Forever My Love (Berkeley-Faulkner #2)(66)

“It’s been a hell of a night. I’m going to go home,” Carr said, pressing his fingers into the corners of his eyes and shaking his head. ■

“Did you get a look at either of them?” Alec pressed, staring down the empty street. “Did the one who was driving look familiar?”

“Like who?““Like Lady Rosalie Berkeley.”

“I’ve seen her only once. I wouldn’t really know. Does it matter?”

“It’s just that I’m acquainted with her husband,” Alec said absently. “Berkeley would never allow his wife to frequent this part of London at this hour, especially not without an escort. And if that was Rosalie Berkeley, her companion might have been…” He closed his eyes, letting out an exasperated sigh. “It probably was. Damn, that woman attracts trouble. But I’m not going to make an ass of myself combing the streets of London… she’s not worth it, no woman is worth a man’s self-respect. I’m ignoring all of this.” Turning to look behind him, he was met with his cousin’s absence. Evidently Carr had decided to leave. Alec turned back to the sight of the empty street.

If that had indeed been Lady Berkeley driving the carriage, then her companion had to be Mira. If it was not Lady Berkeley, he was a first-prize fool, because he was already looking around, for a horse or a phaeton to borrow. But he had an intense feeling that he was going to see Mira tonight, and his blood was hot at the prospect. “Mira, what the hell are you involved in now?” he muttered, suddenly consumed with anticipation.

Chapter Eight

As the blue tilt approached, Rosalie turned pale and began to tremble, as if she were prepared to face some terrible catastrophe. This reaction was so far removed from her previous anticipation that Mira was alarmed. “Do you feel faint?” she asked, looking at her closely.

Rosalie shook her head, her eyes shining with tears. “No… I… Don’t worry. I’m a little overwrought, that’s all.”

Mira nodded, averting her gaze as Rosalie dabbed at her eyes, cleared her throat, and readjusted her composure until it was only slightly askew. The first man who stepped out of the tilt was only in his thirties, a solid fellow of middle height with a round, attractive face. He had a pleasant appearance and a gentle smile, his brown hair arranged in the conspicuous style of a practiced dandy, his dark eyes glowing warmly above an absurdly small nose.

“Lord Alvanley,” Rosalie murmured, giving him her hand, which he raised gallantly to his lips. Later she told Mira that Alvanley was one of the most loyal friends Beau Brummell would ever have, interceding on his behalf again and again whenever Brummell most needed help.

“Lady Berkeley. Under any circumstances it is pleasure to see you,” Alvanley said.

“Thank you, my lord. It is certainly a pleasure for me also. I would like to introduce you to Miss Mireile Germain, my fellow conspirator and Lord Berkeley’s ward.”

Alvanley took Mira’s hand courteously, his smile increasing in warmth. “So you are the mysterious woman being kept so closely under wraps by the Berkeleys,” he murmured. “A dear friend indeed, to be trusted with such a precious secret as this meeting. But I can see every reason why Lady Berkeley has placed such confidence in you.”

Mira lowered her eyes in what she hoped was an appropriately shy manner. Since Alvanley was a leading social figure in London, his approval of her was crucial: his good opinion of her would open many doors and silence some of the rumors that might be circulated about her. “I am honored to make your acquaintance,” she said, glancing at him with a mixture of modesty and admiration.

“But two women alone...” Alvanley continued, glancing around the area disapprovingly. “This is a bad business. I confess with- shame that I was too preoccupied with arranging Brummell’s schedule and transportation to give a thought to your safety. Forgive me, I should not have consented to our meeting in a dangerous place such as this.”

“Have no fear as to our safety,” Mira reassured him hastily. “Secrecy is the most important thing to consider. I know that it is dangerous for Mr. Brummell to be in England—he is the one we should save our concern for.”

Alvanley looked at her with a warm smile. “How selfless you are.”

“No, not at all.”

“Lady Berkeley is to be congratulated on her taste in fellow conspirators.”

“So is Mr. Brummell,” Mira dared to say, causing Alvanley to laugh delightedly.

Rosalie had moved forward to assist the second man out of the boat. The third, a cockney lad who had rowed the tilt, sat down with a small bag of coins weighting the pocket of his coat. He pushed the craft away from the riverbank and began to row back across the water. “Mr. Brummell,” Rosalie said, the small sound of her voice surprising Mira. Dauntless, determined Rosalie, looking and sounding almost frightened as she faced the man who had sired her.

“Madam Berkeley.”

They did not touch hands. They did not embrace, nor voice any of the thoughts that must have besieged their minds. They merely stood there and looked at each other with wide, identically shaped eyes.

Brummell was the picture of elegance fallen on hard times, yet there was a presence about him that could never be matched by any other man. He had a charisma which stemmed not from anything he said or did, but from the mere fact of his existence. His clothes had once been staggeringly expensive, well-cut, and faultlessly clean. His cravat was a blindingly brilliant white that shone in the light of the tin-and-glass lamp that illuminated the scene. Hair a few shades lighter than Rosalie’s was brushed back perfectly, while his complexion shone with the same pale, aristocratic luster as that of his daughter. His mouth was small and shaped in a bow, a stylish mouth that betrayed a great deal of wit and latent charm, but a lack of determination and will. And if Rosalie was regarding him with a full measure of uncertainty, he was looking at her with no less.