Chapter Four
Regina lay in bed, staring at the canopy as if the fabric itself might unravel the torment of her mind.
She had been home since half past three that morning, yet her mother had not so much as cracked the door.
What kind of mother did not pace the corridors, wringing her hands, when her daughter failed to return from a ball until almost dawn?
Did Ma even care that Regina had been alone with a man, in his coach, in a manner no respectable lady ought?
But then again, if her mother had known, Regina would not have lasted two minutes under her scrutiny. Wayne Worthington or not, her mother would have torn her to pieces with her disapproval.
At three thirty, when she had crept like a thief into the house, silence had greeted her.
Her parents slumbered, the servants abed.
Not one person had seen her slip into her chamber.
The relief had been immediate, but as the hours dragged on, the relief turned to unease.
Why had they not checked her before retiring, if only to be certain she had returned from the ball? They had known she was out of sorts.
She gave a mirthless laugh. Out of sorts was an understatement.
Something had overtaken her inside that coach.
She had not been herself—of that much she was certain.
Her mind had spun like a top, her limbs uncooperative, her reason drifting as though she were outside her own body.
Yet she remembered every kiss. His touch.
His voice. His mouth teaching hers what it meant to yield.
She buried her face in her hands. Perhaps I am mad.
Unable to remain in bed once the sun spilled across the carpet, she dressed slowly, every movement weighted with dread. Facing her parents was unavoidable, and though her body quivered with nerves, her stomach reminded her of its own desperation. She had eaten little at the ball, and nothing since.
Her legs shook as she descended to the dining room, each step echoing like a drumbeat of doom. Surely her mother would be waiting at the table, eyes red from weeping, her father grim with disappointment. She almost expected to hear sobbing, or the clink of a teacup abandoned in despair.
But there was only silence.
She paused at the door, breath shallow. The rich scent of a cooked breakfast reached her, making her stomach clench. With a trembling hand, she turned the knob.
The dining room was empty.
She swept her eyes over the polished table, expecting her parents’ accusing gazes, but instead a maid hurried forward, balancing a tray. The girl set a plate before Regina, followed by a steaming cup of tea.
“Mary,” Regina managed, her throat tight, “have my parents been down yet?”
The maid curtsied. “No, Miss Regina. They are still abed, I believe.”
Her chest constricted painfully. Relief warred with a sharper ache. Did her parents know and no longer care? Or did they truly have no idea?
She sat heavily, the scent of food overtaking every thought.
She tore into the meal like a woman starved, shoving bites into her mouth, hardly tasting beyond the comfort of filling her belly.
How unladylike. How desperate. She ate as she had kissed last night—with hunger she had not known lived inside her.
Indeed, she had been starved last night. Starved for affection. Bitterness filled her, the words twisting like a knife. How disgusting.
When at last she slowed her eating, her stomach too tight for another bite, she sat back, fingers pressed to her lips. She had never behaved in such a heathen manner—neither at the table nor in a man’s arms. Something maddening was happening to her.
She closed her eyes, breathing deeply. Perhaps a walk about the yard would help settle her. Perhaps the air would clear her head, and her stomach, of the storm still raging within.
But in her heart, she knew that no amount of air, and no amount of time, would ever erase the memory of Wayne Worthington’s kisses.
She pushed away from the table and walked into the corridor, the grandfather clock striking the eleventh hour. Regina frowned, confusion prickling. Were her parents still abed? How late had they lingered at the ball?
Another maid passed, and Regina lightly caught her sleeve. “Sarah? Do you know why my parents have not come down for breakfast?”
Sarah curtsied. “Yes, Miss Regina. They returned from the ball very ill and retired straightaway. I have not disturbed them since.” The girl hesitated, biting her lip. “Should I?”
Inwardly, Regina groaned. Sarah had been in their employ less than a year and had not yet learned the art of thinking for herself. “Yes, wake my mother. If she still feels ill, she will tell you so.”
“Yes, miss.” Sarah bobbed another curtsy and scurried upstairs.
Regina stepped outside, the air meeting her like a balm after the oppressive stillness of her chamber.
The morning was warmer than the night before, the breeze gentle, the garden alive with the hum of bees and the cheerful song of birds.
For the first time since leaving the coach, she drew a deep, steady breath.
