The Wolf of Mayfair

He loved the soothing hour, when the last tints of light die away; when the stars, one by one, tremble through æther, and are reflected on the dark mirror of the waters; that hour, which, of all others, inspires the mind with pensive tenderness, and often elevates it to sublime contemplation.

—Ann Radcliffe, The Mysteries of Udolpho

Hours after he’d searched the duke’s office, Wingrave remained seated upon his pompous sire’s imperial chair.

He had long since returned the old duke’s official records and correspondences to their respective places within the always tidy desk.

Wingrave stared off into nothing and drummed his fingertips along the mahogany arms of his current seat.

Nay, not nothing.

His gaze remained locked on the wall where he’d pinned Helia and coaxed her body to surrender.

Both her embrace and shyness had proven—as if there’d ever been a doubt—the lady was as pure as the snow covering the gardens below.

And what had he done after she’d come undone in his arms? He’d uttered vile, unconscionable things.

Wingrave’s gut clenched. The memory of Helia’s wounded expression twisted a knife in his chest. The memory of the hurt bleeding from her expressive green eyes would haunt him until he drew his last miserable breath.

Since she’d left the duke’s office, Wingrave had found himself confronting the staggering, sobering, and very unwelcome realization that he felt . . . shame.

Him!

Wingrave gave his head a firm shake. Shame. Regret.

“What is next, Wingrave?” he snarled. His lips curled in a disgusted sneer. “Love?”

The moon would sooner fall and the stars rain down upon a darkened earth before that happened. Which was not only for the best, but very welcome.

Nay, he’d never love anyone or anything, but Wingrave apparently possessed the ability to know shame. And after everything he’d said to Helia, he found himself drowning in heaps of it.

He scrubbed a hand over his face. This feeling of any emotion was deuced unpleasant business.

“Mad,” he muttered into the ring of silence when he’d dropped his palms back to the armrests. “I’m going mad.”

As if that truth were in doubt, since cheer-filled Helia Wallace’s arrival, Wingrave had begun talking to himself.

Bound for Bedlam, he was.

As he’d told himself many times before, the sooner she went, the better off he’d be. Except, that merely served to remind Wingrave of the lady’s circumstances.

She’d be all alone.

Furthermore, what did he really know about her circumstances? She’d been disingenuous about her connection to the Blofield family. If she’d invented those ties between their mothers, it stood to reason she could be lying about every last thing she’d shared with Wingrave.

He steepled his fingers together, and while he drummed the tips, Wingrave stared distractedly over to that place where he’d forever see her trembling, begging, and climaxing.

Only, the stunned little glimmer in her eyes, the shock stamped on her features, and the indignation at his having called her mother a liar couldn’t be feigned.

Which meant . . . what, exactly? It didn’t matter there existed no evidence of her family’s ties to his own; Helia had clearly believed it to be true. That notion had come from . . . somewhere.

Certainly, prejudiced as the duke was to anyone and everyone who was not the highest, most respected members of the ton, he wouldn’t countenance any association with a Scottish family.

As for Wingrave’s mother . . . The duchess may be cut of a different, kinder, softhearted cloth than the duke, but ultimately, she fell in line with whatever her husband demanded. After Wingrave’d become the heir, she’d ceased visiting with and talking to him, and turned him over completely to his miserable bastard of a sire. Recently, she’d been a willing partner in the duke’s plans to see him wed Lady Alexandra Bradbury.

No, she’d never be brave enough to form a friendship her husband disapproved of.

I trust, given the man you’ve described the duke to be, the duchess carries secrets of her own.

Helia’s avowal whispered around Wingrave’s mind.

He drummed his fingertips together.

Her words were so unlikely as to be anything but impossible. After all, where would his mother even begin to hide such information from her . . . ?

Of their own volition, his fingers ceased their tapping.

Wingrave sat for a long moment and then exploded to his feet.

Without breaking stride, he strode through His Grace’s office, yanked the door open, and sailed into the hall.

Wingrave moved with determined, purposeful steps down the length of the wide, crimson-carpeted corridors, and then stopped.

He stared at the door, with its carvings of delicate white roses and pink peonies, a moment and then looked down at the brass princess handle.

Clasping it quick, he let himself inside. The hinges, as well oiled as they’d always been, allowed him a noiseless entry.

