Unwelcome Discovery
The Swordsman’s Society was nearly empty at this hour, most members having retired to their clubs or brothels.
Hereford drummed his fingers against the polished table, irritation mounting with each passing minute.
Patrick Adams was never late—except tonight, when Hereford’s nerves were already frayed from another evening of wondering where his wife had disappeared to.
When Patrick finally arrived, the grim set of his mouth made Hereford’s stomach tighten.
“What’s happened?” Hereford demanded without preamble.
Patrick slid into the chair opposite him, signaling for port without meeting Hereford’s eyes. “It’s about Lady Hereford.”
A cold weight settled in Hereford’s chest. He’d known, hadn’t he? Known something was wrong from those late returns, those vague explanations, the way she couldn’t quite meet his gaze over breakfast.
“Tell me,” he said.
Patrick swirled the port in his glass, staring into it as if seeking courage. “She’s been seen meeting someone. After dark.”
The cold in Hereford’s chest crystallized into something sharp and painful. “Who?” The single word scraped his throat raw.
“No one can say for certain.” Patrick leaned forward, lowering his voice. “Jenkins spotted her five nights ago near the Blind Beggar tavern in Whitechapel. And again three nights ago, entering the Crimson Harp off Cheapside. She arrives around ten in the evening.”
Hereford’s mind raced through possibilities—newspaper business, reform meetings, charity work—each explanation more desperate than the last. “Perhaps—”
“At places no respectable woman would visit, Charles,” Patrick cut him off gently. “Dressed in a way no marchioness would appear in public.”
The room seemed to tilt slightly. “What do you mean?”
Patrick’s hesitation only made the roaring in Hereford’s ears grow louder. “Jenkins said she wore a gown that mimicked those of the working girls—cut low. Her hair down, face painted like…” He trailed off, clearly uncomfortable.
“Like a woman meeting a lover,” Hereford finished, the words tasting like ash. Something fierce and primal clawed at his insides. Not just jealousy, though God knows that burned hot enough, but something deeper. Betrayal. Humiliation. And beneath it all, a bewildering sense of loss.
His fingers tightened around his glass until he feared it might shatter. With deliberate control, he set it down and spread his hands flat on the table to hide their trembling.
“She stays for about two hours,” Patrick continued, watching him warily. “Always leaves around midnight.”
Hereford surged to his feet, needing to move before the violence building inside him found release.
He paced the length of their alcove, every step carefully controlled when what he wanted was to tear the room apart with his bare hands.
The thought of Amelia—his Amelia—touching, baring herself to another man… It was an agony he’d never felt before.
And what of him? The notorious Marquess of Hereford, known for bedding other men’s wives, now cuckolded by his own. The irony would delight Society’s gossips.
“What will you do?” Patrick asked after a long silence.
The real question hung unspoken between them: would he call her out? Lock her away in the country? All the usual remedies of betrayed husbands.
But beneath his rage, another emotion writhed like a wounded thing: desperation. The thought of losing her, even after this betrayal, created a hollow ache in his chest he couldn’t name.
“Find out who she’s meeting,” he said finally, his voice rough with suppressed emotion. “And why my wife feels compelled to dress like a…” He couldn’t bring himself to say the word, not about Amelia.
“Charles…” Patrick’s warning tone cut through his thoughts.
“What?”
“Be careful. Don’t jump to conclusions however it may look.”
Hereford’s jaw clenched as he reached for his coat.
His mind flashed to the connecting door between their chambers, to the nights he’d stood listening to her move about her room, wanting nothing more than to cross that threshold.
Had she been preparing for another man’s touch those nights?
The thought was a knife twisting in his gut.
“If someone is taking advantage of her,” he said, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper, “there won’t be a corner of England where they can hide from me.”
“And if it’s not that?” Patrick asked quietly. “If she’s chosen this?”
The question hung in the air between them. Hereford paused at the door, the mask of aristocratic indifference cracking just enough to reveal the wounded man beneath.
“Then I’ve already lost her, haven’t I?”
He strode out before Patrick could respond, the roaring in his ears drowning out everything but the relentless, tormenting vision of Amelia in another man’s arms.
