The Scandalous, Dissolute, No-Good Mr. Wright

  Eliza took the baby from his arms, settling Alice's sweet, flax-tufted head in the crook of her elbow. "Auntie Eliza will make certain this baby never learns your true nature. After today I'll ensure she never, ever sees you again."

  He pushed a hand through his dark hair. "That will make things difficult, come Christmases and birthdays. I'd just been telling little Alice here that I'll be England's most generous godfather. I might have promised a pony."

  Eliza gasped. "They've asked you to be godfather? That's unconscionable."

  She caught sight of Philippa in the corner and crossed to her at once, not even bothering to curtsey or otherwise take her leave of Mr. Wright. This was an urgent matter, and it concerned a baby's innocent soul.

  "Philippa, what can you be thinking? Mr. Wright is to be Alice's godfather? What nearsighted, fever-induced delusion would cause you to make such a choice?"

  "It's not a delusion. It's a friendship. After all, he's the one who reacquainted me with Peter in Brighton." Philippa took the babe from Eliza's arms. "We wouldn't be happily married today were it not for Mr. Wright."

  Eliza shook her head, trying to clear it. Was her sister truly meaning to say that Harry Wright had not only separated her from Brentley, but introduced her to a man who played fast and loose with her virtue, necessitating a rushed marriage--and for all this, she considered him a friend?

  "But it wasn't only Brighton," Philippa went on. "You'll remember how we were all very close in Norfolk."

  "Oh, yes. The time in Norfolk. Where he cruelly parted you from Brentley before driving the poor man's financial situation off a cliff."

  Her sister shook her head. "Eliza, don't say such things. Not where he can overhear. You're so mistaken, and I won't have a good man impugned. Not here, not today."

  Eliza's brain was whirling. Harry Wright, a good man? A man worth Philippa's defenses and little Alice's devotion?

  "I'll tell you everything." Philippa handed the baby to Georgie and drew Eliza to a hushed side chapel.

  There were no seats, so they knelt side by side and folded their hands in an attitude of prayer.

  "You're all wrong about Mr. Wright and Brentley. Harry wasn't a bad influence, he was trying to save his friend. Brentley told me everything in Norfolk. He and I were friends, Eliza--nothing more."

  Eliza pressed her lips together, skeptical.

  "Anyhow, Brentley's finances have been a shambles ever since he inherited. That wasn't his fault. He assumed the title at such a young age, he never knew how to improve the situation. He spent a great deal of time in gambling hells and at card tables, hoping for luck."

  "I don't suppose he found it."

  Philippa shook her head. "Of course not. He only fell deeper into debt. Harry was watching it all, unable to stop him--but he did his best to stay close and keep him out of worse mischief. That's why they came to Norfolk for the summer. But it all started long before.

  "Several years ago, Brentley placed a frightfully large wager at White's, inscribed in their famous betting book. He lost, and he had no money to pay. Mr. Wright claimed the debt instead. He said there was some mistake in recording the wager, and his was supposed to be the name."

  "But . . . but how would he pay? Mr. Wright has no money."

  "Not anymore," Philippa said. "Don't you see? That's where all his allowance and funds went, for years. He wasn't living high--he was paying the debt in increments. But his creditor grew impatient, went to the Duke of Shiffield, and demanded the entire sum."

  Eliza reeled on the kneeling bench. "So that's why the duke cut him off."

  Philippa nodded.

  "But why would Mr. Wright do that? He ruined his finances and reputation just for Brentley's sake? Brentley's insolvent now anyway."

  "I don't know all his reasons. You'd have to ask Mr. Wright. All I can say is that Brentley thinks the world of him. And after he brought me and Peter together, I rather adore him too."

  Out of the corner of her eye, Eliza stole a glimpse of the man. He'd found his way full circle to Alice again, who now slept cradled in her father's arms. While the two men talked and admired the sleeping babe, Eliza admired the men. Well, one of the men. She wasn't sure what she'd once seen in Peter Everhart, but her appreciation for Mr. Wright was ballooning by the second.

