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Pressing her lips over a yawn, Gwen threw another glance at the clock on the mantle. Thirty minutes to go before their at-home day for callers would come to a blessed end. She thought longingly of the book she had set aside earlier. The memory prompted another, more unpleasant, recollection from the week before—when Avery Winfield had told her that she’d likely go mad from not being able to read due to all of the season’s social engagements.
Fresh irritation rose inside her, pushing back against her boredom. Didn’t he realize this wasn’t her first season? She’d managed two others with time enough to read and help at Heartwell House as often as she could.
At least she’d had no concerns that Mr. Winfield would be among her visitors today. He’d seemed as frustrated with her at the end of the Linwoods’ dinner as she had been with him.
She hadn’t been surprised that Mr. Fipwish had called, though she hadn’t been expecting visits from Bert’s friends Lord Whitson and Mr. Hanbury. Her surprise at their appearance had soon given way to consternation.
Lord Whitson, the eldest son of a marquess, had talked incessantly about himself whenever he wasn’t showering Gwen with shallow compliments in an obvious attempt at impressing her and her mother. He’d apparently succeeded with the latter. In contrast, Mr. Hanbury, who would not inherit a title but was quite wealthy, had said very little. Gwen had been forced to carry most of the conversation for a quarter of an hour.
“Mrs. Rinecroft and Miss Rinecroft,” the Rodmills’ butler announced.
Gwen’s fatigue and boredom faded at once. Her best friend was waiting in the foyer.
Her excitement did not extend to her mother, though. “Why are they calling now?” Cornelia frowned. “Come to crow about some titled match that Syble has made?”
“You know they aren’t like that.”
Cornelia sniffed. “Perhaps not. But if we allow them to call today, we will have to return the visit in the future.”
“Please, Mother.”
Sniffing once more, Cornelia looked at the clock. “Very well. But only because our at-home day is nearly at an end.” She waved the butler out the door to grant the Rinecrofts admittance.
Eagerness had Gwen sitting up straighter. It was all she could do to suppress a grin when Syble and her mother entered the room.
“Hello, Mrs. Rinecroft,” Gwen said politely as she stood. “Miss Rinecroft.”
Her best friend smiled and crushed Gwen in a tight hug as if it had been months since they’d last seen each other. Over her friend’s shoulder, she saw her mother’s frown had returned.
“Mother was sure we’d only be allowed to leave a card,” Syble whispered before releasing Gwen. “But here we are.” She turned to face Gwen’s mother. “Always a pleasure to see you, Mrs. Barton.”
“Yes,” Cornelia said with an imperious nod. “How do you do, Miss Rinecroft? Mrs. Rinecroft?”
As the two matrons greeted one another, Gwen took a limping step toward the door. “May I show Syble my room, Mother?”
Her lengthy sigh expressed her disapproval, but Cornelia finally motioned them toward the door. “I suppose there’s no harm in it.”
Syble winked at Gwen as they moved into the foyer. The moment Gwen was sure they were out of sight, she linked her arm with her friend’s.
“I’m so grateful you’re here, Syble.”
“Me too,” Syble said, slowing her footfalls up the stairs to accommodate Gwen’s pace. “It feels like ages since I last saw you, and I have ever so much to tell you, Gwenie.” She positively glowed in her light blue day dress and large feathered hat.
Once inside Gwen’s room, Syble flouted convention by removing her hat from her blond hair. Then she sank into one of the armchairs. Gwen took a seat in the other.
“Don’t you just love London?” Syble rested her gloved hands on the chair arms. “It’s ever so much more fun than New York.”
Thinking back to her conversation with the smug Mr. Winfield, Gwen gave a noncommittal murmur. “What have you loved the most?” she asked her friend.
“Oh, the theater, the dinners, and of course, all the handsome gentlemen.” She raised her eyebrows, prompting a laugh from Gwen. “One in particular, actually.”
Gwen listened as Syble spoke at length about a Mr. Elijah Kirk, whom she’d met at the theater. He was the only son of a viscount, and the family had a country estate in Kent.
“He’s ever so sweet,” Syble gushed. “And unlike those bachelor bores back home, he seems to enjoy it when I’m blunt or prattle on about anything and everything.”
“Speaking of bluntness, I finally spoke my mind to a gentleman last week.” The recollection filled Gwen with new strength and prompted a smile. If only her best friend could have been there to witness her triumphant moment firsthand.
“And who was the beneficiary of your boldness?”
“A gentleman by the name of Avery Winfield.”
Syble’s blue eyes widened. “Avery Winfield?”
“Have you met him?”
