Rumours in the Regency Ballroom. Diane Gaston

appetite for the scandal by speculating about Lady Wexin’s part in it. Wexin might be dead, but his wife was not.

      Lady Wexin let go of the garden wall. “I shall be on my way, then.” She turned, her cloak swirling around her. She took one step, paused, then resumed walking.

      Adrian frowned. She was limping.

      Mr Reed’s gaze followed her as well. He appeared to be considering whether to pursue her with more questions.

      Adrian clapped him on the shoulder. “Best you leave, Mr Reed.”

      Mr Reed’s eyes flashed. “This is a public street, sir.”

      Adrian smiled, but without friendliness. “Nonetheless, you do not wish to be in my bad graces.” He glanced at Lady Wexin, now fumbling with a key in the lock of a garden gate. “The lady looks as if she’s had enough to deal with today. Leave, sir.”

      Reed hesitated, but eventually his gaze slid back to Adrian.

      “Leave, Mr Reed.” Adrian repeated, quietly but firmly.

      Reed bowed his head and nodded. He cast another look at Lady Wexin before strolling to the corner and disappearing from sight.

      Adrian walked quickly over to where Lady Wexin still worked the lock. “Let me assist you.”

      She waved him away. “I can manage.”

      He gestured to her legs. “You are standing on one foot.”

      She averted her face. “My—my ankle pains me a little. I believe I twisted it, but I assure you I can manage.” The lock turned and she opened the gate. When she stepped into the garden she nearly toppled to the ground.

      Adrian hurried through the gate and wrapped an arm around her. “You cannot walk.”

      The hood of her cloak fell away, fully revealing her face, only inches from his own.

      Her skin was as smooth and flawless as the Roman sculpture of Clytie that had once captivated him in the British Museum. Unlike cold white stone, however, Lady Wexin’s cheeks were warm with colour. Her lips, shaped like a perfect bow, were as pink as a dew-kissed rose. Adrian had often appreciated her beauty from across a ballroom, or from a box away at Covent Garden, but, this close, she robbed him of breath.

      “Is this your house?” he finally managed.

      She edged out of his embrace, but continued to clutch his arm. “Of course it is.”

      He smiled. “Forgive me. Yes, it must be.”

      She looked over her shoulder. “I must close the gate. Before they see.”

      “Before they see?” He followed her glance.

      “More newspaper people. They loiter around the house, looking for me.”

      Ah, now it made sense why the lady entered her house through the garden gate. It did not explain why she had been out alone. Ladies did not venture out unless accompanied by a companion or a servant.

      Adrian closed the gate with his free hand.

      “I need to lock it.” She let go of him and tried to step away, again nearly falling.

      Adrian reached for her again and helped her to the gate. “I’ll walk you to your door as well.”

      “I am so sorry to trouble you.” She turned the key and left it in the lock.

      Adrian kept his arm around her as they started for the house. When she put the slightest weight on her ankle, he felt her tense with pain.

      “This will not do.” Adrian scooped her up into his arms.

      “No, put me down,” she begged. “You must not carry me.”

      “Nonsense. Of course I must.” Her face was even closer now and her scent, like spring lilacs, filled his nostrils. She draped her arms around his neck, and he inhaled deeply.

      “See? I am too heavy,” she protested.

      Too heavy? She felt as if she belonged in his arms.

      He smiled at her. “Do not insult my strength, Lady Wexin. You will wound my male vanity.” He made the mistake of staring into her deep blue eyes, now glittering with unspent tears, and his heart wrenched for her. “You must be in great pain,” he murmured.

      She held his gaze. “It hurts not at all now.”

      He could not look away.

      Somewhere on the street a door slammed and Lady Wexin blinked.

      Adrian regained his senses and carried her the short distance to the rear door of the townhouse. Voices sounded nearby, riding on the evening breeze.

      “The door will be unlocked,” she murmured, her hair brushing his cheek.

      He opened the door and brought her inside. To the left he glimpsed the kitchen, though there were no sounds of a cook at work there. He carried her down the passageway and brought her above stairs to the main hall of the house.

      It was elegantly appointed with a gilded hall table upon which sat a pair of Chinese vases, devoid of flowers. Matching gilded chairs were upholstered in bright turquoise. The floor was a chequerboard of black-and-white marble, but no footman stood in attendance. In fact, the house was very quiet and a bit chilly.

      “Shall I summon one of your servants?” he asked.

      “They—they are all out at the moment, but you may put me down. I shall manage from here.”

      He looked at her in surprise. “All out?” It was odd for a house to be completely empty of servants.

      She averted her gaze. “They have the day off.” She squirmed in his arms. “You may put me down.”

      He shook his head. “Your ankle needs tending.” He started up the marble staircase, smiling at her again to ease her discomfort. “By the way, I ought to present myself. I am—”

      She interrupted him. “I know who you are.”

      Adrian’s smile deepened, flattered that she’d noticed him.

      He reached the second floor where he guessed the bedchambers would be. “Direct me to your room.”

      “The second door,” she replied. “But, really, you mustn’t—”

      It was his turn to interrupt. “Someone must.”

      Her bedchamber was adorned with hand-painted wallpaper, bright exotic birds frolicking amidst colourful flowers. A dressing table with a large mirror held sparkling glass bottles, porcelain pots and a brush and comb with polished silver handles. Her bed was neatly made, its white coverlet gleaming and its many pillows plumped with what he guessed was the finest down. The room was chilly, though, as if someone had allowed the fire in the fireplace to go out.

      He set her down on the bed, very aware of her hands slipping away from his neck. “I’ll tend the fire.”

      “Really, sir. You need not trouble yourself.” Her voice reached a high, nervous pitch.

      “It is no trouble.”

      He removed his hat, gloves and topcoat and crossed the room to the small fireplace, its mantel of carved marble holding another empty vase. To his surprise, the fire had not died out at all. It was all set to be lit. He found the tinderbox and soon had a flame licking across the lumps of coal.

      He returned to her. She had removed her cloak and clutched it in front of her. Adrian took it from her hands and draped it over a nearby chair. It contained something in its pocket. Adrian felt a purse, heavy with coin.

      He turned back to her and their eyes met, hers still shimmering with tears.

      He touched her arm. “Are you certain you are not in pain? You look near to weeping.”

      She averted her gaze. “I’m not in pain.”

      He