Chapter Fourteen
London
Two days later
Why had she left?
Lex had racked his brain trying to answer that question ever since he pummeled Hammond at Mrs. Dove-Lyon’s dinner party. One moment, he’d been surrounded by a huddle of admirers, congratulating him for finally giving the bastard what he deserved. Next, Edwina was gone.
When he’d finally extricated himself from the crush of onlookers, flushed with adrenaline and the sharp sting of a bruised knuckle, he’d searched the crowd for her.
But Edwina was nowhere to be found. Mrs. Dove-Lyon had offered only a cryptic explanation: “She said she had to leave, and then she left.”
And that was it.
She had vanished.
Lex had played and replayed every possible reason in his mind.
Was she frightened by Hammond’s outburst?
The man had been shrieking threats even as he was dragged bodily from the ring, his face a mottled red, spittle flying from his lips.
Had she feared some reprisal? Or—worse—had she doubted Lex’s ability to protect her?
He clenched his jaw at the thought. No. She had to know he’d move heaven and earth to keep her safe. She wasn’t some trembling miss. Edwina Sinclair had grit. Fire. She wasn’t easily rattled.
But still…she’d fled.
He had to find her. Reassure her. Tell her that whatever Hammond’s bluster, he, Lexington Capel, Earl of Essex, had more than fists to fight with.
Hammond might be a slumlord with deep pockets, but Lex had influence.
He held a seat in the House of Lords. He had allies.
Power. And he would use every ounce of it to destroy Hammond’s hold on the city.
But more than that, he had to speak to Edwina.
Had to make her see how deeply he felt. He’d wanted her from the moment he first saw her in that sheer green gown, hair like fire and eyes like whisky.
But it had grown into something more—far more—than simple desire.
After spending time with her, getting to know her mind as well as her body, he knew the truth: He wanted her not just as a lover. He wanted her as his wife.
He’d sent two carefully worded notes to the Sinclair townhouse in Berkeley Square. No reply. Not even a rejection. Nothing.
Which was why he found himself walking through the damp London streets that morning, coat collar turned up against the cold mist, hat low against the drizzle.
The air was thick with smoke and the scent of coal fires, and the pavement gleamed with last night’s rain.
Carriages clattered by, horses’ hooves echoing off brick walls and wrought iron.
The trees in Berkeley Square were stripped nearly bare, their remaining leaves rattling like parchment in the breeze. The square itself, usually a tranquil corner of Mayfair, felt unusually tense to him today—as though it, too, were holding its breath.
He didn’t know what she’d say. Whether she’d even see him. But he had to try. He needed to tell her everything.
Yes, he was in financial straits. That much was true. But his feelings for her far outweighed his pride.
He wanted to make her his. To spend a lifetime unraveling her mysteries, debating philosophy over breakfast, arguing about novels in the carriage. To learn every part of her—not just her thoughts, but her curves, her scent, the sound of her voice when she laughed and when she moaned.
His blood stirred at the memory of their last encounter—the way she’d gasped under his touch, the way her body had trembled against his. But he hadn’t gone far enough. Not yet. He wanted more. He wanted to worship her until she screamed his name and collapsed in his arms.
But more than that, he wanted to build a life with her. To make her his countess. To make her his equal in every way.
Tomorrow, he would return to Mansford House. The weight of responsibility was calling. He could no longer afford to remain in London, as much as his heart demanded he stay.
His estate manager, John Watson, had been more than understanding these past months. He’d agreed to stay on at reduced pay, not out of obligation but out of loyalty. John, his wife Mary, and their two children—William and Emily—had become something like extended family.
Lex and John had spent the last year poring over ledgers, inspecting properties, and assessing damage. His father’s death had left more than grief behind. It had left a financial disaster.
The family’s holdings were crumbling. Tenant homes needed repairs. Three of the four estates needed significant investment just to remain livable. And the fourth—well, he wasn’t sure it was even worth saving.
His father had mortgaged nearly everything, even the townhouse in Grosvenor Square, which Lex had been forced to sell at a loss.
The family’s investments had vanished—liquidated, squandered, or simply lost to poor judgment.
Lex himself had sold his own shares in trading ships and modest business ventures just to keep the wolf from the door.
When he’d first learned of the near fifty-thousand-pound debt load, he’d been incandescent with rage, not just at his father’s carelessness, but at his own blindness.
