Chapter 9
Richard sat in the far corner of White’s, holding a drink in his hand.
The gentlemen's club was unusually subdued for the afternoon, the soft murmur of conversation and the occasional rustle of a turning newssheet providing the only interruption to his thoughts.
He had arrived early—deliberately so—and now found himself alone with his brooding.
He told himself he didn’t mind the quiet. In truth, he welcomed it. The stillness allowed him to think, though his thoughts inevitably turned where he didn’t want them to go: Miss Theodosia.
He had spent the better part of the last few days convincing himself that she was complicit in Mr. Smith’s deceit.
A woman of secrets. A liar by association, if not in action.
However, whenever he recalled her expression when she spoke of books she loved, or how her eyes lit with quiet fire when she challenged him, something inside him faltered.
It should not matter that she was beautiful. That she was clever. That she had been, at times, genuinely kind. None of it should matter.
He was here to right a wrong. To force justice on the man who had married his sister and vanished. Mr. Smith would answer for what he had done. And if Miss Theodosia was a casualty of that justice, then so be it.
Still… there was that irritating prick of guilt. Guilt he had no business entertaining.
A familiar voice broke through his reverie.
“Why the long face, Wilton?” Lord Bedford asked. “Has being a marquess finally worn you down?”
Richard looked up to find Bedford standing beside Lord Westcott, both of them eyeing him with interest.
“I see the pair of you finally decided to grace me with your presence,” Richard said dryly.
Westcott checked his timepiece with a flourish. “On the contrary, we are precisely on time. You, as usual, are early.”
Richard gestured towards the empty wingback chairs at his table. “Sit down. I’ve no idea when Alcott or Addington will appear.”
The two lords took their seats, their gazes settling on him with barely concealed curiosity.
“Well?” Westcott prompted. “Did you find this mysterious Mr. Smith?”
“I tracked him to a village, but he was already gone by the time I arrived,” Richard said, leaning forward. “But I’ve devised a solution. A plan.”
Bedford quirked a brow. “Do tell. Is it a good plan, or the kind that ends with us reading about you in the scandal sheets?”
“I think it’s rather inspired,” Richard replied. “While I was in the village, I discovered a young woman—Miss Theodosia Smith—who appears to be closely connected to him. I persuaded her to come to London under the pretense of acting as a companion to my sister.”
“You persuaded her?” Westcott repeated, voice sharp with skepticism.
“I left a note for Mr. Smith,” Richard continued, ignoring the tone. “Told him that if he ever wanted to see her again, he would have to come to London. He will come. He must.”
There was a long pause.
Bedford blinked. “You abducted a woman?”
“Not exactly,” Richard said, though his tone lacked conviction. “She came willingly, just not with all the facts. The important thing is that Mr. Smith will have no choice but to act.”
Westcott leaned back in his chair, his expression unreadable. “And this young woman, Miss Theodosia… she’s nothing more than a pawn to you?”
Richard exhaled. “Yes.”
Bedford and Westcott exchanged a pointed glance.
“And what do you intend to do with her once your scheme succeeds?” Westcott asked at last.
Richard shrugged. “I will return her to her village. Or allow the law to determine her fate if she proves to be as deceitful as I suspect.”
Bedford’s brow furrowed. “You truly see nothing amiss in what you’re doing?”
“She harbored Mr. Smith. She lied about knowing him. She deserves to be held accountable,” Richard explained.
“And you have proof of this?” Bedford asked.
“I hired a Bow Street Runner,” Richard said defensively. “He confirmed Mr. Smith was seen coming and going from her estate at all hours. She may deny knowing him, but she certainly acted like an accomplice.”
Bedford opened his mouth, then closed it again. After a long moment, he shook his head. “I honestly don’t know what to say.”
“Me, either,” Westcott muttered. “The worst part is that you don’t seem to care that you’ve involved an innocent woman in your vendetta.”
“She is not innocent,” Richard said, his voice rising before he lowered it once more. “You would not say that if you had spent five minutes in her company. She is proud, secretive, and thoroughly maddening.”
“None of which justifies what you’ve done,” Bedford argued. “You’ve taken her freedom. Lied to her. Manipulated her. If the situation were reversed—if someone had done this to Olivia—you’d be demanding a comeuppance.”
That struck deeper than Richard wanted to admit. He looked away, jaw tight. “I am doing this for Olivia,” he said through clenched teeth. “To make sure no other woman is treated the way she was.”
Westcott huffed. “You’re punishing one woman to avenge another.”
