In Your Arms Again
ATHRYN
S
MITH
In Your Arms Again
This book goes out with love and appreciation to two of the best friends a girl could ever hope to have—Lisa Kleypas and Adele Ashworth, my sisters of choice. I adore you both.
And, of course, to Steve, my always.
Smoochies
Kathryn
She was a fraud. He was a fraud.
“I will do everything in my power to keep you…
North found himself embraced in strong slender arms, engulfed by…
The offices of numbers three and four Bow Street were as…
She came down the stairs not like a graceful swan…
“Another one?”
Hyde Park at five o’clock was the place to be…
When North finally called to collect her later that evening,…
North was either the noblest man in England, or the…
Octavia awoke the next morning, vexed and restless. She hadn’t…
When North went round to collect Octavia for their next…
He watched her while she slept.
Was Octavia genuinely trying to make him insane, or was…
“I will answer the door, Johnson. You attend to the…
She couldn’t live like this.
“She did what?”
It was the next morning before Octavia summoned the courage…
He was keeping her waiting.
A week later Octavia, resigned to the fact that North…
Hours later, after Harker’s body had been taken away—after North…
London
April 1818
S
he was a fraud.
He
was a fraud.
From his position near the upper balustrade, North Sheffield watched his prey as she twirled around the taupe and cream marble dance floor, smiling in the arms of a handsome young lord. Diamonds glittered in her hair, and her gown was the height of fashion.
She looked as home there as he knew he did, weaving in and out among the upper ranks of society. There was one big difference between her and him. She wanted to belong. North had given up caring about what society thought of him years ago—when the upper ranks of the
ton
let him know in no uncertain terms that while he might
look
as though he was one of them, the simple accident of his birth ensured that he was not.
Bastards weren’t equals unless they were born under the guise of legitimacy, and neither North nor the girl laughing far below him could claim such distinction. At least North’s
father had claimed him. This girl’s father stood not even ten feet away from her. If he had any idea of her identity, he did a good job of hiding it.
Poor girl. She would be forever ruined before the night was over. No one would come to her rescue, especially not her father. She would be tossed into the street, if not sent directly to Newgate. Once he unmasked her, her fate would be out of his hands. The knowledge left him feeling dirty.
Sighing, he pulled the silver watch from his pocket and checked the time. A glob of wax from the sconce on the wall by his head dropped onto the glass facing, obscuring the numbers in a splattering of milky white. He wiped it away with his thumb before it hardened.
It was five minutes before midnight. His associates would be waiting for him outside, and he did not want to keep them or the person with them waiting any longer than he had to. It was a consideration he normally didn’t extend to those helping him solve a case, but this one was special.
And he felt all the dirtier for it.
Turning his back on the glittering ballroom, he crossed the soft claret red carpet to the stairs.
“There are three men waiting in a carriage out front,” he told a footman when he had descended to the next floor. “Have them come in.”
The footman looked as though he’d dearly love to tell North to do it himself, but North was still the fellow’s better, bastard or not. With a stiff nod, the young man went off to do as he was bid, leaving North watching him with a narrow and somewhat anxious gaze.
He stood alone, in a small opulent vestibule decorated in shades of crimson, cream, and gold, waiting for his companions to join him. He hoped Francis had left the restraints behind as he instructed. He would give the girl—Lady Amelia, she called herself—as much dignity as he could. Whether
she chose to accept the consequences of her charade with the same dignity was up to her.
Christ, but he’d be glad when this was all over. The entire situation left a foul taste in his mouth. He could just let the girl go, forget all about proving her a fraud. It wasn’t as though she was hurting anyone—at least not anyone who couldn’t afford it. She was simply trying to claim a life she believed herself to be entitled to. Of course she had raised suspicions. If she hadn’t, no one ever would have thought to hire North to ferret out the truth. The “Caraboo” fiasco of last year had made Society paranoid, everyone new was suspect.
Which was why North could not just let Lady Amelia walk away. Even when he’d first discovered her secret, he knew he wouldn’t be able to let her go. To do so would not only be a lie, but if the truth was ever discovered, it would destroy his credibility among the
ton
as a man of discretion and honor. He could not afford to have his name tarnished any further than his birth and occupation had already tainted it.
