Chapter 6

six

T WO YEARS HAD passed since Royston had been awarded a title, and he'd learnt something important. A title and some nice clothes hadn't changed him.

Deep down, he was still the same man from the gutter who had grown up in a brothel and made a living as a cat burglar. Also, his new peers had taken enthusiastically to the fact the queen had bestowed upon him the title of Baron Wharton, a title he'd never wanted but had to admit was convenient. Most of the time.

Invitations to the opera, dinners, and balls flooded his letter tray. Invitations he mostly declined, which, instead of discouraging the peers from inviting him, made them even more insistent. That night, he'd accepted Lady and Lord Redvers's invitation because they'd been particularly insistent, especially the lady.

He suspected his large fortune, granted as a reward for his courage, the queen's praise, and his successful steel factory had something to do with his popularity.

He paced in the fancy parlour of Lady Redvers's house. The room, with its rich brown colours and the grand piano, had a soothing effect on his nerves, but his pulse didn't want to slow down. Being among aristocratic people as a supposed equal and not as a servant was something he hadn't got used to. At least he didn't feel the urge to rob anyone, which was good, he guessed.

The clock on the mantelpiece informed him that Havisham was late. The earl had requested a quiet meeting at the ball with urgency. Royston wouldn't stay here all evening. If Havisham didn't appear in five minutes, he'd leave. He wasn't the earl's footman anymore.

As if on cue, the door swung inwards, and Havisham slid inside. "Wharton, apologies. I was delayed."

"Havisham." He bowed his head.

Havisham clapped his shoulder. "Thank you for agreeing to this meeting."

Royston glanced at Havisham's hand on his shoulder. When he'd been in Havisham's service, no one had given him pats on the shoulder, and he preferred it that way.

"What did you want?"

Havisham's expression darkened. "I'm afraid I need your help for a rather delicate matter."

Royston waited for Havisham to add more, but when the earl didn't say anything, he prompted with, "Yes?"

Havisham checked the corridor and shut the door. "Do you remember Mrs. Haywood, the woman who was with me the night of the fire?"

Actually, he remembered Miss Haywood better. Her deep, large black eyes were hard to forget, her kindness had left a mark on him, and her sense of humour still made him smile. Miss Haywood had kept him company during his recovery until he'd behaved appallingly with her when she'd asked him to dance with him. After that, she'd vanished.

At first, he'd believed she'd been avoiding him, but even her mother had disappeared, which made him think they'd moved out of London.

There had been rumours about a foreign count, or someone similar, wanting to marry Mrs. Haywood. No one knew for sure. Anyway, in the past two years, he'd received his damn title, had a pompous ceremony at Buckingham Palace, and hadn't seen Miss Haywood since their last horrible encounter.

"I do remember Mrs. Haywood, Havisham," he said.

"I guess you also remember why I met her at the Theatre Royal." Havisham arched his brow.

Royston exhaled. "I do."

"In the days after the fire, I met her. A few times. Many times. Until she left London."

He shifted his weight. As Havisham had said at the theatre, he'd wanted Mrs. Haywood as his mistress. "I see."

"A few months ago, Mrs. Haywood returned to London."

"Did she?" Royston hid his surprise. So Miss Haywood might be in London as well.

"Yes, but the point is that she isn't the woman I thought she was. We started our relationship again. Everything seemed normal, until we argued." He waved a hand. "Nothing important, but that was the moment when I learnt she'd deceived me. She collected some evidence of our relationship." Havisham lowered his gaze as distress tightened his features.

"What sort of evidence?"

Havisham raked a hand through his hair. "Hard to say for sure. I'm aware she's in possession of letters and a few compromising photographs we took together during a particularly wild night. She was eager to take those damn photographs."

Hell. Havisham's wife was the daughter of a duke. The earl wouldn't recover from a scandal easily, and the countess was a vindictive woman.

"Is Mrs. Haywood blackmailing you?" Royston asked.

Havisham worked his jaw. "Indeed. She's never asked for a large sum, which makes the situation easier for me. But I'm concerned. I can't keep living with the constant threat of having my secret exposed." He paced, shaking his head. "Bloody hell, I want it over."

"I'm sorry to hear about your troubles," Royston said. Although if Havisham didn't tup every skirt he liked, he wouldn't be in this situation. "But what do I have to do with this?"

Havisham pressed a few keys on the piano, trying to play something. Then he faced Royston. "I'd be grateful to you if you could recover the compromising material Mrs. Haywood possesses about our relationship."