He did a sweep of this space he passed often but never entered.

That wasn’t true.

A lifetime ago, back when he’d been invisible and useless to the duke, as a younger son and spare to the heir, then as a half-deaf son, Wingrave had visited these rooms and often.

Stepping inside was like stepping back in time. His mother’s office remained unchanged.

Unlike the dark, somber selection of wallpapering, curtains, and furnishings which adorned the duke’s offices, the duchess’s door opened to reveal a summery, fairy-tale setting. A pale-pink-and-white floral Louis XV gilt, upholstered sofa set formed a semicircle near the white stone fireplace, adorned in rose and peony carvings which carried the theme of that flower from the entrance and into the whole of the duchess’s office.

The white Italian lace curtains were drawn back to allow the vibrant afternoon light to stream through.

The sun, which continued to wrestle for a place in the stubbornly grey sky that day, chose this very moment to peek out from behind the clouds.

Long, dazzling rays brought a brightness shining down upon the gleaming mahogany desk near the floor-to-ceiling windows that overlooked the gardens below.

In his mind’s eye, he saw a younger version of the duchess and himself.

Back then, though, when he’d been a small boy, he’d only ever been Anthony.

His mother would pull up a special chair she’d kept just for him and drag it over so he could join her. Wingrave had attended his pretend work, while she’d attended her business.

He’d sat alongside her, drafting made-up battle plans for his future as a commissioned soldier in the King’s Army. Both that dream and expectation had died the day Wingrave’s hearing in his left ear was lost.

He’d still continued to visit his mother here, but he’d stopped with the imagined work he’d eventually do as a soldier and instead sat next to her and scrawled various verses, sentences, and pictures.

The thing of it was that not once in all those years had Wingrave given thought to what kept his mother busy here.

It wasn’t until he had landed the unwanted role of ducal heir and been forced to spend time with the ruthless, heartless, menacing figure who’d sired him that he understood the duchess came here to escape her domineering husband.

At once, he contemplated whether she’d done more here, away from the duke’s unforgiving eye.

Compelled forward, Wingrave’s gaze remained locked on that desk across the room.

He reached the white-painted, rotating, rattan desk chair and stopped in his tracks.

The matching seat of smaller proportions she’d had commissioned remained tucked in the corner, as it had always been when Wingrave was a boy.

How . . . peculiar. She’d kept that unnecessary furnishing designed with a child’s measurements in mind. She’d not only held on to the chair, but it occupied the precise spot it had always occupied.

Some strange feeling came over him, a queerness that suffused his chest.

Taking in a shaky breath, he swiftly averted his gaze, returning it to the duchess’s workplace.

This won’t take long.

He seated himself and then got on with examining the contents of his mother’s desk. Wingrave started at the center drawer and moved around methodically.

He’d always taken the duke as meticulous and tidy in the organization of his records and business. The duchess, however, took that skill to an even more impressive level. Not only were her stacks of notes and correspondences, receipts of transactions, and charity work neatly organized, they’d also been each tied with ribbons of differing colors and properly labeled.

As such, Wingrave flew through his search, and then stopped.

He stared at a small pile of letters aged yellow with time. The top identifying label contained but two names—Angela and . . . Anthony.

Not Wingrave, as she now only ever referred to him as.

But Anthony, his Christian name that only Helia insisted on using.

Wingrave turned the stack over in his hands. Something in reading through his mother’s personal notes about him added a level of wrongness to his futile hunt.

He made to return the one with explicit mention of him and then stopped.

Why shouldn’t he be knowledgeable of whatever business his mother discussed about him? Frowning, he tugged an end of the intertwined blue and white ribbons. They fluttered to the immaculate surface of her desk.

Setting aside the rectangular scrap of paper bearing his Christian name, Wingrave reached for the top note addressed to him.

He skimmed his gaze over the handful of sentences written in the duchess’s elegant scrawl.

My dear boy,

If you are reading this, I trust I’m no longer of this world. I also expect your father will not bother examining the contents of my desk. As such I also expect you and your sister, Angela, are the first to come across these letters.

I wish to begin by saying the duke has certainly not been the warmest, most amiable, or involved father.

Wingrave snorted. A greater understatement had never been put to page.

