Chapter Five

Two mornings later, it was impossible to sleep or even pretend to. Groaning in frustration, Ophelia kicked the coverlets from her legs, rolled over, balled her fist, and thumped her pillow as hard as she could. A measure of satisfaction filled her, and it would have to do for now.

With only one meeting, Devlin Byrne invaded her dreams as though he had a right to be there. How could she have dreamed of the man? And worse, it had been a frightfully intimate dream, one in which he had kissed her mouth with carnal thoroughness.

“Ugh,” she groaned, pressing her face even deeper into the softness of her pillow. “Why am I dreaming of kisses!”

His eyes were so lovely and perhaps a bit lonely. Her heart gave a strange stutter. Whether he was the devil in disguise luring her to ruin or an ordinary man, Devlin Byrne held her interest as no one ever had. She tried to pull her thoughts into some semblance of order. Today she intended to meet a lady who had claimed of knowing Sally Martin. Ophelia could not afford the unexpected distraction of Niall…Devlin!

Ringing for her maid, she quickly dressed in a fashionable day dress of yellow taffeta with a cinched waist. Donning her hat to tip rakishly atop her artfully styled curls, Ophelia tugged on her gloves and collected her pelisse. She would call upon Cosima, then make a change of clothes at her home. To remain undetected while she searched for Sally Martin, Ophelia had thought it prudent to leave a set of disguises at Cosima’s house. Hurrying down the stairs, she asked for the town carriage to be prepared. That would take at least fifteen minutes for the order to be taken to the mews and the carriage drawn around the front. She would use the time to check in on her mother and father, as she had missed them at breakfast, a repast they always shared together.

Knocking on the drawing-room door, she entered, noting only her mother was there. And the marchioness was staring at a large box, shaking her head.

“Ophelia?”

“Yes, Mama,” she said, walking over.

“There is a goat in this box.”

She skidded to a halt as if she had slammed into a wall. “A what?” Good heavens! Her voice came in a high, unflattering squeak.

“A goat. It came for you.”

Her thoughts madly whirled. “A goat?”

“What is this about a goat?” her father asked, strolling into the room, immaculately turned out in the first stare of fashion and ready to spend the day with his wife.

“There is a goat for Ophelia in the box,” her mama said disbelievingly.

Her father blinked. “A goat?”

“A goat,” she repeated.

Why was it all beginning to sound like a scatterbrained folk song?

“Why a goat?” he asked with a puzzling frown, plucking the note her mother held out.

Ophelia covered her face with a hand to mask her laughter. She was going to skewer Devlin Byrne.

“Is this a lark from one of your friends?” he asked, casting her a sideways glance. “The note says, ‘Admit that Barbosa is charming. Alarmingly so. I took the liberty of naming him.’ I gather you know the sender.”

“Yes, Papa,” she said, fighting the blush determined to climb her cheeks with all her will. “Recall there was a time I…I wanted a…”

She faltered under his probing stare.

“Why are your cheeks red?”

This had her mother whirling around, finally taking her attention from the goat that must be in possession of three horns and red glowing eyes.

“Well,” Ophelia said, mortified that her cheeks grew hotter. “There is a goat.”

“And it is causing you to blush so frightfully?”

“I’ve heard goats do that. Especially the baby ones.”

Her father stared at her for several seconds, then shifted to look at his wife. “Are you hearing this, my dear? Goats have been known to inspire blushes.”

Bless her mother, who erupted into peals of laughter. Her father made a noncommittal grunt, and she hurried over to the box and peered down. It was the tiniest creature and most lovely. He was mostly white with black spots. He was fluffy…and fat…and incredibly adorable. Warmth blossomed through her, and she stooped, reaching out to touch his fur.

“Are we to keep this creature in the house?”

“Yes, Papa,” she said, laughing, not understanding the way her heart was squeezing. “Please do not forbid it! We’ll be withdrawing to the country soon, and I trust Barbosa will be happy in Derbyshire.”

Her father muttered something unintelligible, and her mother offered him some soothing nonsense. Ophelia would have to leave careful instructions to her maid for bedding and a litter box to set up in her room for him. And perhaps milk and lettuce as his food for now, until they understood each other’s likes and dislikes. And daily baths, perhaps.

She had no notion of how to take care of a baby goat.

Ophelia stood and almost fidgeted under the stares of her parents. Her mother’s eyes were bright with curiosity and something unknown to her, and Papa’s own were suspicious. She groaned silently.