  His physical traits--handsome profile, dark hair, and untidy cravat--were so familiar. But she felt as though she were truly seeing him for the very first time. It all made sense now. Naturally he was perpetually disheveled compared to other gentlemen, because he couldn't engage the services of a valet. Always coasting by on a wicked joke and a smile, because until he inherited--decades from now, most likely--those charms would be his only currency.

  What a price he'd paid, and all on the basis of a mere friendship. The woman who captured Harry Wright's heart would be lucky indeed. Especially if she were a sweet, cooing, golden-haired infant who already had him wrapped around her tiny finger.

  Alice couldn't know her good fortune.

  "I can't think of any man I'd rather have as her godfather," Philippa said.

  Eliza sighed. "Then neither can I."

  After the christening, they all returned to the house for breakfast. Mr. Wright sought her out in the crowded room.

  As he moved toward her, Eliza bid herself to stay calm and collected. She hoped she managed a cooler outward appearance, because her insides were in turmoil.

  He was growing handsomer by the second. Not only handsome, but respectable in polite company and admirable in the eyes of her family and friends. How was she supposed to pretend indifference?

  "Miss Eliza." He inclined his head in greeting and offered her a glass of lemonade. "I hear you are at long last going to have your grand coming-out ball."

  "In just a few months." She accepted the cool, perspiring glass. "I'll be the oldest debutante London has seen in a score of seasons."

  "I doubt that. But you'll be the most successful, I'm sure. Dare I hope for an invitation? After today, I'm practically family." When she choked on her sip of lemonade, he gave her an amused look. "I notice that you failed to interrupt the christening and expose my villainy before God and Peter Everhart."

  She cringed. "I had a talk with Philippa. My sister told me everything about Brentley. Or at least, more than I ever could have guessed."

  "Ah. So now the painful truth is out. I hope I can trust you to keep it private."

  "Of course, but . . . what is it between you and Brentley?" Eliza looked about the crowded parlor to make sure no one was listening. "Your bond of friendship must be very strong."

  "It's a boring story, really. One of those schoolboy pacts of blood and brotherhood and unswerving loyalty. You know, the sort of thing that means nothing to most men once they're a few years past Eton."

  "But it still means something to you."

  He nodded. "The two of us . . . we had no parents, no siblings. So we made an agreement to stand by each other. That's all."

  "Even at such a cost? He was the one who made that wager, and you've paid the price. You've been cut off without a farthing, shut out by most good families."

  "Yes, but one day I'll be a fabulously wealthy duke. So there's that."

  He gave her a roguish, carefree smile, but the tiny lines around his eyes told a different story. Matters weren't so simple as he made them sound.

  After a moment's pause, he said, "Were our places exchanged, Brentley would have done the same for me. At least I bought him a little time."

  "Why didn't you tell me the truth in Norfolk?" she whispered. "You let me believe . . . You let everyone believe your bad influence was to blame for his misfortunes."

  "I am a bad influence." He winked at her. "Never doubt it."

  Her blood heated, proving his point.

  "You are a wicked man indeed. I wouldn't have pressed for a romance between him and Philippa, had I known. You could have spared me a great deal of embarrassment by simply telling me the truth."

  "Embarrassment is a
frightfully constant quantity. If I'd spared you a measure of embarrassment, I would have been forced to heap some at Brentley's door."

  "And you valued his friendship over mine, of course."

  "No."

  His response surprised her.

  "No, that's not it." He gave her a thoughtful glance. "I knew yours to be the more resilient spirit. Just as you knew yourself to be stronger than that would-be-groper, Timothy. Even at fourteen, you could bear the censure better than he."

  Eliza didn't feel strong right now. She felt frail and flawed and in need of a hug.

  "Can we talk and eat?" he said, tilting his head toward the drawing room, where a buffet was laid. "Allow me to make you a plate."

  "I . . ." As they moved toward the table laden with made dishes and pyramids of fruit, Eliza felt her moment of opportunity slipping away. She screwed up her courage and made the apology. "I was wrong about you, Mr. Wright. I abused you most unjustly."

  "I enjoyed every minute of it."

  Eliza shook her head. Why could he be a decent, honorable man to others, but never to her? She felt cheated.

