At the last moment—as if he felt her stare—he raised his head. Their eyes met. In the muted light of dawn she could read nothing in his gaze. Did he feel even a fraction of the turmoil that surged through her? Giving her a brief nod, he spun his horse about and galloped down the drive.

She pressed her fingers against her mouth, unable to stifle her strangled sob. For days she had prayed for him to leave. She watched until he was out of sight before releasing the drapes. They fluttered back, a whisper on the air.

In the back of her mind a desperate voice asserted itself, making itself known. Don’t go.

Chapter 10

Meredith packed the earth tightly around newly planted foxglove, pausing to wipe a hand across her brow. Leaning back on her heels, she squinted up at the sun. The day was unusually warm, and the extra padding across her mid-section that Maree had fashioned added to her warmth. The padding—packed tight with horse’s hair—attached to her corset and lent her the appearance of a woman not too far along in her pregnancy, but a woman definitely bearing the signs of pregnancy no less. At first she had wrinkled her nose at using horse’s hair in the padding. But then Maree explained horse’s hair was used to stuff furniture cushions and would make the padding firmer should someone be so bold as to touch her belly.

“My lady?” Nels called, coming down the garden’s pebbled path. Meredith shaded her eyes with a hand to look up.

“Good morning, Nels. What do you think?” She waved a hand to indicate the tall stalks of lavender foxglove.

He nodded, sparing only a quick, distracted glance at the flowers. “Lovely, my lady. Donald just informed me there’s a gent here.”

Her heart raced and her mind immediately leapt to the image of a certain darkly handsome gentleman.

“Donald saw the fop scuttling about the place, almost as if he were up to no good. He has not approached the house or made his presence properly known.”

Disappointment stabbed her. It couldn’t be Nick. Frowning, she slapped her hands together, shaking loose the dirt from her gardening gloves. “How curious. Where is the gentleman, then?”

“Donald last saw him heading toward the family cemetery.”

She rose to her feet and pulled off her gloves. “I shall find out who he is forthwith.”

“I’ll accompany you, my lady—”

“That is not necessary, Nels.” Meredith gave his arm a pat, hoping to relieve his worry.

Nels crossed beefy arms over his muscular chest, bringing to mind a very devoted bulldog.

Meredith’s lips twitched. “Oh, very well, Nels. Just try not to frighten the man.”

They exited through the garden’s rear gate, which led to the back lawn. From there the lawn began to slope gently upward. They made their way up the hill to the small fenced-off cemetery that was the resting place for generations of Brookshires. Edmund’s grave, freshly mounded over with rich, dark soil only beginning to seed with grass, was easy to locate. It was there she found him.

A quick inspection revealed that he was not from these parts. His attire consisted of a dove gray jacket, silver brocade waistcoat, and black trousers. No gentlemen in these parts dressed so extravagantly, not even when attending an assembly. She blinked at the bright violet of his impeccably arranged cravat, certain she had never seen such a splendid color.

“Good day, sir. Might I help you?” Meredith asked in pleasant tones, mindful of Nels hovering next to her like a titan.

He looked up from Edmund’s grave, his blue eyes moist. “Pardon my trespass, I simply wished to pay my respects to the late Lord Brookshire. We were quite good friends.” He doffed his head.

“Adam Tremble at your service, ma’am.”

“Forgive me, Mr. Tremble, but I do not recall meeting you at the funeral. How is it you were acquainted with my husband?”

“You are Edmund’s wife?”

She nodded as Tremble’s gaze swept over her, stopping to rest on her swelling belly. His eyes flew back to her face with sudden intensity. “You are increasing with Edmund’s child?”

Taken aback by his impertinence, she did not immediately react. But Nels did. Stepping forth, he grabbed the gentleman by his bright cravat and gave him a shake hearty enough to rattle his teeth out. “You’ll watch your tongue, young fop, if you want to keep your pretty face, eh?”

Adam Tremble sputtered, clawing at Nels’s fist.

She placed a hand on Nels’s shoulder. “Nels, release him. I’m sure he meant no offense.”

He dropped Tremble, who quickly attempted to set his cravat to rights. He glared at Meredith and Nels belligerently, the brightness of his face competing with that of his cravat.

“Few people are aware of my condition, Mr. Tremble. Even I did not know at the time of Edmund’s funeral that I carried his child. Understandably, the news may come as some surprise to you,” she allowed, hiding her anxiety behind a gracious smile.

Surely this man did not know Edmund well enough to know the exact nature of their marriage—

or rather the nonexistent nature. That would hardly be the thing two gentlemen would discuss, would it? And even if he did suspect, he could not disprove her. She was his legal wife. It would take more than one man’s suspicions.

“I am sure you are overjoyed, my lady.” The words were said kindly, but his eyes glittered with an unidentifiable emotion. “You must be greatly consoled.” His voice was scathing, heavy with implication, and Meredith knew that he did not believe her. Lifting her chin, she met his stare, daring him to openly contradict her. Despite her shaking hands, she knew he could prove nothing.

“Yes, it is some comfort,” she agreed, smoothing a hand over her belly.

Tremble pursed his lips and sent another long look at Edmund’s grave. Meredith felt convinced he relayed a message to the deceased Edmund. When he looked back up, his eyes shone with purpose. He fingered the mussed folds of his cravat. “You need not invite me in. I must get back to Town. Until next time, my lady.” He bowed stiffly.