Her friend bent forward, her incredulity palpable. “Of course I’ve met him. Not only is he incredibly handsome, but you know about his inheritance, right?”
“No.”
An amazed laugh fell from her friend’s lips. “Maybe that’s a good thing. You might not have been so bold if you’d known he’s the nephew and heir of the Duke of Moorleigh. Mr. Winfield will inherit the title and the estate from his uncle.”
“Oh no.” Gwen covered her face with her hands. Of all the men to choose to be herself around, she had to pick one who would one day be a duke.
“It’s all right, Gwen.” Syble touched her arm. “Perhaps he likes a forthright woman like Mr. Kirk does.”
She lowered her hands to her lap. “Whether he does or doesn’t, I’m not interested in him. I mean, I might have been at first, but he proved to be more pestering and patronizing than likeable.”
“Interesting,” Syble murmured, settling back against the cushions again. “The man hardly spoke more than a few words to me the night I met him, but nothing he said struck me as uncivil, and he certainly didn’t pester me with his attentions.” She loosely clasped her hands together. “Start at the beginning.”
Gwen obliged, detailing her interactions with Mr. Winfield from the moment she’d arrived at the Linwoods’ townhouse to their conversation during dinner. “I’ll admit I allowed him to poke at me. But I don’t regret what I said to him, especially not about my faith.”
“I’m proud of you, Gwenie. And I don’t blame you one bit for being annoyed with his arrogance. It sounds as if you handled things brilliantly.”
She offered Syble an indulging smile. “You say that because I handled things a lot like you would have.”
“Exactly.” Her friend spread her arms wide. “Which is why I can knowingly say you handled them well.”
They shared a laugh. “I’ve missed you, Syble.”
“I’ve missed you too.” Syble’s expression drooped a little. “It isn’t the same as it was back in New York, is it? I feel like we’re supposed to be even greater rivals here. Just don’t go falling in love with Mr. Kirk if you meet him, all right? He’ll take one look at you and I’ll be sunk.”
It took Gwen a moment to realize Syble wasn’t teasing. “Why would he like me?”
“Because you’re kind and beautiful and quietly articulate.” There was no jealousy in her friend’s eyes, only vulnerability. “The men here seem to like when I blurt out what I’m thinking or want to discuss topics that are deemed too intellectual for a woman back home. But I’m afraid that, in the end, they’ll prefer to marry someone quiet and discreet like you.”
Reaching out, Gwen took hold of Syble’s hand and gave it a firm squeeze. “We can only be who we are, Syble. And I hope there are men somewhere in this country who will love us because of that.”
She lowered her hand to the chair arm and plucked at an errant thread. Her secret about the opera filled her thoughts and her throat, begging to be unburdened. It had been almost a week since that night. Surely she could tell Syble without betraying the man she’d helped.
“I met someone too.”
“What?” Syble squealed as if they were fourteen again and not twenty. “Who? What’s his name?”
Gwen released a sigh. “I don’t know. I don’t even know what he looks like.”
“Then how can you know you like him?”
The memory of their kiss brought a smile to her mouth. “I know.”
“Gwen! What aren’t you telling me?”
She laughed. “All right, all right. I’ll share the whole story. But you have to promise me that you won’t breathe a word of it to anyone.”
“I promise.” Syble pretended to lock her lips with an imaginary key. “I won’t tell a soul.”
Satisfied, Gwen described her escape into the empty opera box and how she’d found an injured gentleman lying there. She told Syble how she’d bandaged him, then feared she had worsened his injuries in the process. Her cheeks flushed when she described their kiss.
“That is the most romantic story I’ve ever heard.” Syble sighed dreamily. “Better than any of the books we’ve read. To think you helped him and had your first real kiss in the process. He’s probably out there right now, wondering who you are too.”
Gwen liked to believe so. “I want to figure out his identity, even if I’m not quite sure how.” Or where she would find the time—with social events every evening, at-home days, and trying to figure out how to slip away to visit Dr. Smithfield’s office. But she wanted to solve this mystery.
“Gwen?” Her mother’s voice slipped through the partially opened door. “Mrs. Rinecroft is about to leave.”
Climbing to her feet, Gwen threw Syble a firm look. “Please don’t say anything—to anyone.”
“I won’t,” Syble reassured her as she stood and put her hat back on. She scooped up Gwen’s hand in hers as she added, “We’ll figure out his identity together. I’ll help you.”
Gwen gave her friend a parting hug. “I’m so glad you came today, Syble.”
“So am I.”
Gwen trailed her mother and Syble down the stairs to the foyer. After leaving a card, the Rinecrofts departed. As the butler closed the door behind them, Cornelia turned to face Gwen. “I hope you weren’t giving away any secrets to the enemy.”