I oft said the duke loved you as he was able—even if at times, it may have not seemed to be the case.

A bark of laughter burst from Wingrave, and he gave his head a wry shake. Now this was too much.

He discovered himself capable of another emotion—pity. This time, that sentiment was directed at his mother. The duke had been born of stone, with a heart of steel and soul of ice that couldn’t have thawed under the hottest summer sun.

He went back to reading.

The fault lay not with your father, but rather the generations of expectations borne by the Talberts before him.

Wingrave gave his head a shake and tossed aside the letter, not needing to read another bit of this postlife drivel where his mother, who’d been absent in his adult years, attempted to play peacemaker between the husband and children she’d left behind.

Frustration surged through him, a restiveness that left his muscles twitching. This was what his search of Helia Wallace had yielded. Absolutely nothing other than the duchess’s hopeful wishes for the duke and the children he viewed as helpful chess pieces upon the board of His Grace’s existence.

He stilled. That was how it should be. Wingrave frowned. He himself understood the expectations which went with the Talbert title, and he took pleasure in fulfilling his role—though not for his sire. God rot the old bastard’s festering soul.

No, because in Wingrave’s adhering to that order, a ruthless impassivity took puling emotions out of the proverbial equation. That detachedness was what had compelled him to track down his betrothed after she’d gone gallivanting about England with another man. An adherence to duty and title was what kept life ordered and clear.

His frown deepened. He’d gotten away from those tenets which had guided him in his adult years.

Having allowed Helia Mairi Wallace, a captivating stranger, into his household, Wingrave had reverted to the pathetic child he’d once been.

He’d not make that mistake again.

With that renewed resolve, he made a swipe for the pile. In his haste, Wingrave knocked the stack over the side of the desk. Faded ivory, white, and yellowed letters rained down upon the floor.

Cursing, he stood, dropped to his haunches, and proceeded to gather up his mother’s belongings.

Once he’d them all tidied and stacked, Wingrave made to rise, and then stopped.

From the corner of his eye, he caught a small, lone scrap—another rectangular label. This one did not contain his or Angela’s name, but rather, an unfamiliar one: Mairi.

Haltingly, Wingrave looked at the pile of his mother’s correspondences, and he came slowly to his feet.

He sifted through the envelopes. Each bore his mother’s name.

Who was Mairi? And why had his mother kept those letters?

Scrunching his brow, Wingrave set the bundle back on the desk, and reached for one.

He unfolded it and skimmed the words written there.

Oh, Caroline.

I write to you with the most miraculous news. After so much heartbreak, I am about to deliver my precious bairn. I feel him moving and kicking. I have not previously shared my pregnancy in my previous letters as every time I’ve done so, I then had to write another informing you of another devastation.

Wingrave passed over to the end and the signature at the bottom of a long letter.

Your most loyal and loving friend,

Mairi

His gaze fixed to the joy-filled missive, Wingrave grabbed another, swiftly opened the letter, and read.

My dear friend,

First, you maintained my marriage would be a loyal and loving one. Then, following the eight miscarriages of babes I wanted with all my heart, you promised there’d one day be a babe for me. As always, you proved to be correct once more, when you predicted I carried not a boy and heir but rather, a feisty, strong-willed girl. Oh, Caro, Bruce is overjoyed. He rocks her to sleep each night, and as he does, his eyes glitter with tears and pride. He tells her stories of the great things she’ll do and everything he’ll teach her.

Wingrave paused in his reading and tried to imagine a world where the Duke of Talbert would have ever been anything but livid and disappointed that, after years of trying and failing to conceive an heir, he’d instead sired a daughter.

There wasn’t one. There wasn’t such a world. To the duke, daughters were acceptable only following the birth of a required and desired heir and spare, and then, with their only purpose being to expand the power and riches of the Talbert line.

Despite his earlier resolve, it proved nigh impossible to not envy a child so beloved by her parents.

Absently, he skimmed the last sentences.

She is the center of our universe, as radiant as the sun. We’ve named her Helia—

Wingrave stumbled. His mind froze. His gaze remained locked on the page.

“Helia Mairi Wallace,” he said, and shock pulled the name out as a soft exhale.

