Chapter 26
L ydia lay in the circle of Art’s arms, listening to the reassuring rhythm of his heartbeat. A smile played on her lips, and a song hummed in her mind.
She was… dare she say it, happy?
The happiest she had ever been.
If all the arguing, all the pushing and pulling, all the running they had done had led them here—to this moment—then perhaps it had all been worth it.
She loved him.
And now, lying on his chest, feeling the steady rise and fall of his breath, she knew—this was how she wanted to spend all her days.
She wanted to be by his side. Always. And whatever hardships they encountered, they would face them together.
They had been kept apart for so long by circumstances beyond their control—she refused to let that continue.
She wasn’t the type to roll over and surrender the moment someone pointed a pistol at her. She was the type to fight. To take what she wanted by any means necessary.
Usually, that meant stealing.
And if she had to steal her marquess out of the country—so be it.
She just needed a plan.
They needed a plan.
She had relied on herself for so long that it was the only way she knew how to survive. But she didn’t want to just survive anymore. She wanted to live.
It was right. It was fitting. They would go to London together and face this problem head-on.
She wasn’t afraid anymore.
Buoyed by determination, Lydia slipped from Art’s arms, mourning the loss of his warmth.
But she would have his arms around her again. Many times.
Hopefully, for the rest of her life.
She pulled the servants’ bell and ordered a bath to be prepared in the viscountess’s chambers. She would soak her tired muscles, scrub away her worries, and begin this new day with a fresh mind and a positive outlook.
The bath took longer than she had expected. A part of her had hoped Art would wake and join her. But he was probably still exhausted from their thorough lovemaking the night before.
Her cheeks heated at the thought of it—the ways they had explored each other, the way he had worshipped her body.
And they would continue exploring each other.
Over and over.
From this day forward.
A small, satisfied smile touched her lips as she twisted her hair into a neat bun atop her head.
She dressed in a simple day gown—though the way she felt, this morning deserved her finest attire.
Humming softly, she crossed the threshold into Art’s chambers, ready to wake her sleeping husband-to-be… Only to stop short.
The bed was made, and Art was gone.
And on the bed, a single piece of paper lay waiting.
A note?
Panic gripped her insides as she rushed forward, snatching up the letter with trembling fingers.
Her breath caught as she read.
Dearest Lydia,
I know I said we would go to London together, but alas, I have lied. I promised to protect you, always, and I intend to keep that promise.
Rest assured, I have not decided to let you go or to tear us apart. I would never dream of doing something so foolish. On the contrary.
And if you try to run—and this is my solemn promise—I shall run after you.
We have spent most of our lives apart for reasons beyond our control. And now that we are together, I will not allow a few inconveniences to tear us asunder.
We are stronger together. We always have been.
Only with you do I feel strong enough to conquer the world. Because my love for you transcends all obstacles. And that is why I cannot risk taking you to London with me.
I shall deal with Rivendale on my own. When it is done, I will come for you. And I will marry you the next day.
Yours always,
Art
P.S. I have taken your coachman with me to London and given firm instructions to my staff not to let you leave the estate or take any of the vehicles.
Lydia swallowed hard, her throat thick with emotion, tears stinging the backs of her eyes.
She reread the letter, letting it wash over her, before clenching it in her fist and hurling it across the room.
“You idiot!” she cried to the empty chamber. “I agree with you! We are stronger together!”
She spun around, her hands clenching at her sides, needing—desperate—to throw something. Couldn’t he have waited for her? How dare he take this decision out of her hands? How dare he lock her away in this estate with his thieving stepmother…?
She paused, her breathing heavy.
His stepmother was still here with everything she had inherited. Lydia cocked her head to the side, chewing her lip as an idea began to form.
No.
A plan.
A better plan.
Decision made, she gave a firm nod and strode toward the door. Nobody was guarding her room. Good.
She descended the staircase and immediately halted. A footman was carrying a trunk toward the open front doors.
Lydia frowned.
What’s going on?
She stepped off the last stair, and a different footman immediately appeared before her, blocking her path.
She tried to sidestep him, but he moved with her. She tried again, but he shifted in front of her.
“Apologies, miss,” the footman finally said when she looked up at him, annoyance clear on her face. “But the marquess ordered that you are not to be let outside.”
“So you would keep me imprisoned against my will just to please his lordship?”
“Yes, miss,” came the young man’s meek reply.
Well, at least he was loyal to Art.
“I am not trying to leave, anyway,” Lydia said. “Just trying to find out what’s going on. Whose trunks are those?”
Footsteps sounded on the landing above, followed by the tittering descent of heels on the stairs.
“The marchioness’s, miss,” the footman replied before stepping aside and taking his position by the wall.
“I do not believe I’ve had the pleasure,” came the grating voice of Lady Wakefield.
Lydia turned toward her and met her gaze head-on.