“We are heading to Kensington Gardens, and perhaps the museum after. Would you like to accompany us?”

She paused, swallowing at the hopeful note in her mother’s voice. It was most uncomfortable to look at her father, who carefully stared beyond her shoulder. He had been slowly venturing out, and this would be the third invitation in recent weeks. Ophelia had gently turned down all of them. Distress burned through her veins. “Yes, I would like to accompany you for the day,” she said, pushing aside all thoughts of Sally Martin and the lady she had planned to meet.

The tension leaked from her father’s shoulders, and there was such a relief in the smile he gave her. There would be another day to travel discreetly to Wardour Street. Today, her father and mother needed her. And perhaps she needed them, too. This distance between her and Papa could not be maintained, not when they had been so loving and open their whole lives.

Her mother smiled brightly. “Well then! Let’s be off, shall we?”

…

Ophelia returned home with her parents about three hours later. They had not made it to the museum, for the stroll in the garden with the numerous stops to speak to a fellow peer or acquaintance had tired Papa greatly.

“There are a few letters for you, Lady Ophelia,” the butler said as she handed him her hat and pelisse.

A quick glance down the hallway showed her mother escorting her father to the drawing room, and they had not heard Mr. Clarkson. Her mother was frightfully inquisitive and would want to know who sent a correspondence and what it might entail.

Ophelia already recognized the bold scrawl that had franked the letter to her.

Devlin.

Her heart started to skip and dance beneath her breastbone. Another letter was from a Bow Street investigator she hired, surely concerning the lady she was meant to meet today to learn about her mother. Taking the envelope, she rushed up the winding stairs to her chamber. Once there, she went over to the windows and opened them so the air might cool her cheeks. Tearing the first envelope, she quickly read. Miss Fenley had to leave town for a week and would not be available to meet. Ophelia groaned, thinking it fortunate she had not made the journey today or it would have been in vain. Opening the second envelope, she reached for the note and stilled.

Dance with me. A waltz.

Those words stole Ophelia’s breath and set her heart to racing. There was also another bank draft for ten thousand pounds, once again payable to her father’s account. Stunned, she tightened her fingers around the papers, her knuckles turning white.

“Whatever are you thinking, Niall?” Ophelia whispered. “Ten thousand pounds for a dance!”

Where would they even dance? Would it be once again after this money was lodged at their bank that another set of instructions followed? She did not understand his reasoning, and there was a part of her that did not want to understand him at all.

Liar, a soft voice inside whispered. She wanted to know everything. How had Niall, a simple country boy who could not read, become Devlin Byrne? A restless feeling encompassed her, and suddenly she wanted the comfort and advice of her friends. Perhaps she would call upon Fanny or Maryann. Perhaps it was time she shared with them some of the things that had been heavy upon her heart.

Hurrying down the stairs, she faltered in the hallway, thoroughly shocked to see her mother running with a newssheet flapping in her hands. A smile tugged at her mouth to see the marchioness appearing so mussed and out of sorts. “Mama, whatever is wrong?”

“Ophelia!” she said, skidding to a stop, only to grab her arm and drag her into the drawing room, where the marquess awaited.

“My dear, what has you so breathless?” he said, opening his eyes, which had been closed.

He looked weary, as if their outing had thoroughly worn him out. Her mother waved the newssheet, clearly too aghast to speak. Ophelia plucked it from her hands, knowing instinctively that it was the society mentions she should look for. For a precious moment, she could barely breathe.

“Someone tried to kill Maryann?” Ophelia asked, her heart roaring.

“It is a most dreadful scandal, and everyone…I mean the entire ton is atwitter. This was only printed in the afternoon editions, which is why we heard no mention at the gardens.” Her mother pressed the back of her palm to her forehead. “It is most ghastly!”

“What in God’s name are you saying, Florence?” her father demanded, evidently appalled. “Why would anyone act in such a dubious manner?”

“If I can credit what the newssheets are saying, an earl wanted to somehow hurt Lord Rothbury, and the bacon-brained notion was to shoot Lady Maryann in a ballroom full of people. I still cannot believe it to be true, even upon Lady Danby’s vigorous insistence and account, which arrived in a letter just now!”

Fighting the fear tearing through her heart, Ophelia dropped the paper on the small rococo table. “I have to leave, Mama and Papa. I must call upon Maryann at once.”

“Now you wait a minute, young lady,” her father said sternly, a concerned furrow about his brows. “From your mother’s tone, this scandal will be far-reaching and might have severe ripple effects.”

