The Deceptive Lady Darby (Lost Ladies of London 2)

Christian dropped into the chair behind the desk, shuffled papers and waited for his housekeeper to leave before a string of curses fell from his lips. With his head in his hands, he considered Mrs Hibbet’s comments. Had experience forced him to judge Rose too harshly? In truth, he didn’t care if her brother was an earl. His reaction stemmed from jealousy. Who the hell was Lord Cunningham? And what on earth made Rose believe she loved him?

Christian pressed his fingers to his temples to ease the mounting tension. He couldn’t think about Rose, not now. When that didn’t work, he opened the drawer and removed Cassandra’s letters. Rose had taken her blue diary, the one she’d used to hide the notes. His mind drifted again, and he wondered if she’d written anything about him in her little book.

Was that why she wanted him to read it?

He shook his head. He should stop daydreaming and focus his attention on discovering which one of the bastards had made him a cuckold.

Vulgar was too mild a word to describe the obscene nature of the missives. The content failed to rouse any emotion. Indeed, he felt numb, cold, indifferent. Rose was right. The graphic descriptions bore no resemblance to the passionate moment they’d shared. He’d been right, too. Rose had given everything of herself in that tender moment. Regardless of the other lies, the truth existed in every kiss they’d ever shared.

On a weary sigh, he continued reading about Cassandra’s moments of sexual gratification. Every letter said the same. There were no clues to the person’s identity. Nothing to lead back to Taylor, Wilmslow or Mr Watson.

The knock on the door drew his attention. Foster entered the room and walked over to the desk, the silver salver balanced on his palm.

“This arrived from The Talbot Inn, my lord. Mr Parsons begs an apology. He meant to deliver it yesterday but his wife misplaced the missive.”

Christian took the letter from the salver. “Thank you, Foster. That will be all.”

Upon breaking the seal, he looked for a signature and found Rose’s name at the bottom of the paper. Instinctively, he brought the letter to his nose and inhaled, hoping to find a trace of her unique scent, something to stir excitement in his chest. When that failed, he brushed his finger over her name, desperate to feel a connection.

Rose.

He scanned the missive quickly, impatient to understand her reason for writing, and frowned. Various quotes from the Bible filled the first half of the page, one from Matthew, another from Isaiah, all relating to forgiveness. At first, he presumed the letter was an apology, but then he noticed Rose’s message written at the bottom in a different hand.

As you know, my brother got married today. While there, I took the liberty of confessing my sins to the Reverend Wilmslow and begged him to give me guidance. He noted a few passages to remind me that God forgives all sins if repented. I hope this example of the reverend’s writing proves useful in your endeavour to find peace.

Forgive me.

Rose.

Christian sat back in the chair. Instead of celebrating her brother’s wedding, Rose had thought of him. A deep ache filled his chest. Mrs Hibbet was right.

He loved Rose.

Even though she’d left, he could still feel her in his heart. So what should he do about it? Perhaps he should find a white charger, ride to London and bring her back. He placed her letter on the desk, his mind distracted with thoughts of rescuing his damsel. But what would he do when he got there? He’d given his friend, Vane, free use of the house in Berkeley Square. And he could not leave the children.

Lost in thought, he stared at the wall until his gaze migrated back to Rose’s letter.

Bloody hell!

Christian sat bolt upright. He snatched Cassandra’s love note and held it in his left hand, took the example of the Reverend Wilmslow’s handwriting in the other.

“They’re a bloody match.”

Taking a magnifying glass out of the drawer, he scanned them again to be sure.

“That blasted hypocritical toad.”

He jumped from the chair, charged from the house to the stables and in fifteen minutes arrived at the reverend’s home. After a brief conversation with the housekeeper, he found Wilmslow in St Martin’s church practising his sermon.

Christian pushed open the oak doors with both hands and marched down the aisle. The clip of his boots echoed within the stone walls.

Wilmslow’s head shot up. “Lord Farleigh? Well, this is a surprise.” The reverend’s smile faded as he stepped down from his pew. “I trust all is well.”

“No, Wilmslow, all is not well.” What had Cassandra seen in this lying snake?

“Look, I know we have different opinions about dealing with the sickness—”

“This is not about the blasted sickness, though at least now I know why you’re so keen to search Everleigh.”