The bastard son of the late Viscount Creed and Nell Sheffield, a Scottish actress, North had lived much of his life on the fringes of society. In his mother’s world he had been readily accepted and loved. After her death he’d gone to live with his father and brothers—much to Lady Creed’s disapproval. It was in that world—his father’s world—he had so desperately wanted to belong. But eventually he gave up trying.
Now, those same people who hadn’t wanted him hired him to solve their dirty problems, protect their nasty secrets. He was suddenly very much in demand and wanted by the aristocracy. He kept their secrets as though they were his own, and reminded himself to never mistake their offers of friendship for anything other than fragile overtures with no more solidity than the flecks of wax still clinging to the edge of his watch.
Now if only Francis and the others would hurry up so he could get this job over with. He had yet to meet anyone who knew him, mostly because he’d spent the better part of his brief time there skulking in the shadows, but now he was out in the open, and if anyone saw him, the whispers would soon follow. People would begin to suspect that he was there for a reason—he was rarely in society without a case being involved. He didn’t want to answer any questions, and he didn’t want the girl to suffer any more than she had to.
“Ready?”
North looked up. It was Francis. Six feet tall and barrel-chested, somehow the investigator had managed to sneak up on him. That wasn’t good. It only proved how much this particular case affected him.
“I will take the girl aside,” he told the heavier man. “A footman will lead you through a separate entrance with our guest.”
Francis ran a hand over the silvery thickness of his beard. “I have a bad feeling about this.”
That made two of them. Every instinct North possessed told him this night was going to end badly, that he should leave now. But he couldn’t. He had a job to do, as distasteful as it was.
“Let’s just get it over with.” He turned toward the ballroom doors, leaving Francis to do his part. He wanted this night over.
He pulled the double doors open, filling the previously quiet vestibule with the noise and heat of the ballroom—every sense recoiled. His eyes narrowed at the bright lights and glittering jewels. His ears cowered as the strings of a violin clashed with the high-pitched laughter of a society matron. Incoherent voices rose up around him, driving him back in their efforts to be heard. His nose shrank from the scents of too many bodies—unwashed, overperfumed, overheated.
Stale sweat, fresh sweat, stale smoke. Too much perfume, too much bay rum. Not enough soap.
Even worse was that slight lurch of his heart.
His entrance soon attracted attention, as he knew it would. One of the pitfalls of his newfound notoriety was of course the notoriety itself. The fact that he had attended this party would be in all the gossip columns tomorrow, along with a declaration that the rout had been a great success. He hoped they would not know the true reason for his appearance. Certainly, the truth would leak out eventually, but for now he was going to do everything he could to give “Lady” Amelia a fighting chance.
He didn’t owe her anything—didn’t owe anything to anyone, in fact. Nor did he harbor the illusion that so many other bastards seemed to, that the world owed him. He settled all scores and debts as quickly as he could and when someone was left in his debt, he collected when it was convenient or forgot about it until it was. No expectations. So much easier not to be disappointed that way. Surely LadyAmelia would agree.
Would Octavia?
Lady Amelia was no longer dancing. She was standing beside her beau, the man whose father had hired him to investigate her, her dark eyes smiling up at him with uncensored affection. And North was going to ruin everything.
Someone in her group said something, and her gaze left her lover’s and met North’s instead. There was the briefest flicker of panic before her eyes went perfectly blank. She knew, or at least she feared, that he was there for her.
He didn’t bother prolonging her anxiety. Weaving smoothly through the crowd, nodding to those who managed to snare his attention, North moved toward the young woman whose charade he was soon going to put to an end. He smiled, willing her to play along, to keep up pretenses. Tentatively, she smiled back.
Standing in front of her, he sketched a bow. “Lady Amelia. What a pleasure it is to see you again.”
Bright girl that she obviously was, Amelia ignored the fact that they had never met before.
“Mr. Sheffield.” She knew enough about him to know that he preferred to be called by his mother’s name alone.
“I have a friend with me who longs to make your better acquaintance. I wonder if you might humor her with an introduction?”
Clearly the girl would rather run naked through the streets of Whitechapel than accompany him, but she was also apparently intelligent enough to know not to make a scene. Too bad. It made him feel all the more for her. But he wasn’t a big enough man to let her go and risk his own ruin, not when he had worked so hard. Not when it would reflect upon his family.