*
Amelia waited for the footsteps to disappear before slipping through the side door.
It was likely a servant doing Hereford’s bidding or the cook completing preparations for the next day.
She paused in the entrance hall, removing her worn cloak and plain bonnet, attire chosen specifically to blend into London’s poorer districts.
Her shoulders ached from tension, and her wooden leg throbbed after hours of uneven cobblestones.
As she turned toward her quarters, a match flared in the darkness. Hereford sat in a wingback chair in an alcove, his face briefly illuminated as he lit a lamp.
“This is becoming quite the habit,” he said, his voice deceptively calm though his eyes glittered dangerously in the lamplight.
Amelia froze. “I didn’t realize you’d still be awake.”
“Evidently.” He rose, setting the lamp on a side table.
Even in his disheveled state—cravat discarded, shirt partially unbuttoned—he maintained that aristocratic grace that both irritated and fascinated her.
“Perhaps you expected me to be asleep. Conveniently unaware of my wife’s late-night wanderings. ”
“I was working,” she said automatically, the lie falling from her lips.
“Were you? How curious.” He stepped closer, and she caught the scent of brandy on his breath. “Because I’ve been informed that you had left the office late afternoon.”
Her blood ran cold. “You’re still spying on me?”
“Like I said before, protecting,” he said, his voice hardening. “Though it seems what you truly need protection from is your own reckless behavior.”
“You don’t understand—”
“Then enlighten me.” He advanced until she was backed against the wall, his arms braced on either side of her.
“Explain why my wife has been sneaking through London after dark.” His fingers traced the low line of her décolletage, her mounds pushed up to reveal her abundance with the fabric stretched taut over her bosom.
His lips parted and breathing stilled for a moment.
Amelia’s chest heaved under his intense scrutiny, her pulse racing with anticipation.
When he spoke, his voice was hoarse. “Dressed in a manner no respectable woman would appear in public, entering a tavern…” He broke off, lifting his gaze to her face again, jaw clenching.
Humiliation and anger flooded her cheeks with heat. “You think I’m meeting someone? That I would betray our arrangement so blatantly?”
“What am I supposed to think?” His control slipped, revealing raw pain beneath his anger. “You disappear for hours, return in the dead of night, offer vague explanations that don’t align with what my sources tell me—”
“Your sources are wrong!” Her hands balled into fists at her sides. “I wasn’t there to entertain. I was investigating.”
Doubt, or perhaps desperate hope flickered in his eyes. “Investigating what?”
Amelia exhaled, suddenly exhausted beyond words. “Crown Street Textiles. The owners. Their practices.” She met his gaze steadily.
Disbelief warred with confusion on his face. “Why that factory specifically? Why risk your safety, your reputation?”
“Because they took my leg.” The words escaped before she could stop them, hanging in the air between them.
Hereford went very still.
“My accident…” Her voice trembled, the word catching in her throat.
“It happened there. The owners decided amputation was…cheaper than proper care.” A bitter taste coated her tongue.
“I’ve been tracking the current foreman, David Fardell, to discover who owns the factory.
” She forced the words out, each one a shard of glass.
“I cultivated friendships with the women of the night there to approach Mr. Fardell… to discover how much he knows.”
A dark line etched itself between his brows, deepening the intensity of his gaze. “And what price did you pay for such… access?”
Her gaze faltered, unable to hold the heat in his eyes. “Not what you’re implying.”
Skepticism clouded his features, hardening his jaw. “Then what, my lady wife? I find it difficult to believe a man would impart with secrets for merely pleasant conversation.”
“He saw me as a harmless diversion,” she retorted, a touch of defiance in her tone. “He wouldn’t suspect a woman, especially one he believes to be a courtesan, of investigating the factory.”
Hereford’s eyes blazed, the air around him crackling with a barely suppressed fury.
“He believes you to be a courtesan? And you expect me to accept that your interactions were entirely chaste?” He pushed away from the wall and walked away from her, his back rigid, raking a hand through his dark hair.
The silence stretched, thick and heavy with unspoken accusations.
“I manipulated his vanity,” she confessed, her voice barely a whisper. “I played upon his pride.”