Miss Helia Mairi Wallace hadn’t been lying when she’d claimed a connection—albeit a secret one, unknown to all—to the Blofields.

He reeled under the enormity of that discovery.

All along, she’d been telling the truth, which meant he could absolutely not allow her to set out on her own, and she needed, in fact, to remain here.

A heady relief filled Wingrave. That profound, undeniable emotion had absolutely nothing to do with the idea of her staying, and absolutely everything to do with the fact that he’d not been duped.

Stuffing the note inside his coat pocket, he quit his mother’s office.

“Helia Mairi Wallace,” he thundered, irritatingly frustrated that she didn’t instantly appear.

He took the corner quickly and collided with Humphries, sending the man’s always impeccable slicked brown hair sliding out of place.

The servant tottered on his feet but managed to keep himself upright. “My l—”

“Miss Wallace,” he barked.

His butler tilted his head quizzically.

“Magnificent auburn curls, Humphries. A big, mischievous smile. Sparkling green eyes.”

The man’s eyes went big and glinted with an even greater stupefaction.

Bloody hell. Wingrave didn’t have time for this.

“This high.” Wingrave held a palm up to the lady’s respective height. “She showed up on my doorstep in the midst of a snowstorm. Does any of this sound familiar?”

Humphries found his voice. “Yes, my lord, very familiar.”

“Well, that is reassuring,” he said sarcastically.

“It is just your description—” The other man stopped midsentence.

The very fine thread of Wingrave’s patience snapped. “Yes, Humphries?”

A flush filled Humphries’s cheeks. “The lady is not here.”

Wingrave’s spine went erect.

An unnerving disturbance in his chest upset Wingrave’s usual stoicism.

“What exactly does that mean?” he asked on a grim whisper.

All the color bled from the butler’s lean face. “She’s gone o-out?”

He narrowed his eyes. “She’s gone out. Is that a question, Humphries?”

“N-no. She’s not left, my lord. Just gone out.”

“Alone, in the cold, when she’s still recovering from a bloody illness, Humphries?” he hissed.

Humphries looked one breath away from breaking into big, blustery tears.

Good. The fellow had better be afraid. Very afraid. “Where has the lady gone?”

“The Frost F-fair, my lord.”

He furrowed his brow. “The Frost Fair,” Wingrave repeated.

Humphries gave a juddering nod.

“What the hell is that?”

“The River Thames, my lord.”

This entire day had gotten turned upside down. “A fair is being held on the Thames.” He resisted the urge to jam his fingertips against his suddenly throbbing temples.

His butler beamed. “The water’s frozen, it has. Hasn’t done so in decades, my lord.”

The young butler’s trepidation faded with every word he spoke and was replaced instead with an incongruously childish excitement that belied the unwelcome worry that slithered around Wingrave’s chest.

“There’s all manner of revelry taking place, my lord: ninepins, skating, sled races.”

Wingrave gritted his teeth. The stubborn chit didn’t have a jot of common sense. She’d risk her still-fragile health.

“Why, even the prince regent has attended the festivities and—”

“I don’t care if God and Satan united on the bloody event and struck an eternal accord,” Wingrave snarled.

“My apologies, my lord,” the servant whispered.

Wingrave jabbed a finger at the butler. “If she comes to any harm, you and anyone who allowed her to leave this household will be sacked without a single reference.” He hissed, “My horse.”

Dropping a jerky bow, Humphries backed away. “Yes, m-my lord. First thing.”

“Don’t tell me, Humphries,” he thundered. “Just bloody do it.”

“Yes, my—” The servant caught himself, and then tripping over his feet, Humphries raced off to do Wingrave’s bidding.

Fired. Every last one of them would find themselves fast unemployed if she relapsed.

And what of you? a voice silently taunted. You are as much to blame.

He should have ordered her to remain indoors. As if a headstrong Helia would allow anyone to forbid her from doing anything.

He, however, was not anyone. I am the unpliable Marquess of Wingrave.

Wingrave steeled his jaw and strode to the foyer.

The moment he collected her and brought her home, he’d build a goddamned tower and stuff her inside, if need be, to keep the chit from doing any more goddamned harm to herself.

Not even five minutes later, he found himself astride his black stallion, a powerful creature who’d always been as angry as its rider, and on his way to the damned Frost Fair.