at her dressing table and began to do her hair. Beneath her hairbrush, folded in a neat, prim rectangle lay a length of starched white lawn.

Thorn’s neck linen.

Felicity’s fingers trembled as she fondled the cloth. One of her maids must have come across it while tidying the bedroom.

This was the first time Thorn had left so much as a collar button or a watch fob behind to betray his presence. In the early days of their liaison, he’d been fastidious about undressing. With far fewer garments to shed herself, Felicity had taken pleasure in watching and admiring him as he removed his clothes.

As time had passed, they’d become increasingly eager. Helping one another out of their clothes had become a tantalizing prelude to lovemaking.

Stroking her cheek with Thorn’s cravat, Felicity detected no cloying whiff of sweetwater, only the bracing scent of plain soap and the subtle musk of a man. As vexing moisture rose in her eyes, she dropped Thorn’s cravat and swiped the sleeve of her dressing gown across her face. All the while, she chided herself for turning into a sentimental fool.

This was no time to mope and moon over Thorn Greenwood. If she must surrender to such nonsense she would wait until later, when it would not be so bothersome. At the moment necessity demanded she act decisively and keep her wits about her.

A tentative tap sounded on the door.

Felicity started, her heart hammering.

“Mr. Greenwood,” she cried, “must I have my butler summon the constables and swear out a complaint against you?”

“The gentleman’s gone, ma’am,” came an apologetic squeak from Hetty, her lady’s maid. “He left real peaceable like. I saw the light under your door and wondered if you might be needing me, ma’am?”

Shaking her head over her mistake, Felicity rose from the dressing table and unlatched the door.

“Thank you, Hetty, I could use your help. I expect this disturbance has already roused the entire household. Will you kindly advise Ned and Mr. Hixon to ready the big carriage and make their personal preparations for a journey north? I mean to leave within the hour.”

The girl regarded her mistress with bulging eyes. “Will you be gone long, ma’am? Do you need me to pack your bags? Should I make ready to come with you?”

Felicity considered the idea. “I…think not.”

If it had been Alice, her former lady’s maid of over eight years service, she would have accepted the offer of company in a trice. Since Alice had left her employ to marry a prosperous young butcher, Felicity had made do with Hetty, a willing little creature, though inclined to prattle.

In brief spells it was rather diverting, but to be shut up in a carriage for hours at a time with such a one held little appeal for Lady Lyte just then. She would much prefer to be alone with her thoughts and her plans for the future.

Besides… “I should not be gone long. A day or two at most, I expect. Surely I can manage without a maid for that interval.”

A look of relief eased the girl’s features as she smothered a yawn. “If you’re certain, ma’am, I’ll just go deliver your message to Ned and Mr. Hixon.”

She bobbed a curtsy and set off down the hall. Before Felicity could close her door, Hetty spun around again.

“Should I tell Cook to brew you a cup of tea before you set out, ma’am? Or make you up a basket of sandwiches and such for the road?”

At the mere mention of food, Felicity’s stomach revolted.

“For the men,” she ordered. “Nothing for me.”

Slamming the door shut, she dove for her washstand and retched into the basin until nothing more would come.

Spent from the effort, she wetted the edge of a towel in the tepid water from her ewer and hoisted herself into the chair before her dressing table. As she dabbed her cheeks with the damp towel, Felicity contemplated her pale face in the looking glass with dismay and wonder.

After twelve barren years of marriage and widowhood, Providence had played a fine joke on her. Her meticulously regular courses had suddenly ceased far too early for her age, and she woke every morning bilious. Before the summer waned, her belly would begin to swell.

Infinitely generous man that he was, Thorn Greenwood had granted her the dearest desire of her heart, and one of which she had long despaired.

A child.

But in doing so, he had made it necessary for Felicity to cut him out of her life.

Chapter Three

If she thought she could get rid of him that easily, Lady Lyte had better think again!

As Thorn Greenwood rounded The Circus, he cast a glowering glance at the darkened windows of the New Assembly Rooms, long since deserted of ball-goers. After the mauling his pride had taken over the past two days, he was tempted to curse the place where he’d first set eyes on his troublesome mistress.

Where would he and his sister be now, Thorn wondered, if he hadn’t let Ivy coax him out to that first ball of the Season?

If some magical being from a nursery tale had suddenly materialized and offered him the chance to go back and relive the past two months differently, Thorn wasn’t certain whether he would accept or refuse.

True, it had vastly complicated his life and it had all ended on a sour note. While his affair with Felicity Lyte lasted, though, it had been very sweet indeed.

“Quit your mooning, man,” Thorn muttered to himself. He must think about raising the blunt he’d require for a journey—all the way to Scotland if need be.