But then she heard the distant sound of hoofbeats.
She turned sharply, heart lurching, as a horse galloped toward the house. Jane Meyers and her constant companion, Pearl, reined in at the steps. Regina’s pulse hammered. Panic seized her. Had Jane learned? Had she come to accuse her?
She walked quickly forward, bracing herself. Jane swung down from her horse, skirts swishing. Her expression unreadable, she studied Regina as one might a painting, her gaze moving from head to toe.
Fear knotted in Regina’s chest. If Jane knew…if she had heard whispers of the coach…would she weep, rage, collapse into heartbreak? Or worse, would she cast Regina off forever?
At last, Jane folded her arms and arched a brow. “You do not appear ill today.”
Regina released the breath she’d been holding. “I thank you. I am much better.” It was true enough, though far from the whole truth. She would not feel better until she understood why she had acted so outrageously with Wayne Worthington.
Jane’s smile brightened, quick and disarming. “Splendid. Then you are fit to accompany me this afternoon to the dressmaker. You are still my dearest friend, are you not?”
The words pierced Regina, tight with double meaning. If Jane knew the truth, she would never call her that again.
“Yes,” she managed, her throat constricting. “Of course I am still your friend.”
“Excellent. Then come with me. I must be fitted for my wedding gown.”
Regina nearly stumbled. “Wedding gown?” Her voice cracked. “You have ordered it already? But your engagement has not even been announced.”
Jane shrugged, lifting her chin in practiced stubbornness. “The announcement is but a formality. Father will make it soon. Why delay what is certain?”
Bile rose in Regina’s throat. She swallowed hard, forcing composure. If only she could confess. If only she could shout that Wayne Worthington was no gentleman, that his kisses belonged to another only last night. But such truth would destroy them both. Her silence was the only shield she had.
“Then I suppose,” Regina said, mustering strength she did not feel, “it is best you be fitted without delay.”
Jane studied her closely, suspicion flickering in her eyes. “How unexpected. I thought you would rail against him again. Have you changed your mind about Mr. Worthington?”
At his name, Regina’s nerves quaked, the memory of his lips searing her. “No,” she admitted, voice thin. “I still believe he seeks your father’s wealth above all.”
Jane rolled her eyes with exasperation. “Reggie, if you would only take the time to know him, you would see he is kind. He has no title, true, but his family is wealthy. He has no need to deceive.”
“Are you certain?” Regina pressed softly. “How do you know his wealth is not a fiction?”
Jane’s expression hardened. “I grow weary of this, Reggie. If you mean to accompany me, then no more of it. I will not argue about Wayne. He is a sweet man, and I am certain he speaks the truth.”
Regina forced a smile. “You are correct. I shall not say another word.”
But even as the words left her lips, she knew them for a lie. She could not, would not, give up…not while there was still time to save Jane.
*
Wayne kept his hat brim low as he strode through the busy street, the collar of his cloak turned up to his ears.
Every step felt heavier than the last. He could not shake the sense that eyes were upon him—watching, waiting.
He had spent enough years as a Bow Street Runner to know that when one carried a secret, the world seemed to lean closer, eager to steal it.
The Meyers family must not suspect what Wayne was up to. Not yet. Not until he had proof of what the earl was illegally doing.
Wayne slipped through the heavy door of the Bow Street office, pulling it shut quickly behind him.
The murmur of London’s morning traffic was muffled, replaced by the familiar chorus within—the scratch of quills against parchment, the shuffle of boots on scuffed wooden planks, the faint scent of smoke, leather, and stale coffee hanging in the air.
For the first time since waking, his shoulders eased.
Here, he was among his own. Men who led the same shadowed life he did—half in disguise, half in pursuit, sworn to justice though it cost them comfort, reputation, and oftentimes their very lives.
They were more than colleagues. They were a family of another sort, bound by secrets and the streets they patrolled.
“Worthington, I heard you had a rough night.”
The voice cut through his thoughts like a whip crack. Wayne jerked around, pulse leaping, to find Randolph Donley watching him with a grin too sly by half. The older Runner balanced a stack of papers in his arms, his eyes glinting with amusement.
Wayne stiffened, his gut clenching. “Pardon me? And what, pray, are you referring to?”