“No, Mother.”
“Good. Then I think we can consider this at-home day a success. Especially given Lord Whitson’s visit.” She flashed a triumphant smile at Gwen.
Knowing she couldn’t voice her true thoughts on the subject, Gwen held her tongue, allowing her mother to chatter on about the gentlemen who’d called as the two of them returned upstairs. The day had been successful, but not for the reason her mother believed.
Seeing Syble again had bolstered Gwen’s spirits and her determination to be herself this season. It had also renewed her desire to learn the identity of her injured stranger.
“I’m going to lie down before dressing for dinner,” Cornelia said, stopping outside her bedroom door.
Gwen tried to recall if they had plans for the evening, but she couldn’t remember which invitations her mother had accepted. “Do we have a dinner to attend tonight?”
“No, we’re dining here, with your aunt and uncle, before we attend a dance.”
“A dance?” Dread churned her empty stomach. Why had her mother agreed to such an event? “But I can’t dance.”
Cornelia pinched the bridge of her nose, her lips turning downward. “The hostess is a friend of your aunt’s, Gwen. She is also the wife of a viscount and very influential among London society.” She lowered her hand and gave Gwen a firm look. “So you will make your excuses about not dancing, but I still expect you to be charming.”
She gave her mother a wordless nod, then moved toward her own room. The click of her mother’s door closing sounded behind her. Casting a glance at the hall clock, Gwen guessed she had an hour, possibly two, before she’d need to dress for dinner. She could return to the book she’d been reading late into the night. Or . . .
Could she make it to the doctor’s office and back in time? It might be days before she again had a few hours to herself.
With her heart beating double time, Gwen collected a hat from her room and headed downstairs once more. “I need the carriage brought around for an errand,” she told the Rodmills’ butler.
Would he question her? She wasn’t doing anything wrong, though the clandestine way she had to go about it made it feel as if she were.
A flicker of surprise entered the butler’s expression before he lowered his gaze to the floor and offered her a bow. “I’ll see to it right away, Miss Barton.” He exited the foyer.
Was he curious about Gwen’s destination or surprised that her mother wasn’t with her? Would he tell her aunt—or worse, her mother—about her mysterious departure? Gwen dreaded the thought of the ire that would descend upon her if he did. But regardless, she was finally going to see the famous doctor. She released her breath in a rush.
A heady sense of freedom and hope surrounded her as Gwen stepped outside to wait for the carriage. She couldn’t help smiling when the vehicle appeared. At last she was doing something she wanted to do while in London.
*
From across the room at the club, Avery watched Bert Rodmill. The man appeared to be on edge as he polished off another glass of brandy. He kept checking his pocket watch and bouncing his leg. After another few minutes, Rodmill glanced around, then rose to his feet. It was Avery’s cue to leave as well.
“I believe I’ll head home,” he said to Linwood as he stood.
His friend raised his eyebrows. “So early? What’s the hurry, Winfield?”
“Feeling a bit peaked.”
Which was true. Avery had stayed up later than usual the night before, reviewing all of the information he’d gleaned about his two suspects. But he hadn’t come to any new conclusions. Not for the first time, he felt frustrated at the dead end he’d met with Rodmill’s cousin, Miss Barton.
“You sound like an old man, chap,” Linwood said with a laugh. “All you need is a nightcap and pipe to complete the picture.”
“Ha. I’m no older than you.” They were both twenty-eight. “Besides, I accepted an invitation to the Stouts’ dance this evening, and I’d like to rest before I go.”
Linwood eyed him with open suspicion. “You’re attending another social event? Are you turning into a society man?”
“Hardly.” Avery grimaced, prompting a smile from his friend. “But it is my hope that if I put in more of a show this season, my uncle will have less cause for complaint.”
It was another truth. In addition, Avery hoped one or both of his suspects would be in attendance tonight. “Are you and Lady Linwood attending the dance?”
A shadow crossed his friend’s face. “We were invited, but no, Clare and I won’t be attending.”
“Is something amiss?” If Linwood wished to unburden himself, then of course Avery would stay and listen. Besides, he already had a good idea where Rodmill was headed.
Linwood’s smile didn’t reach his eyes. “I’ll be all right. You go on, old man.”
“If you need anything, Linwood . . .”
He nodded, his expression uncharacteristically serious. “I know, Winfield. And I’m grateful for it.”
Avery bid his friend goodbye, then exited the club before searching the busy street for Rodmill. Once his current assignment was over, he intended to get to the bottom of whatever was troubling Lord Linwood—at least, if his friend was willing to share it.