“I know it,” Ophelia whispered. “Which is why I need to leave immediately. Maryann will need my support.”

Her mother stiffened. “Until we understand the full extent of the situation, it is best you… It is best you do not call upon Maryann for a while, my darling. Just until we understand fully the way the wind blows.”

Ophelia was momentarily speechless in her surprise. “Mama, surely you cannot mean it!”

“The full scandal is not yet printed! It seems there was also a violent declaration of love, and there might be a child. All of this is according to Lady Danby, and if she knows it, every drawing room in London also knows it!”

Ophelia hesitated, torn by conflicting emotions. “Forgive me, Papa, but I am unable to obey you in this matter.”

She felt their profound shock at her stance—and why not? She was an obedient daughter who showed her love by always listening to their advice.

Ophelia sighed. “Papa, please understand. Maryann is one of my dearest friends.” Then she headed for the door, bracing for her parents’ rebuke.

“You will have a care for this family’s reputation in every action of yours, young lady,” her father said. “We allow you much, but never forget it is because we have faith and trust in you. Do not abuse it.”

She swallowed, and her fingers dropped from the latch. “I will be very discreet, Papa. I always take into my care the things you ask of me. And I will do so again, but do not ask me to abandon my character by ignoring one of my dearest friends when she is in need.”

Ophelia opened the door and hurried down the hallway. She winced to hear her father’s shout that they had indeed indulged her willfulness echoing through the door. He might just banish her to the country for this.

Blowing out a sharp breath, Ophelia did not waste the time to call for a carriage. Hurrying down the streets of Berkeley Square, within a short fifteen minutes, she was knocking on the door of Maryann’s townhouse. The butler opened the door, his craggy yet still handsome face creasing into a warm smile.

“Lady Ophelia, very pleasant to see you.”

“Good morning, Thompson.” Hurrying to untie her bonnet and pelisse, she handed them over. “Is Lady Maryann in?”

“She is in the back gardens, my lady.”

“No need to announce me to the earl and countess. I will make my way to the gardens.” Intimately familiar with her friend’s home, Ophelia hastened through the front drawing room, which connected to the ballroom, opened the terrace window, and slipped outside. She almost ran on the graveled pathway around to the back, only to skid to a halt.

Maryann was seated on a stone bench, appearing quite lovely in a green gown, her dark brown hair hanging loose to her back, the sun glinting off the red streaks like burnished copper. Her friend was humming.

“I expected tears, at least!” Ophelia said, rushing over to a very startled Maryann.

“Ophelia,” she gasped. “I did not anticipate you.”

“After the commotion of last evening’s ball?”

Maryann pushed her spectacles atop her nose, a nervous gesture Ophelia was well acquainted with. “It was most awful!”

They hugged briefly, and Ophelia drew back to scan her friend from the top of her head to the tips of her shoes. “You are well, then?”

“I had such a huge fright…but then it also ended gloriously.”

“Gloriously?” Well, that was the last thing she expected to hear from Maryann. “Are all your senses intact?”

She nodded, her green-brown eyes sparkling with something decidedly naughty and happy.

Ophelia wilted under the tide of relief. “I assume the scandal sheets went ahead of themselves and printed a most ridiculous story. I do hope your father will demand a retraction and sue—”

“Well, most of it is arguably correct.” Maryann wrinkled her nose. “I sent a footman to buy as many papers as he possibly could. I have a copy of The Times, The Morning Chronicle, The Spectator—”

“Maryann,” Ophelia said gently. “You are rambling.”

“Well then, depending on the paper you read, most of it is true.”

They spent several minutes chatting, during which her friend filled her in on the entire sordid tale. “I am sorry that Nicolas was hurt,” she said when Maryann stopped.

A soft smile touched Maryann’s mouth. “Nicolas is well. He was here a few hours ago. The doctor gave a most excellent report.”

Nicolas. The manner in which Maryann lingered on his name had a tight ache forming in Ophelia’s throat. “You love him,” she breathed.

A wide, brilliant smile curved Maryann’s mouth. “Oh, yes, very much.”

“Even with his dastardly reputation?”

“I daresay I love him even more for it.”

“You must not leave me in this terrible suspense any longer, or I shall be very vexed with you, Maryann!”

As quickly as possible without becoming overwrought with emotions, Maryann told her what happened. “I cannot believe any of it,” Ophelia said, once again hugging Maryann to her.

