Chapter Three
The morning light pried its way through a split in the curtains, forcing Wayne Worthington from uneasy sleep.
He groaned, stretching his stiff arms above his head, every muscle aching as though he had been in a brawl.
With a yawn that felt more like a curse, he dragged himself upright and staggered into the small adjoining bathing chamber.
The cold water left in the washbasin by a chambermaid was a blessing.
He splashed his face again and again, hoping the icy shock would scour away the pounding in his skull.
Slowly, his lungs eased, the air moving freer, but the dull ache in his head still clung stubbornly.
What he truly needed was the Worthington family concoction for wine sickness—a bitter draught that had carried him through more than one night of reckless celebration.
He pressed the water from his hair, straightened, and returned to the chamber, only to freeze mid-step. Memories struck like musket fire.
The ball. Or rather, the hours before. Penrose had insisted on taking Wayne and four of his male relations to a tavern, all smiles and toasts in honor of the supposed engagement.
Wayne distinctly remembered drinking only a single glass of port.
Yet his head throbbed as though he had emptied the entire cask.
Something was not right. Why did he feel like this?
He sank onto the bed, elbows braced on his knees, fingers raking through his hair despite the pain it caused.
The suspicion took root at once, and his gut clenched around it.
Harold Meyers. The Earl of Penrose. Jane’s father.
The very man Wayne had been sent to expose.
Would the earl truly stoop so low as to drug his daughter’s intended?
Wayne’s mouth twisted bitterly. Of course he would.
As a Bow Street Runner, Wayne had witnessed all manner of cruelty hidden beneath silk waistcoats and polished manners.
Meyers was no different. He was merely a lord with deeper pockets and dirtier hands.
His dealings in the opium trade were whispered about in the back rooms of taverns, spoken of in shadows, but never yet proved.
Wayne’s assignment was clear: infiltrate the family, gain their trust, and uncover the truth.
But that meant playing the part of Jane Meyers’s fiancé. All Wayne had to do was smile, court Jane…and deceive everyone. Simple—one would think.
The deceiving part weighed heavily on him every day. Jane was too sweet for a world so steeped in her father’s corruption. She was not the sort of woman Wayne usually found himself drawn to, yet she deserved honesty at the very least. And instead, he’d lied.
He scrubbed both hands down his face, cursing softly under his breath.
A flash jolted across his mind, so sudden and so vivid that his breath hitched.
Kissing. He had been kissing a woman so passionately that emotion had replaced the spinning in his head.
Her lips were soft and eager, and her hands pressing against his chest had made him tingle like never before.
They had been in a coach—his coach, surely—for he recalled the creak of the leather, the sway of the wheels, the scent of spirits lingering between them.
But…it had not been Jane.
His heart lurched. Who, then?
The memory was fragmented, frayed by the fog in his mind.
Yet certain details struck with cruel clarity.
He could still feel the woman’s delicate hands threading through his hair.
The silken brush of her hair against his cheek.
The taste of champagne clinging to her lips had made him want to continue.
Wayne’s head dropped into his palms. “God help me,” he muttered.
Never had he been so foxed that his memory failed him entirely.
Even at his wildest, he had always known what mischief he had wrought.
But now? He could not string the pieces together.
Only that he had kissed another woman. Passionately.
Recklessly. And whoever she was, she was most assuredly not Jane Meyers.
Bile churned in his stomach. Had someone seen? Had word already spread? Would Jane—or worse, her father—discover that Wayne had been compromised in some lady’s arms?
Or had it all been a fevered dream, conjured by the poisoned wine?
The pounding at his door nearly split his skull in two. Wayne groaned, staggered to his feet, and threw the door open. The boardinghouse’s owner, a tall, thin man with a perpetual smile plastered across his narrow face, stood on the threshold.
“Pardon me, Mr. Worthington, but you have a visitor downstairs,” he said brightly, as though it were not an indecent hour.
Wayne pressed his fingertips against his pounding temple, certain his head would split at any moment. “Please, give my excuses. I have a terrible headache.”