As he’d predicted, he discovered Rodmill walking a familiar route through London’s various neighborhoods. Likely bound for the undistinguished townhouse Avery had followed the man to before.
Rodmill peered over his shoulder often, but Avery stayed far enough back to not be noticed. Members of the upper class, dressed in their finest, could be seen climbing into carriages and the occasional motorcar to attend a variety of social events.
At last, Rodmill stopped in front of the same townhouse. A servant opened the door, and the other man entered the house. Avery crossed to the opposite side of the street to wait. Rodmill’s meetings typically lasted less than an hour.
His thoughts soon turned from his investigation to his concern for Lord and Lady Linwood. But that trail of thought went to the last time he’d seen them together at the dinner they’d hosted and that, annoyingly, led his mind to Miss Barton.
Nearly a week had passed since his disastrous conversation with the American girl. Avery had attended two other functions since then, but he hadn’t seen Miss Barton at either. It was a fact he found as gratifying as he did disappointing. He’d wondered more than once how she was doing and if her philosophies on love and faith were holding up in the face of the season. He actually hoped they were.
He had met two more American heiresses since the Linwoods’ dinner. But neither of them could be the girl who’d helped him. One of them, a Miss Syble Rinecroft, was pleasant enough, and yet she chattered too much to be his calm, serene young lady from the opera. The other, a Miss Snow, had a beautiful singing voice, which she prided herself on sharing. Her manners were a bit too showy, though, to be those of the woman from the opera box.
Had he only imagined the girl spoke with an American accent? No. Avery shook his head. He might have been in great pain that night, but he hadn’t hallucinated his surprise when he’d heard her accent. Those three American girls might not be the one he sought. However, there were still other American heiresses he hadn’t met yet.
The door to the townhouse suddenly opened, jerking Avery from his musings. Rodmill descended the steps to the street. Avery straightened away from the wrought-iron fence he’d been leaning against. Tonight the man looked uncharacteristically happy. Instead of his usual frown, Rodmill wore an actual smile.
Near the corner, the other man paused to pull out his watch. A slip of paper fluttered from his pocket to the sidewalk, but Rodmill seemed to take no notice. Without looking down, he marched on.
Avery dashed in front of several carriages to reach the corner. He bent and picked up the paper. Could it finally be a clue as to why the man visited this part of town? Avery opened the note, and a surge of victory rolled through him when he saw the German words penned there.
“Now we’re getting somewhere,” he murmured to himself as he translated the message.
Komm heute Abend um 6:00 zu mir. “Come to me at 6:00 this evening.”
He stuffed the note into his pocket. This was actual evidence that Bert Rodmill’s meeting this evening had in fact been with the Germans. Could the man’s happiness mean he’d at last delivered valuable information to those inside the townhouse? Could Rodmill be the one who’d commissioned that reprobate to try to kill Avery at the opera?
Avery had shared the incident with Captain Kell, along with his concern that his cover among the ton might have been blown. But the captain believed the threat was likely a lucky guess by the enemy spy’s superiors—an attempt to do away with Avery in the event that he might well be a spy himself. With a very limited number of men to help him, Captain Kell had asked Avery to continue his work until they had the solid proof they needed to apprehend whoever was spying for and reporting to Germany.
He hurried past the corner and down the street until he had sight on Rodmill once more. As usual, the man’s trail ended outside his parents’ townhouse.
Not as exciting a final destination as Avery had hoped. But he still felt pleased with the note he’d discovered. It gave him an upper hand in this game of cat and mouse.
Before he turned to leave, he noticed a carriage pull to a stop in front of the Rodmills’ home. Was Miss Barton inside? He paused to watch and felt something akin to pleasure when the young lady stepped down from the vehicle. Except she was the only one to disembark. The carriage moved on the moment she started slowly up the front steps. He could see, even from a distance, her guilty expression as she approached her cousin, who stood waiting for her.
How curious. Avery studied the pair. Rodmill looked annoyed as he spoke to Miss Barton, and Avery assumed the other man was scolding his cousin for her behavior. He had to admit he was surprised by her actions as well. Why would she travel unaccompanied around London? And where had she gone?
When the two of them entered the house a minute or so later, Avery started for his own home, his mind flooding with thoughts. Could Miss Barton be working with her cousin, and thereby, with the Germans too? Avery didn’t want to believe it, especially given the disappointment expanding inside his chest. And yet he couldn’t deny that the young lady possessed the skills of quiet observation and discreetness, which were so needful in a spy.
Perhaps she would be at the dance this evening. The possibility had him smiling to himself with anticipation. Because, whether Miss Barton accused him of interrogating her again or not, Avery planned to find out exactly where she had gone today and why.