Donley chuckled, ambling to his desk. He set the papers down with a careless thump, then leaned back against the scarred wood with a familiarity born of long years. Though nearly ten years Wayne’s senior, his wiry frame and quick wit made him seem younger—spry, sharp, and dangerous in his own way.
“You forget, my good man,” Donley drawled, “that we Runners are forever watching one another’s backs. And I happened to be riding past Lord Montague’s estate at an ungodly hour this morning. Imagine my surprise when I saw a lovely lady slipping out of your coach.”
Wayne’s stomach lurched. His head began to pound with renewed force. “And what business had you at Montague’s at such an hour?”
Donley waved a hand, lips quirking. “Do not change the subject. You had a woman with you, Worthington. Admit it.”
Wayne dropped into the chair opposite, his jaw tight. “Describe her.”
For the first time, Donley blinked, then threw back his head with a bark of laughter that drew a few glances from nearby desks. “Good God, Worthington! Don’t tell me you were so foxed you cannot recall your own conquest.”
Wayne’s scowl deepened. “Enough. Answer me, or I will lose all patience.”
Donley smothered the last of his laughter, though his eyes still danced. “Ringlets. Long enough to brush her shoulders. Dark-brown hair that caught the lamplight. A fine gown. That was all I saw before she vanished inside.”
The words struck like musket fire. Wayne shut his eyes briefly, a groan escaping before he could stop it. Regina Taylor.
Although he had wanted to deny it earlier today, hearing this from his friend grounded the truth in Wayne’s mind.
His chest constricted, and for a moment, he feared he might disgrace himself and be sick all over again.
Every flash of memory—the warmth of her lips, the scent of roses, the tremor in her touch—collided with the realization of who she was.
Jane’s dearest friend. The very woman who despised him, and yet…
she had somehow lain in his arms. Why did that not make sense to him?
He dragged a hand over his jaw, the rasp of stubble grounding him. “Donley, I speak truth. I remember little of last night. I believe”—he hesitated, then dropped his voice—“somehow, a drug was poured into my drink at the tavern.”
The humor drained from Donley’s expression. He leaned forward, forearms braced on the desk. “Drugged? Explain.”
Wayne nodded grimly. “There is no other explanation. I drank but a single glass of port with Harold Meyers. Only one. And yet my mind is in tatters. I do not recall leaving the tavern, and I scarcely remember the ball. I do not know how I returned home at all.”
Donley exhaled sharply, dragging his fingers through his receding hair. “That would explain Spencer’s report. He swore he saw you leave the tavern alone, without Meyers. Odd, since you were meant to shadow him.”
Groaning, Wayne pinched the bridge of his nose. “I have only fragments. Flashes I cannot trust. But I know something is wrong, and I pray that my memory will return soon.”
Donley’s gaze sharpened. “You still believe the earl is tied to the opium trade?”
“Indeed, I do,” Wayne said, steel beneath the weariness in his voice.
“Have you proof?”
“Not yet.” His fists tightened on his knees. “But I will not release this thread until I have it.”
Donley tapped his fingers on the desk, thoughtful. “You may be right. But Montague… He has influence. Docks, warehouses, waterfront properties—all perfect to move contraband. I would wager his hands are far dirtier than Meyers’s.”
Wayne considered it, though his gut twisted in refusal. “Then keep Montague in your sights. For my part, I will not let Meyers go. The man is hiding something. I can feel it.”
Donley leaned back, a grin tugging at his mouth despite the gravity of the moment. “Then we are agreed. You watch your earl; I’ll watch my lord. And between us, we’ll catch them both.” He cocked a brow. “Though let us settle one matter…you remain Bow Street’s second-best Runner.”
Wayne lifted his head, one brow arching despite the ache behind his eyes. “Second best? And who claims first?”
Donley spread his hands wide, smirk broadening. “Why, me, of course.”
Wayne gave a laugh, sharp and brief, though it threatened to split his skull in two. Donley’s arrogance was insufferable, but the man’s instincts were sound. Still, no jest and no banter could ease the dread clawing at Wayne’s chest.
Because while Donley spoke of opium and docks and Montague, all Wayne could think of was Regina Taylor—her lips beneath his, her friend’s trust betrayed, and the ruin that loomed closer with every hour.