  "Smile," he teased as they moved down the buffet. "Were you expecting me to repay your touching apologies? Admit that I treated you poorly, too? I won't. For I enjoyed our sparring in Norfolk immensely, and so did you." He speared a lobster patty and put it on her plate. "You like these, as I recall."

  She did like lobster patties. But she didn't like him presuming.

  "Why must you always pretend to know everything about me?" she asked.

  "I don't pretend to know. I do know. Because we're so much the same." He lowered his voice, cognizant of the guests milling about. "We're neither of us the selfish creatures we once made each other out to be. But we're neither of us saints. Once, I told a shameless lie with selfless motives. Once, so did you. Who knows if we'd do the same again? We're just as likely to commit good acts with bad intentions. We're interesting that way."

  Without asking, he plunged a wide-bowled spoon into a dish of strawberry-studded custard and ladled it onto her plate.

  When she accused him with a glance, he pulled an innocent face. "Don't pretend you didn't want any. You were looking at it. Yearning for it."

  "Yearning?"

  "You even wet your lips."

  "I did not."

  He leaned close and murmured, "I make quite a study of your lips, Eliza. I notice these things."

  "Oh, you . . ." Her cheeks flushed as she followed him away from the buffet. "You make it so difficult to like you."

  "On the contrary. People find it easy to like me. They find it difficult to love me." He turned to her then, and his eyes were startling in their intensity. "Which is it you're trying to do?"

  A thrill chased down her neck. At last, she had a moment's advantage. A thin veil of feminine mystery, after years of feeling transparent under his knowing gaze.

  She said, "You have to ask? And here I thought you knew all about me."

  "I have my suspicions."

  "Suspicions?" She gave him a coy look. "It's a funny thing about suspicions, Mr. Wright. All too often, they're just vain hopes in disguise."

  His gaze sparked and warmed. And it was the oddest thing, but she knew his smile was coming--even before his lips gave the slightest hint.

  "What?" she asked, disappointed. "That was a brilliant comeback. Have you no reply?"

  "Only that I've been waiting for this day."

  "What day is that?"

  "The day you'd prove yourself to be my match."

  Her heart throbbed lazily in her chest. They were equals now. Not just in wit and intelligence, but in understanding and character. Perhaps now they could be friends.

  Or more.

  Harry.

  With great effort, she kept her tone playful and light. It wouldn't do to tip her hand just yet. "Attend my debut, Mr. Wright. And then you may learn how it feels to be bested."

  AN INVITATION TO A DEBUT

  You are cordially invited to a ball the nineteenth evening of May, 1813, on which occasion Miss Elizabeth Anne Cade will be introduced to society.

  Harry sat at the desk in his cramped, dilapidated bachelor's apartment and read through the invitation. Again. The thing had been sitting on his faded, ink-stained blotter for over a week, and he still hadn't penned a response.

  "Miss Elizabeth Anne Cade will be introduced to society," he read aloud.

  The mere wording rankled. Harry didn't need to be "introduced" to Eliza Cade. He knew her. Perhaps better than anyone else did.

  He sat back in his leather armchair and closed his eyes, picturing the scene. She'd be dressed in some pale, delicate shade--yellow or pink, perhaps. Stars in her eyes, roses on her cheeks. Surrounded by admirers, just as she'd always wished to be.

  As she deserved to be.

  He sat up and drummed his fingers on the blotter. He shouldn't be churlish. As long as she'd waited, she'd earned her measure of freedom--and if she chose to squander it on frivolity, that was hers to decide. She wouldn't be happy until she'd had this--a season of exuberant, exhilarating youth. Twirling through life, fast and free.

  But he was a little too old for that sort of thing, himself. And he had too much pride to be just another face in the admiring throng.

  Plus, he didn't have a damned thing to wear.

  That was it, then. He'd decline.

  He took out a sheet of paper, resolved to pen a brief, solicitous note of regret. Surely he could come up with some excuse.

  But before he could even sharpen his quill, he'd abandoned the letter--deciding to read the newspaper instead. After all, invitations could wait for days or weeks, but news was of the moment. It had to be read, and now.

  Right?