Replying with equal hauteur, she said, “I doubt we will meet again, Mr. Tremble. I rarely see my way to London.”

“Oh, I am certain our paths will cross again.” A smile played about his lips as he strolled past, giving Nels a wide berth.

Meredith and Nels stood there for some time watching Adam Tremble leisurely stroll down the hill.

Nels finally spoke. “He knows.”

She understood Nels’s meaning perfectly. She crossed her arms and shivered a little in the warm afternoon. She looked up at Nels’s heavily lined face, then back at the retreating figure of Adam Tremble. “What can he do?”

“I can see that he loses his way and never gets back to Town.”

Meredith swung her gaze to the grim set of Nels’s craggy face and knew he did not jest. She sighed. Her moral fiber might have taken a considerable nosedive of late, but she was not so far lost she would conspire in another’s demise.

She squeezed one of his beefy paws. “That’s not necessary. He’s of no account. We won’t give him another thought.”

Although she uttered the words convincingly enough, they were more to reassure Nels and dissuade him from harming Tremble. Because she was in fact destined to worry over Mr. Adam Tremble for many days to come.

* * *

Ensconced in a heavily padded and richly upholstered armchair, Nick wondered when he had exactly grown weary of evenings like this. The thick fog of smoke, the crush of people, the din of voices, the whir of roulette wheels, the shouts of jubilation—all served to irritate him. That he grew richer every night the Lucky Lady filled to capacity, nobs tossing their money down a bottomless hole that led directly to his pockets, didn’t mean a hell of a lot anymore.

He craved… something else. The reminder of Oak Run, of air redolent with woods and earth, of land ripe with the seeds of honest labor—of her— lurked in his thoughts.

“Derring is up to his old tricks,” Mac murmured, waving his cheroot in the direction of the duke who sat playing cards with several others. Nick watched the nobleman run an aggravated hand through his hair, sending the locks into wild disarray.

“Appears he’s losing again,” Nick observed dryly.

“Ah, hell. Look what’s crawled out of the gutter.” Mac grimaced and nodded toward the tall, gaunt man winding his way through tables, a curvaceous blonde on his arm. No doubt a hired companion. Pock scars horribly disfigured Skelly Fairbanks’s face, yet as proprietor of several brothels throughout London, he possessed enough blunt to afford pretty companions. For some reason, Skelly viewed Nick as a business rival. Although not proud of his past, Nick would never place himself in the same league as the Skelly Fairbankses of the world.

“Come to check out how the other half lives?” Mac asked as the pimp stopped in front of their table.

Skelly’s lips stretched into a semblance of a smile, revealing brown, rotted teeth. “It’s smart business to know your competition.” His eyes settled on Nick. “Never could figure out how you attract all the swells to your place, Caulfield.”

“Easy.” Nick fingered the rim of his glass. “I run a superior operation. You run a low-grade whorehouse.”

“Full of yourself, aren’t you?” Skelly’s lips twisted into a nasty sneer. “I’d take care, even the mighty fall.”

Cocking his head, Nick returned the man’s fulminating stare. “Is that a threat, Skelly? Come, don’t be vague. If you wish, we can take care of our mutual dislike for one another at dawn. With pistols. Or do you prefer swords?” He knew a duel was too honorable a method for Skelly to settle his differences. He was the type of man who jumped his enemy in a darkened alley, where a knife could find its home in his enemy’s back.

“Always with your airs, thinking you be a fine gent.” Skelly waved long, bony fingers at Nick in contempt. “Just cause you cater to the swells don’t mean you’re one of them. At the end of the day you’re just like me, a thief and a swindler brought up from the streets.”

“Actually,” Mac proclaimed with undisguised relish, “he is a gent. And a titled one.”

Skelly’s laugh died a quick death as he took in the seriousness of Mac’s expression. “What do you mean?”

Mac’s hand swept the air in front of Nick with a flourish. “You’re looking at a bloody earl. The Earl of Brookshire.”

Nick scowled, wishing Mac would stop his blathering. He was not keen on the idea of anyone, much less degenerates like Fairbanks, knowing his personal business. Growing up in Whitechapel, Nick had his enemies—and the less informed they were, the better.

“You’re an earl?” Skelly’s eyes bugged from his gaunt cheeks like overripe berries. “But you grew up on the streets.”

Nick shrugged. “My father didn’t raise me.”

“All those airs weren’t a put on. He’s the genuine article,” Mac guffawed.

“Bloody nob,” Skelly sneered, the hate in his eyes glittering like polished marble. “Shoulda figured you was one of them.” He gestured roughly to the crowded tables around them.

“You’ve seen enough. Why don’t you take yourself off now?” Although worded as a question, the steel in Nick’s eyes left no doubt that it was a command.

With one last sneer, Skelly turned and headed for the door.

Bess approached with a bottle in her hand. “Have a care with that one. He’s got a mean temper.

Heard he works his girls over real good, even killed one of them when he learned she was holding out.”

“He’ll never challenge me to my face.”

“His type never does,” Mac agreed. “He’ll bully a woman but never stand up to a man.”

“That’s what worries me. Insult him and he’ll get to you in some way.” Bess sat on the arm of Nick’s chair, trailing her fingers through his hair as she poured more brandy into his snifter. He pulled away from the unwanted intimacy and glanced at her in annoyance. Her painted lips drooped in a pout. Standing, she flounced away, an exaggerated sway to her h*ps that at one time would have won his appreciation.