Despite mourning tradition, the recent widow was dressed in an exceedingly bright gown, her hair curled into bouncy ringlets that framed her face, her entire form adorned in far too many jewels.
Almost every finger bore a ring. A tasteless diamond choker, which could likely sustain the Wakefield estates for a year, glittered at her throat. Large sapphire earrings swung from her ears.
And nestled in her arms—wrapped in an ornate collar—was a tiny, strange-looking creature that resembled a rat.
“Rough!” the rat yapped. Not a rat. A very tiny dog.
“Or perhaps I did meet you before,” the woman mused, looking Lydia up and down with thinly veiled distaste.
Lydia resisted the urge to roll her eyes.
She had done her best to avoid the marchioness during her stay, but they had crossed paths several times. And yet, every single time, the vile woman had pretended not to recognize her.
Lydia smiled sweetly. “I don’t remember you either, madam.”
She kept her gaze steady, her expression neutral. She had no desire to provoke the woman or point out her glaringly inappropriate lack of mourning attire.
“Oh.” Lady Wakefield seemed genuinely surprised by Lydia’s reply. Lips pursed in a pout, she stroked the fur of her dog—who let out a couple of yelps—as she walked toward the door.
“Are you Thornton’s new fiancée?”
Lydia shook her head. “Oh, no.” She sighed dramatically. “I am a prisoner here, as the servants will attest. Not allowed to leave the premises, I’m afraid.”
Lady Wakefield raised a brow. “Is that so?”
“Absolutely. I am bored, so I am hoping you will do me a service and chat with me for a bit? Do you mind me inquiring where you are going?”
The marchioness narrowed her eyes, running her gaze slowly up and down Lydia’s form as if sizing her up. The little dog yapped at Lydia from its perch in her arms.
“Away from this dreadful place,” Lady Wakefield drawled. “I have inherited quite a few estates. This house is no longer my home.” She turned toward the door and muttered under her breath, “Thank God.”
“Pardon me,” Lydia said, stopping her just before she could slip outside. The marchioness exhaled impatiently. “But there’s something wrong with your bonnet…” Lydia scrunched her nose, inspecting the fabric. “Do you mind?”
“My bonnet?” Lady Wakefield twirled around, searching for a reflective surface. Finding none, she gave an irritated sigh and leaned slightly toward Lydia, her dog sniffing suspiciously at her hands.
Lydia frowned, concentrating as she twisted and adjusted the fabric, smoothing down the edges.
“What—Pardon me, are you done ? ” the marchioness asked irritably.
“Yes,” Lydia replied with a smile. “The lace was attached very strangely to the fabric. You must be careful which milliners you shop from, my lady. There are so many charlatans in these parts.”
“Indeed,” the woman scoffed.
She stopped at the threshold, glancing out at the servants loading her trunks onto the carriage.
“Alas, I cannot follow you farther,” Lydia murmured behind her, watching the scene over the marchioness’s shoulder. “The servants would likely pounce on me.”
“As much as I would hate to miss that spectacle,” Lady Wakefield said drily, “I shall bid you good day.”
She left, hips swaying, her steps light—probably aided by the fact that neither the absurdly heavy choker nor the obnoxious diamond earrings were weighing her down anymore.
Her tiny dog gave one final yap over her shoulder.
* * *
Lydia arrived in London on horseback a few days later.
She had managed to steal a few more items right out of the marchioness’s trunks while the woman sat in her carriage, waiting for them to be brought down.
Lady Wakefield had too many possessions; it was unlikely she would even notice something was missing. And even if she did—there was no way she would trace it back to Lydia.
If she somehow did, she had no way to prove it.
Then, once the marchioness had left, Lydia packed a few things of her own for the road, tucked away her newly acquired jewelry, stole the tiger’s clean livery, and donned it to escape the house undetected.
She had slipped into the stables, waited until the groom was busy exercising another horse, and galloped away.
Everything had gone off without a hitch.
She galloped most of the way, stopping only for brief rests and changing horses often. She wanted to reach London before Art—so she could deal with Rivendale on her own, berate Art for leaving her and locking her inside that hated estate, and then… kiss him.
Then they could start their life together.
Or maybe she’d kiss him first and then berate him.
No matter.
But she had miscalculated. Because as she arrived in Mayfair, Art’s carriage was already outside his townhouse.
Without stopping to rest, Lydia rode past it.
There was one last errand to run before she could retire for the night. And that was why she reined in her horse in front of Hades’ Hell.
Again.
Lydia was getting quite tired of this place. But luckily for her, thanks to her previous visits, she already knew the layout—every entrance, every exit, every way inside.
She performed the secret knock and waited.
As soon as the door cracked open, she jammed her foot in and pointed a pistol at the guard. “Do not make a noise,” she ordered in a low voice. “Pretend you have no issue letting me in—or you die.”
The guard, wisely, did not risk his life.