His steps slowed from the indignant stride that had carried him away from Royal Crescent. A mild night breeze wafted up the gracious hills of Bath from the River Avon. It carried the aromas of fine cooking from the kitchen windows of many a fashionable town house, as well as the music and laughter from a number of private parties winding to a close. The air of conviviality and careless wealth mocked Thorn’s predicament.

Refusing to entertain regrets, he studied the problem with the same resolve he’d brought to bear on the calamity of his family’s fallen fortunes. If one thought hard enough and ruled out no potential solution as too difficult or distasteful, almost any dilemma admitted of a solution. Thorn had more experience than most men of his age and class in learning how to salvage something satisfactory from the bleakest of prospects.

As he wandered down Gay Street and turned onto George, Thorn mulled over the problem in his deliberate, methodical way. Raising one possible solution after another, he weighed each in turn, discarding the unworkable, then proceeding to the next.

He still had a few items of value he could part with to finance his journey, though most would be worth far more to him in sentiment than to a prospective buyer in gold. As his footsteps echoed on the cobbles of Milsome Street, Thorn cast that idea aside. The pawnshops on this busiest of commercial thoroughfares would be locked up as tight as all the other places of business. If he did manage to rouse some broker at this hour, the man would hardly be disposed to cooperate.

Reason counseled Thorn to go home, assemble his valuables, get what sleep he could wrest from the night then set out in the morning. The thought of Ivy and young Armitage gaining a greater lead spurred him to action now, as did the notion of Felicity trundling along dark and deserted highways in a fine carriage with only an ancient driver and a juvenile footman for protection.

Thorn cast his mind upon another prospect.

“Of course.” He chuckled to himself when it finally occurred to him.

He might be short of cash, but he was still comparatively wealthy in a man’s most precious asset—friends. If only he could get word to his brother-in-law. Merritt Temple had horses, carriages and funds he would have put at Thorn’s disposal in the blink of an eye. Unfortunately Merritt’s country estate lay many miles to the east. A detour in that direction would result in an even worse delay than waiting for the pawnbrokers to open in the morning.

Surely there must be a friend in Bath to whom he could appeal.

Weston St. Just! If any man owed Thorn assistance in his present entanglement, surely it was the fellow who had introduced him to Lady Lyte in the first place. Thorn’s stride picked up speed and purpose.

Finding himself near his own doorstep, he ducked inside long enough to scribble a note to their housekeeper saying he and Ivy had been called out of town and might not return for several days. When he emerged once again onto the dark stillness of the street, he turned south toward Sydney Gardens. St. Just kept elegant premises nearby.

Thorn had no worry of waking his old schoolmate at such a time. On the contrary, his concern was whether such a notorious night owl as Weston St. Just might not return home for several more hours. Fortunately, a light burned in the sitting room window and a young footman wasted no time answering Thorn’s knock.

When the boy ushered Thorn into his friend’s presence, St. Just looked mildly surprised to see him. Perhaps mildly amused, as well. “What ho, Greenwood? Has the beauteous Lady Lyte put the boots to you so soon?”

“I’m surprised she hasn’t told you.” Thorn knew all too well of St. Just’s insatiable appetite for gossip. “I received my marching orders from her two days ago.”

“The little minx!” His host gestured for Thorn to take a seat. “I must say, though, I envy you even a few weeks of her company.”

St. Just lifted his snifter of tawny liquid and nodded toward a side table arrayed with a decanter and more glasses. “Care to drown your sorrows?”

After his unsettling confrontation with Felicity, the offer tempted Thorn sorely. Perching himself on the settee opposite his host, Thorn shook his head. “I daren’t.”

St. Just cast him an indulgent look. “Of course, you never drown your troubles, or run away from them, or any other such cowardice, do you? Always look ’em squarely in the face and soldier on.”

“Tiresome, isn’t it?” Thorn wondered how the pair of them had remained civil, let alone friendly, all these years with such contrary temperaments.

Felicity might have done better to take St. Just as her lover, instead of merely using him as a go-between to approach his less suitable chum. Besides the classical masculine beauty of a Greek statue come to life, Weston St. Just had an easy agreeable way with women that made them flock to him like bees to a tall fragrant flower.

“Tiresome? On the contrary, dear fellow.” St. Just lounged back in his upholstered armchair and sipped his drink. “I tire of most people in no time, for the majority of them are like me—duplicitous, idle, selfish. Salt of the earth folk like you baffle me at every turn. I live in constant anticipation that you may slip from the straight and narrow into some diverting orgy of wickedness.”

“I thought I had.”

“With Lady Lyte, you mean?” St. Just shrugged. “A tantalizing little stumble to keep me on my toes, but far too discreet to tarnish your honor. Now, do tell me what brings you here at this hour? In the case of ninety-nine men out of a hundred, I could guess at once, but you persist in confounding me.”