Still, rage did little to solve problems. He’d worked with his family’s solicitors, relied on Basil’s counsel, and drawn up a plan.
Pay the worst debts first—particularly the ones owed to criminal lenders who charged blood for interest. Keep the estates afloat.
Prioritize the tenant farmers, the household staff, the people who actually mattered.
Basil had offered him money. Of course he had. But Lex had refused. He would not borrow from friends. His father had done that—shamelessly, repeatedly—and left nothing but resentment in his wake.
He’d also refused Basil’s more recent suggestion: sell his mother’s jewels. Those belonged to Tess, his younger sister. They would one day be hers to wear, or to sell if her own life demanded it. He would not touch that inheritance.
Time, however, was running out. John was preparing a comprehensive financial report, and Lex would have to make some difficult decisions upon his return—deciding which of the smaller properties to relinquish to preserve the rest.
But for now, his focus was on Edwina.
He reached Berkeley Square and paused in front of the Sinclair townhouse, its facade stately and serene in the soft morning gloom. He removed his hat, smoothing his windblown hair, and squared his shoulders.
He had to see her.
He needed to know why she had left. Why had she said nothing? And—if his heart was not entirely mistaken—whether she felt even a fraction of what he did.
Because if she did…
He would ask her to be his wife.
He climbed the stone steps and knocked on the front door of the townhouse.
The Berkeley Square home was distinguished but not ostentatious—a handsome Georgian facade with symmetrical windows, a fanlight above the door, and wrought-iron railings that bordered a tidy front garden. Ivy crept neatly along the lower brickwork, and the brass knocker gleamed despite the damp.
A moment later, the butler opened the door, his expression composed but curious.
“Good morning, my lord. May I help you?”
“Yes,” Lex said. “Lord Capel, here to see Lady Sinclair.”
The butler seemed to hesitate, then gave a slight bow and stepped aside. “Please, do come in.”
As Lex crossed the marble-tiled foyer, he glanced up just in time to see Edwina’s cousin descending the main staircase, a newspaper in one hand, his cravat only half tied, as if he’d just abandoned his morning toilette.
“Capel, my good man!” Charles called with easy charm as he stepped off the last step. “What brings you to Berkeley Square?”
“Sinclair,” Lex replied, offering his hand. “Good to see you as well.” He clasped Charles’s hand briefly—firm, but not overly familiar—and hesitated for the barest of moments before tossing his pride to the devil. “Truth be told, I was hoping to have a word with Lady Sinclair.”
Charles’s easy smile faltered just slightly. He exhaled, folding the newspaper under one arm. “Ah…yes. That might prove difficult.”
A knot twisted in Lex’s chest. “Why is that?”
“She’s not here,” Charles said, frowning. “Nor is my great-aunt, for that matter. They left rather unexpectedly yesterday afternoon to return to Wiltshire House.”
Lex stiffened. “Without notice?”
Charles gave a shrug. “I was at my solicitors for the better part of the day, buried in paperwork. When I returned, I found a note from them—vague, at best. Something about a pressing matter that required their attention back in Middlesex. No details, no explanation. Just…gone.”
“Without even a reply to my notes,” Lex murmured.
“I see. I can imagine your consternation,” Charles said, with a sympathetic shake of his head. “Naturally, it’s nothing compared to my own.”
Am I the reason she fled like a sparrow running from a hawk?
“Basil and I are returning to Essex tomorrow,” Charles added. “If you’d like to accompany us, we’re staying at Brown’s—as you know—and we’d be delighted to see you back to Middlesex.”
“That’s jolly good of you. I may take you up on that.”
“Excellent. I’ll inform Basil that you’ll be joining us. I’m sure he’ll be pleased. It will give us a chance to catch up.”
Lex held out his hand again, and the two men shook.
As he stepped back out into the gray morning, the cool air bit through his coat like the sting of disappointment. His thoughts churned as he walked. Edwina was gone. Again. And he had no idea what it meant.
Had she left because of him? Because of Hammond? Because something deeper had been stirred in her, and she didn’t know how to face it.
He didn’t know. And that uncertainty gnawed at him.
Tomorrow, he would leave London. He had obligations—an estate to salvage, lives depending on his decisions. But as he walked through the misty streets of Mayfair, one truth echoed in his mind:
He couldn’t let her go without a fight.
He knew where to find her—but he just had to figure out how to win her, how to convince her that everything he wanted, everything he needed, began and ended with her.