Lydia tucked her pistol back into the folds of the cloak she had stolen from Art’s wardrobe. “Lead me to your mistress. No sudden moves. No alerting anyone.”
He tipped his head toward another guard—silent instruction to watch the door—and then said loudly, “Follow me, sir.”
Lydia followed him through the familiar halls, up the stairs, past the painted ladies, and toward the offices. Another guard stood by the door, his eyes glinting ominously as Lydia’s guide walked past him.
Lydia tensed but kept moving. The moment she stepped inside, the door slammed shut behind her and her so-called guide turned on her sharply, knocking the gun from her hand.
He widened his stance, preparing to pounce, but Lydia dropped, sliding between his legs before he could react. She sprang to her feet, ready to fight when a sonorous voice commanded, “Enough.”
Lydia and the guard froze. Both of them turned toward the voice.
Miss Melissande Monroe stood in the doorway to her office, arms crossed, a single brow arched. “Nice to see you again… Mist.”
“I need an audience,” Lydia said without hesitation.
Miss Monroe studied her for a moment, then stepped back, gesturing for Lydia to enter.
Lydia’s breath was still ragged as she looked between the guard and Miss Monroe—then slowly, cautiously, walked inside.
“To what do I owe the pleasure?” Miss Monroe asked, closing the door behind them.
“I need your help,” Lydia said, straight to the point.
There was a pause. Then a peal of laughter. “Do you?”
“Yes.” Lydia tried to ignore the untimely laughter from her host. “And if you don’t help me, you will be dooming an innocent man. An honorable man.”
Miss Monroe tapped her index finger against her lips, feigning deep thought, as she walked toward her desk. “Let me guess…” She plopped into her seat. “Viscount Thornton? Or should I say, the Marquess of Wakefield, since the old man has passed on?” Then, under her breath, she muttered, “Finally.”
Lydia frowned. “Um… yes.”
“What is it with you two?” Miss Monroe mused. “You always seem to find yourselves in scrapes that require my help.”
Lydia scoffed. “You. You are the reason we’re in scrapes. You ruined us both. First, by spreading that vile pamphlet—”
“That was your doing,” Miss Monroe interrupted with a shrug. “You knew what was going to happen. Now, sit.”
“And then by promising Art you would fix your mistake and failing to do so.” Lydia walked toward the desk and took the seat opposite the hell owner.
Lydia expected the most powerful woman in England—aside from the Queen—to be offended. Or at least to snap in rage. Instead, Miss Monroe merely shrugged.
“Art—as you call him—made a deal with me of his own accord. I did not force him. Unlike the situation between you and me.” She gave Lydia a pointed look. “And all he required of me was to do my best in fixing the pamphlet fiasco.”
“Your best?” Lydia scoffed. “I don’t believe for a moment that your best resulted in him being threatened by a marquess.”
Miss Monroe blinked, her expression momentarily blank. “Apologies,” she said smoothly, “I believe I’m missing some vital information. What marquess?”
“Rivendale.”
The moment the name left Lydia’s lips, Miss Monroe’s entire demeanor changed.
The shift was subtle. Her posture stiffened, her gaze sharpened, her air of casual detachment wavered—just for a moment. Then, just as quickly, she relaxed—the practiced mask sliding back into place.
Still, Lydia had seen it.
“Rivendale is convinced that I stole something of his,” she explained. “Something very valuable. And he is adamant about getting it back. If I don’t return it, he will ruin Art.”
Miss Monroe leaned forward, resting her elbows on the desk. “What did you steal?”
“A locket,” Lydia said simply. “It was gorgeous. Lined with rare stones. Very expensive.”
That locket had been Lydia’s lucky break. It had been her first high-paying item. The first one that paid enough for her to join the social whirl and enact their plan with Honoria.
“And do you know where it is now?”
Lydia swallowed. “No.”
“Do you have any idea where to start looking?”
Lydia nodded. “Yes. The underground auction in London. But it was years ago. Even if they don’t keep the records—”
“They always keep the records,” Miss Monroe interrupted.
“But wherever the locket went, I’m certain it was to a foreign buyer. Getting it back will be impossible.”
“You are a thief.” Miss Monroe shrugged.
“Yes, but I operate in England. I know this land. The people. The language. You have a wider network. You can help me find it.” Lydia leaned forward, her fingers on the diamond choker she had in her pocket. “And in turn—”
Before she could finish, Miss Monroe stood abruptly. “Very well. I shall help you.”
Lydia blinked, releasing the choker from her hold. She stood—considerably slower. “Why?”
Miss Monroe shrugged. “Your—whoever Thornton is to you—negotiated a deal. I promised him I’d do my best to restore your reputation. And that’s exactly what I’m going to do.”
Lydia narrowed her eyes. She had a sneaking suspicion this had nothing to do with Art.
She arched a brow. “Just like that?”
Miss Monroe smiled. “Just. Like. That.” Then after a moment of silence, added, “Do you happen to know a good forger?”