"What do you mean?" He tilted his head.

Havisham didn't flinch. "You have a… past. You must know how to deal with a problem like mine."

Royston's pulse beat a war tempo in his ears. "I beg your pardon."

"Now, now, Wharton. Before coming to my employment, you were a thief, a pugilist in an illegal ring, and a member of a gang. I'm not judging you. I'm simply saying that you have skills I desperately need."

No, Royston couldn't change his past, but he could decide what to do with his future, and resuming his life of crime, even for a short time, wasn't what he wanted. He wasn't proud of what he'd done, but not ashamed either. His past crimes had been a matter of survival, not greed.

"I won't do it, Havisham. I have no intention of using my former criminal skills to steal from a lady."

"Lady? What lady? Mrs. Haywood is a blackmailer."

Royston lifted a shoulder. "And you're an adulterer."

For a moment, he thought Havisham was going to punch him. But since the lord knew Royston's past so well, he should be aware that Royston was a good boxer and would dodge the punch easily.

"I'll help you so that you won't need to break into her house," Havisham said. "I'll think of something, an invitation perhaps. I'll make sure she organises a party in her house and that you're invited. No breaking and entering."

"No."

"I will pay you any sum," the earl insisted.

If there was one thing he didn't need, it was money. "I can't do it. I don't want to be involved in this."

"Mrs. Haywood will be here tonight. You might want to talk to her and see for yourself that she's a disgraceful woman. You're good at understanding people."

Royston ignored the quick flutter in his chest at the possibility of meeting Miss Haywood again. "I gave you my answer."

Havisham came closer. "I can make a conspicuous investment in your steel factory. I heard you often employ people with a troubled past to help them. I'll be more than happy to finance your charitable enterprise."

Seriously? Then why hadn't the earl done that before?

He opened his mouth to say, ‘no' again, but Havisham cut him off.

"Listen, don't answer now." Havisham opened the door. "Please think about it. You'd do a great service to society by fighting against that blackmailer. She has ruined more than one life."

Royston clenched his fists when he was alone. Sod Havisham. He was an adult who could solve his own problems, and Royston was free to make his own choices.

He sat at the piano and started to play.

Angeline's mother was right. Mr. North was a handsome man, no doubt about that. With his straight, bouncy strawberry-blond hair and pale green eyes, he looked like an angel jumped out of an oil painting. If only he would keep his mouth shut.

His good looks didn't change the fact she had no intention of talking to him. She wouldn't sell her body to a stranger, and drugging the man was plain wrong.

"Miss Haywood, you're a vision." Mr. North took her hand and kissed it, showing a lopsided smile that caused his face to lose some of its beauty.

Angeline withdrew her hand, gazing around the busy ballroom. If he knew what was underneath the glove, he'd be horrified. "Thank you, sir."

Lady Redvers was a viscountess, and some of her guests were high-ranking nobles. Who knew how many of those so-called gentlemen had been or currently were Mama's lovers or victims?

"Miss Haywood?" Mr. North dipped his head, filling her field of vision. He let out one of his high-pitched, convulsive laughs that made her fear he might collapse with a fit. "For a moment, I had the impression you weren't listening to a single word I said."

Oh, goodness. "Mr. North, let me be frank."

"Darling," Mama said in her fake, sweet voice. "Perhaps you want to talk to Mr. North in private."

"No, what I have to say can be said here in the safety of the ballroom."

Mr. North sniggered again, and she wanted to shout at him to stop laughing because there was nothing to laugh about and because he had a terrible laugh. She'd never been an aggressive person, but between her mama's persistence and Mr. North's obtusity, her nerves were fraying like the threads of a worn hessian carpet.

He offered her his arm. "Come now, Miss Haywood. I'm sure you'll agree with me about the intimate nature of our conversation." He arched his eyebrows.

Her anger reached a boiling point.

"We don't have anything to discuss, intimate or otherwise." She wielded the fan as if it were a dagger.

Mama poked her with an elbow. "Angeline, do it for me. At least hear what the gentleman has to say."

What gentleman?

Mr. North grabbed her hand and tugged at it. "Please?"

"Fine. Let's talk." She'd have the opportunity to tell Mr. North to go find another woman, or even better, she'd show him her ugly scar to scare him off. And Mama would stop searching for people to drug.

And that would be the end of it.

Surely. Most definitely. The end.