Hand in hand, they returned to the bench and sat. “A bounder truly threatened to take your life, and then Nicolas St. Ives, London’s most notorious rogue, declared to this bounder that he would…repay life with life because he is so violently in love with you?”

Maryann laughed, her hazel eyes gleaming with rich delight and love. “Yes.”

“You are beyond scandalous,” Ophelia said, shaking her head. “What did your mama say? Are you banished to the country? Should the other sinful wallflowers plot and mount a daring rescue?”

Maryann’s cheeks pinkened. “No. Nicolas came by earlier. We are getting married by special license in a few days, and then we will hie off to the country until society finds their next favorite scandal to chew on. Oh, Ophelia, I love him so much! And he loves me with the same intensity.”

“Maryann, I am so happy. First Kitty, and now you have found great happiness!” Ophelia hugged her arms around herself tightly. “Are we addle-brained to recklessly chase after wickedness?”

Devlin’s brilliant green eyes floated in her thoughts, along with that sensual slant to his lips.

“No, I daresay we are brilliant for chasing our own paths.” Maryann hesitated. “I was at the Asylum…the night before last. I heard you singing.”

Ophelia’s heart jolted. “Yes, I…”

Her friend touched her shoulders. “That man in the room was Devlin Byrne. We have heard many rumors about him, and he has a very dubious reputation. But I suspect he is your slice of wickedness.”

Ophelia looked away, lifting her face to the sky. “I have no notion what he is. Our…friendship, if I dare call it that, is very unusual.”

“Have you…have you been friends for a long time?”

In halting accents, she shared everything with Maryann, unable to hold it inside anymore.

When she glanced at her friend, Maryann had paled. “The marchioness is not your mother?”

“Yes.”

“Good heavens. I cannot credit your father would conceive of such a scheme or that the marchioness would go along with it.” Maryann sent her a sympathetic glance. “Have you any fortune in finding any news about her, about Sally Martin?”

Ophelia bit into her lower lip to stop its trembling. “None. I admit I do not know what to do. I have hired a Bow Street runner to aid me in investigating, but in five months he’s had nothing to report. He gave me an address of a lady, Miss Barbara Fenley, in Wardour Street who performed with Sally Martin, which is great progress. I’ve made arrangements to visit Miss Fenley and ask her about Sally Martin.”

“When will you call upon her?”

“She is not available until next week. It is frustrating, but I must be patient.”

“We all thought you donned the persona of Lady Starlight because you loved singing so much, but it was all to find her.”

Ophelia nodded wordlessly.

“And you have deliberately used Devlin Byrne’s name…said that you are his lover to walk freely in London’s seedier districts.”

“Yes,” she said softly. “I did.”

Maryann sniffed and cast her friend an admiring glance. “I do recall you were the one to plant the idea that night when we were at your father’s house stealing his whisky and getting tippled that we should be wicked and daring to get the things we want. And it was you who coaxed Kitty the most to pretend to be the fiancée of a duke not about town! It was all because you were doing a similar chicanery!”

“Yes, but my scheme will not lead to love like it did for you and Kitty.”

Maryann’s expression softened. “Do you want that? Love?”

Ophelia hesitated. “I do know that, should I marry, I want to admire, respect, and have great affection for that gentleman. I’ve had several seasons, and I have not met a gentleman who captured my regard. If I cannot feel some…I do not know, passion or interest for someone, I also know I shall be contented if I never marry.”

“There is no happiness in being alone.” Maryann looked about the gardens, leaned forward, and whispered, “That is because you know nothing of the pleasures of the flesh.”

Ophelia gasped. “You and the marquess have anticipated your vows?”

Maryann grinned cheekily. “Many, many times, and let me tell you, it is bloody delicious!”

After a beat, they both started to laugh at their scandalous topic of discourse. “Coupling is delicious?”

“Oh yes,” Maryann murmured dreamily, pushing the glasses up her nose.

Ophelia stared at her friend in shock, never dreaming when Maryann had set out to be naughty it had gotten that far without the benefit of marriage. And why not? A pulse of something unfathomable tumbled over inside Ophelia, and the breath that left her mouth was shaky. “I am not sure whether to be proud or scandalized.”

“Be both,” Maryann said with a wink, and they both chuckled.

She stayed almost an hour with Maryann, laughing and chatting, bemused and a little bit frightened that thoughts of Devlin Byrne and that coupling was most delicious did not depart from her mind—not once.