Mr. Hogan, the boardinghouse’s owner, offered a nervous smile. “I would, sir, but the lady insists. She declared she would not take no for an answer.”
Wayne’s gut clenched. “Who is the woman?”
“Lady Jane Meyers. The young lady you are engaged to.”
Wayne groaned aloud, not caring if it betrayed his dread. Of course Jane would come. And if he did not meet her below, she might storm up to his very room, causing the exact disgrace he could not afford.
“Very well,” he muttered. “Tell her I will be down momentarily. I must make myself presentable.”
“Yes, sir.” Mr. Hogan inclined his head and retreated.
Alone, Wayne leaned back against the door and glanced down at his wrinkled clothes. Whatever had transpired last evening, he had not possessed the strength to undress. Shame prickled at his neck.
He stripped quickly, dragging fresh garments over aching limbs. A comb through his hair and a clean cravat did little to improve his pallor, but he dared delay no longer.
Fifteen minutes later, he descended the narrow stairs. His head still pounded, but at least the hammering was dulled.
Jane and her companion waited in the parlor. She leaned against the window, the sunlight burnishing her pale hair. At the sound of his footsteps, she turned, eyes lighting with eagerness. Her smile faltered as her gaze swept over him.
“Wayne, my darling,” she whispered, hurrying to him. She reached up to cradle his cheek. “You look like death warmed over.”
“That is precisely how I feel.” Gently, he removed her hand and guided her to the sofa. His legs threatened to give way beneath him.
She sighed, her expression softening. “Father said only that you were unwell. But what happened? At the tavern, you seemed to enjoy yourself.”
Wayne forced a shrug. “I wish I knew.”
“You do not remember?”
“I recall little after one glass of port. I believe your father delivered me here, but beyond that—nothing.”
Her brows drew together. “Father told me you drank heavily, that you stumbled out of the tavern, and he could not find you afterward.”
A chill rippled down Wayne’s spine. His jaw tightened. Which of us is lying—her father, or me with my stolen memory? “I cannot explain it,” he admitted. “I only know I feel as if I had been run down by a carriage.”
Jane chuckled lightly and patted his arm. “You were celebrating. Men sometimes drink more than they ought. You need not be embarrassed.”
Wayne’s stomach soured. Embarrassment was the least of his concerns. Had Meyers dosed him with something stronger than port? The suspicion dug deeper, though he dared not share it with Jane. “Perhaps you are right,” he said instead.
“I am.” Her smile returned. “I came to check on you, of course, but also to invite you to a boxing match. Father has tickets, and he wishes you to attend.”
Wayne arched a brow. “A boxing match?”
“Yes. Father adores the sport.” She shivered prettily. “However, I cannot bear the sight of blood. But it would delight me if you would go with him.”
Though his head throbbed, Wayne inclined his head. This was exactly the opportunity he needed to learn more about his suspicions. Hopefully, he would be fortunate enough to meet some of Harold Meyers’s associates. “When?”
“Tonight.”
“Then I shall go.”
Jane squealed with delight and clutched his arm. Wayne winced at the sharp sound, his stomach twisting.
Her expression softened. “I missed you at the ball last night. Still, it was a pleasant evening. Except…” Her smile dimmed. “My friend, Reggie, will not cease her protest against our engagement. No matter how many times I asked her to stop, she pressed on.”
Wayne forced his expression into sympathy. “She means well, perhaps.”
“Yes. She loves me, I know. But she is too straitlaced. Later in the evening, she fell ill and left. At least, I think she left. One of my friends swore she saw Reggie climbing into a coach with a man.” Jane giggled. “But I cannot believe that. Reggie would never do something so irresponsible.”
Wayne’s blood ran cold. The pounding in his skull doubled. A coach. A woman. A kiss.
Jane prattled on, oblivious. “I do not mind her care for me. But truly, why would she condemn me for loving a man I barely know, only to turn around and do worse herself?”
Wayne could not breathe. The faint scent of roses filled his mind. The delicate hands on his chest. The taste of lips that were not Jane’s.
“Oh, my dearest man,” Jane exclaimed suddenly, laying her palm to his cheek. “You have gone pale.”