Amelia placed her hand on his arm. “Of course, Mr. Sheffield.” She cast one last look at her beau, and the shriveled remains of North’s heart bled at it. She loved this young man and he her. Did he know her terrible secret? Did he know that she wasn’t what she claimed to be? For a moment North was reminded of another young woman—one who hadn’t pretended to be a lady, but had ended up one anyway.
“Do not be long,” the young man urged. Amelia shook her head and turned away. North saw the sheen of tears in her eyes.
He felt for her, because at one time he had been very much like her—an outsider looking in, knowing that if it weren’t for some cruel twist of fate, he would belong to the world he was watching, rather than being an interloper. The only difference was that he hadn’t been given the chance to sneak in. Perhaps he would have done exactly what she had done. He would have risked everything just to feel as though he belonged.
“Amelia!”
The girl on his arm froze at the sight of the woman standing not five feet away from them, and North had no choice but to stop as well. Unfortunately, they stopped right next to Lord Barnsley, Amelia’s father. Until that moment, North had been certain that Barnsley had no knowledge of his daughter. However, all that changed as the viscount’s horrified gaze traveled from an impoverished woman standing stricken yet stately in the middle of the dance floor, with looks of haughty disdain focused on her from every angle, to the young girl on North’s arm.
Barnsley recognized his former mistress, and now he recognized his own blood.
How had this happened? How had Amelia’s mother gotten inside? North had told Francis to take her in through another route. This reunion was to have been more private than this show.
There would be no quiet escape now. Not unless North did something fast.
“My lord,” he said to Barnsley, “would you accompany us please?” Then he turned to Amelia’s mother. “Madam?”
Curious stares weighted their steps, watched their every movement and expression. North favored them with the briefest of bored glances. He just wanted to go home.
Then he saw her. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught a glimpse of hair the color of dark gold and ripe strawberries. He had only ever met one person with hair that peculiar shade.
Octavia
. No wonder she had been in his thoughts the whole night. His heart must have sensed her.
Heart hammering against his ribs, he dared himself to look, both hoping and fearing that he was correct. He was.
Standing in the crowd was the woman he had once considered his best friend, his only friend. So many plans they’d made, so many adventures they’d had.
Still so beautiful. The years had been good to her. No longer all limbs and sharp angles, she was tall and slender, an ivory goddess with sapphire eyes and ruby lips. Once she had been within his grasp, and now she was as removed from him as one person could be from another.
As removed as his heart from his chest.
She moved as though she thought to come to him. How many questions would that raise? He’d spent the last twelve years avoiding her so people wouldn’t realize they’d known each other. It hadn’t been hard, they were rarely in the same circles. He’d made a promise to leave her alone, to allow her to have the life she deserved. Being associated with him wouldn’t do anything to benefit her, that was certain.
She’d taken but two steps when he shook his head. She froze, a small frown puckering her brow. How quickly her smile died, the light faded from her eyes. She’d been happy to see him until he’d rejected her. Happy.
Dear God but he was happy to see her too! So happy it hurt.
Forcing his gaze away, he focused on the doors before him and walked toward them. The crowd parted easily, faceless guests firing questions at him as he moved. He answered none. He doubted, if asked, that he could even remember his own name.
“Are you quite all right, my dear?”
Her hands were shaking, her mouth was dry, and she was pretty sure there was sweat beaded on her brow. Did she
look
all right?
Octavia Vaux-Daventry placed a reassuring palm on her companion’s arm. “I am fine, Spinton, thank you.” But she wasn’t fine, not by a mile.
The last person she’d expected to see here at the Whortons’ was Norrie Sheffield. Or did he go by Ryland now? She had no idea. For many years she followed his exploits, but
lost him the more removed from society he became. Lately, he’d become a person of great prestige among the
ton
. They all seemed to want him at their parties. He rarely attended, unless he was on business. It must have been business that brought him there tonight—of all nights for her to see him again.
He was no longer that sweet, gentle boy she had known. He was a man, full-grown and strong. He had stubble on his jaw and lines around his eyes. Oh, those beautiful eyes. Like looking into a lake on a clear winter morning. His hair was still a little longer than fashionable and still as wonderfully dark and unruly as it had been all those years ago. Someone had broken his nose during the last dozen years. It should have detracted from his looks, but it didn’t. He was still as bonny as ever.