Richard’s hands curled around the arms of his chair. “This is justice.”
“No,” Bedford said. “It’s vengeance. And it’s beneath you.”
“You don’t understand. None of you do.” Richard’s voice was low. “This isn’t something I want to do. It’s something I must do.”
Westcott tilted his head, studying him. “And what precisely do you intend to do when Mr. Smith finally comes to London to retrieve Miss Theodosia?”
Richard met his gaze unflinchingly. “I will challenge him to a duel for what he did to Olivia. For abandoning her. For destroying her future and shaming our family name.”
Before either of his friends could respond, a new voice cut through the tension.
“Did someone die?” Viscount Alcott approached the table, glancing around at the grim expressions with a note of confusion. “Or are you all merely contemplating your own mortality over brandy?”
“No,” Bedford muttered under his breath, “but Wilton is determined to get himself killed.”
Alcott turned to Richard. “Dare I ask what is going on?”
Bedford stood and motioned for Alcott to follow him a few steps away. Their conversation was low, but Richard could catch snippets—“abduction,” “duel,” “revenge.”
When they returned to the table, Alcott’s expression had shifted from curiosity to incredulity. He crossed his arms over his chest and leveled Richard with a hard stare. “Are you completely mad?”
“I am no such thing,” Richard said, lifting a hand to ward off the accusation. “It’s not madness. It’s justice.”
“It’s idiocy,” Alcott retorted, pulling out a chair and dropping into it. “You honestly believe you’re going to duel this man and avenge your sister’s honor?”
“That is the plan.”
“I’ve seen you shoot,” Alcott said. “You couldn’t hit a barn door with a blunderbuss at five paces.”
“That is an exaggeration,” Richard muttered.
Westcott grinned. “Is it? Because the last time we went shooting at Eversham’s estate, you didn’t hit a single target.”
“I was having an off day,” Richard insisted.
“And what if you have another ‘off day’ when facing Mr. Smith?” Alcott challenged. “What happens then? You die? And what of your mother and Olivia? You’ll leave them behind to bury you and carry on without a protector or provider?”
The words struck their mark. Richard’s bravado flickered, and for a brief moment, doubt crept into his mind.
“What choice do I have?” he asked, his voice quieter now. “This man has to answer for what he’s done.”
“You do have a choice,” Westcott responded firmly. “Return Miss Theodosia to her home. Let this go before it spirals even further out of your control.”
“I can’t,” Richard said, shaking his head. “It’s too late. The plan is already in motion. If I release her now, it will all be for nothing.”
Bedford furrowed his brow. “And what does Olivia say about this plan of yours?”
Richard winced. “She… disagrees.”
Alcott let out an exaggerated sigh. “At last, someone in your household still has their wits.”
Richard reached for his glass and took a long sip, the brandy burning his throat but doing nothing to soothe the ache in his chest. After a heavy pause, he asked, “Can we please talk about something else?”
The others exchanged glances, but no one replied immediately. The air was thick with unspoken words, the camaraderie between them strained beneath the weight of Richard’s decisions. Still, they were friends—loyal, exasperated, and perhaps the only ones who could still hope to sway him.
For now, he hoped they would let it rest.
Thankfully, Alcott broke the tension by saying, “If it’s any consolation, I am on the verge of losing my mind. Charlotte is determined to drag me to an early grave.”
“What has she done now?” Richard asked.
Exasperation etched every line in Alcott’s face. “She insists upon going out nearly every night. Last evening, she pestered me into escorting her to Vauxhall Gardens, and we didn’t return home until the sun had begun to rise.”
“That sounds positively wretched,” Westcott said, grimacing. “I can think of few things more exhausting than chaperoning a debutante through Vauxhall Gardens until dawn.”
Alcott rubbed a hand down his face. “At least when I was at war, I had a purpose. I was respected. I gave orders and people listened. Now, I have a younger sister who treats me like a glorified footman and refuses to be reasoned with.”
“We appreciate you,” Bedford offered.
Alcott gave him a withering look. “Yes, and it’s so comforting to be appreciated while dealing with a debutante obsessed with Almack’s and scandalous gossip.”
Richard chuckled despite himself, grateful for the shift in conversation.
“The real problem,” Alcott continued, his tone growing more serious, “is that my father all but ignored Charlotte after my mother passed. She was left to do as she pleased—spoiled by every indulgence, and never denied a thing.”
“And no one stepped in? No governess or aunt to curb her behavior?” Bedford asked.