  He took a draught of red wine and laughed at his own absurdity. As many times as he'd resolved not to attend Eliza Cade's debut, he couldn't bring himself to put the decision on paper.

  He was taken with her. Smitten. He was a man in his thirties, in the throes of the most adolescent, puppyish attraction possible. All the more reason to stay away from her. He all but slavered in her presence, and she was mature enough now to see it.

  She might even gloat.

  When he opened the broadsheet, Harry soon found something to divert his attention from Eliza Cade's imminent extravaganza of silk and suitors.

  His chest hollowed out, and his heart dropped straight to his gut. He scanned the list with a mounting sense of dread. It couldn't be.

  But there it was. Printed in black on white.

  "No, no, no. Bollocks. Blast. Bloody hell."

  He shot to his feet, casting the newspaper aside and reaching for his coat.

  He must go to her at once.

  Eliza sat numbly on the garden bench. Her bombazine gown was a smudge of charcoal gray in the midst of nature's brilliant spring palette. It was a rare joy, to see Cade Manor's gardens at this time of year. Usually, they spent these months in Town. The daylilies were just coming into bloom, a hundred cheerful yellow smiles.

  Sadly, their beauty wasn't as restorative as she'd hoped it would be. She felt disloyal sitting out here amongst the blossoms and songbirds and all these lush, vibrant signs of life while her sister sat weeping inside. But Eliza couldn't help it. She needed a respite from gloom and grief. Even if it lasted only a few minutes.

  She watched a finch flitting about the wall, gathering a bit of moss to line its nest. As the bird took wing and flew away, she turned her head to track it.

  Her breath caught. There was a man standing in the garden gate.

  Not just any man.

  Harry.

  Her heart leapt. He was disheveled from travel, as always, dressed in buckskin riding breeches and a blue cutaway coat. His boots showed a thick layer of dust from the road. She hadn't the faintest idea what had brought him here, all the way from Town. But the sight of his green eyes did more to lift her spirits than a thousand lilies could.

  "Mr. Wright," she managed. "What a surprise."

&
nbsp; He bowed. "Miss Eliza."

  When he approached, she offered her hand and he bent over it. His lips brushed her knuckles in a warm, tender kiss.

  "May I sit with you?" he asked.

  That seemed an imprudent idea. If he sat beside her today, she wasn't sure how she'd keep from falling straight into his arms.

  "I believe I'd rather walk," she said, standing. "If you don't mind."

  He offered his arm, and Eliza accepted it. When she slid her hand into the crook of his elbow, he flexed his arm and drew her close. In years past, she would have thought it just another example of his impropriety. But today, the warmth and strength of his body were a welcome comfort. He seemed to know she needed support. She leaned into him, grateful.

  His scent was a balm to her discomfited soul--that subtle, manly blend of bergamot and leather. She inhaled deeply, breathing him in.

  Together, they left the walled garden and set out on a path across the park.

  "It's remarkable to see you here."

  "I must admit," he said, "this isn't how I'd pictured our next meeting. I had visions of you drifting through a ballroom, wearing pink or yellow silk. Bright as a summer blossom, with all the young gentlemen buzzing about you like bees."

  She smiled. "Only the young gentlemen?"

  Eliza instantly regretted her words. Their house was in mourning, and it wasn't the time to tease, or joke, or laugh, or smile.

  But he didn't chide her. He chuckled, in that dry way he had. "Perhaps a few of the ancient ones, too."

  They shared a brief, meaningful glance. There was so much power in that unspoken connection, she couldn't bear it for long. She looked away, a coward in the face of her own emotions.

  "It's a beastly thing," he said. "This tragedy with Lessing."

  "It's unbearable. To think, he'd survived all those battles, only for the ship to sink on his way home . . . ? So cruel."

  He swore violently, the way men were permitted to do. "When I saw his name listed in the papers, I went straightaway to your family's house in London. But you'd already left Town."

  She nodded. "William's family is here. There's no body, of course, but they're placing a monument in their family churchyard. Poor Georgie is beside herself with grief. They'd only been betrothed a few months, but they'd been in love for years. I don't know how she'll survive this."

  "With your help," he answered. "You'll be strong for her."