“I…am not well.” His voice was hoarse. “My stomach churns.”
Alarm softened her face. “What may I do for you?”
He pulled back, standing quickly. “Would you ask the cook to bring me some tea? Hopefully, that will soothe my stomach. I must return to my room.”
“Of course.” She leapt up, eager to please. “Rest, my darling. You must be well for tonight.”
Wayne inclined his head but made no farewell. He stumbled from the parlor, fighting the bile in his throat. By the time he reached his room, he was tearing at his coat, his waistcoat, his cravat, until he collapsed onto the bed in shirt sleeves, gasping for air.
But rest would not come. The memory returned again and again—the soft weight of a woman against him, the brush of lips that haunted him still. And the lingering question that refused to be silenced:
Had it truly been Lady Regina Taylor in his arms?
The woman he had kissed so irresponsibly flashed through his mind in fragments.
Long, wavy hair spilled across his hands, soft as silk.
Was it not the color of melted chocolate, burnished in the dim light?
Her skin had been satin smooth beneath his lips, and he remembered the helplessness that drove him to press kiss after kiss along her throat, drinking in her fragrance as though it might vanish if he stopped.
Her lips… Lord above, her lips had been eager but not practiced. She had trembled beneath his touch, uncertain but willing, responding with a shy heat that thrilled him.
She was no hardened flirt or courtesan. She had been learning. Learning him! And he had reveled in the discovery.
Wayne gave a low chuckle that quickly soured into a groan. Whoever she was, he would find her again once his duty was done. A woman like that, who was passionate, unguarded, and alive, would bring fire to a man’s life. His life.
But then Jane’s words from earlier rang in his head. Her careless laugh, her dismissal of gossip. One of my friends thought she saw Reggie climbing into a coach with a man…
Wayne froze. Panic constricted his chest. Miss Regina Taylor had dark, long, wavy hair…just like the woman in his dreams.
He remembered her well enough. He would have been blind not to.
The first time they met, he had taken in the proud lift of her chin, the elegant curve of her slender frame, the long, dark curls that brushed her shoulders in perfect ringlets.
She was a beauty in her own right, but it had been her eyes that arrested him: a rare, curious silver-blue that seemed to see too much, cutting through pretense.
Eyes that had glared at him more than once, for Miss Taylor had never disguised her dislike.
His stomach lurched violently. With a strangled oath, he bolted off the bed, barely making it to the chamber pot before retching up what little remained in him.
The sour taste burned his throat as he collapsed onto the floor, chest heaving, sweat dampening his brow.
He sagged against the wall, breath shallow.
Dear God. Had it truly been Miss Taylor in his coach last night? If so, then the carriage must have been parked before Montague House itself.
Had no one seen them? Had Penrose? Surely if the earl had witnessed such a compromising tableau, he would have made certain Jane knew of it by now. And yet the possibility that Regina’s reputation, and by extension his own cover, hung by so fragile a thread turned his blood to ice.
How was he to know for certain? Approach her directly? Ask if she remembered their kisses…those fevered, stolen kisses? Then again, if his memory served, he didn’t have to steal anything from the woman in his coach.
If Miss Taylor admitted it, what then? She despised him already. If she believed he trifled with her, all while engaged to her friend, she would ruin him with a word.
And yet he could not reveal the truth. He could not tell her—or anyone—that Wayne Worthington was no more than a role, an alias.
That beneath the polished manners, he was a Bow Street Runner with orders to bring Harold Meyers to justice.
If Regina Taylor discovered his true purpose, she might confide in Jane, and the whole operation would unravel.
Groaning, he dragged himself back to his bed, sinking into the mattress with the heaviness of defeat.
His head throbbed, his body clamored for rest, but his mind refused.
No matter how he tried to shove the memory aside, her lips lingered.
Her touch haunted. Her scent of roses clung to him like a brand.
He clenched his jaw. First the case. Always the case. Meyers’s crimes must be uncovered. Only then could he even think about the woman who now plagued his every thought. But in the pit of his soul, he knew the truth. His duty was about to collide violently with his heart.