Page 16 of A Trickster’s Temptation

‘Out of sorts?’ Oh, Christ, what was wrong with her? Had he done something to cause this sickness? ‘In what way?’

‘Why?’ Winnie raised an eyebrow. ‘Do you need to know her specific malady in order to tease her about it when she’s better?’

‘No! No.’ The fact that he would have done precisely that before getting to know Mary better filled Adam with shame. He chewed and swallowed another cucumber sandwich with some difficulty, trying to avoid Winnie’s piercing gaze as he spoke. ‘It was merely friendly concern.’

‘You’ve never showed much friendliness towards Miss Fine in the past.’

‘It’s—it’s very hot in here, isn’t it? Considering the time of year.’ It was summer, but Adam barely knew was he was saying any more. He reached into his waistcoat pocket for a handkerchief, dabbing it on his forehead and cheeks in a vain attempt to stop Winnie’s stare from burning through his skin and directly into his brain. ‘I imagine Miss Fine is suffering from the heat…’

He stopped, his heart beating frantically in his chest, as he realised which handkerchief he was using to mop his face.

Mary’s handkerchief. The square of fine linen that she had tucked into his pocket with a sense of meaning in her touch, something beyond mere neatness and precision. The handkerchief Adam had looked at as soon as he’d arrived home from the ball, holding it up to the gas lamp outside his house, marvelling at the curling rose embroidered in one corner…

… the rose that was now peeping out between his finger and thumb. The rose that Winnie had now trained her gaze on, her eyes blazing.

‘Do you know, I have no desire to see Marcus if it means interrupting your afternoon any further.’ There was no way of escaping this situation with any sort of grace, but he could stuff this handkerchief back into his waistcoat pocket before he ruined things any further. ‘I can just… just…’

‘Don’t put that handkerchief back into your pocket. Let me see it.’

‘No.’

‘Wait.’ Abigail leaned forward. ‘That rose. I know that rose.’

‘No.’ Adam was almost sure that if he kept speaking, kept talking as quickly as possible, this dreadful moment would fold in on itself and disappear. ‘I don’t know what conclusions you believe you’ve drawn, but I assure you that—‘

‘That’s Mary’s special handkerchief. She’s never let anyone use it before, not even Abigail and I. It belonged to her favourite cousin, who died of scarlet fever.’ Winnie’s eyes were wide, her voice quiet but somehow filling the room all the same. ‘But she gave it to you.’

‘I… I…’

‘Don’t pretend you stole it, or something silly like that. Mary would sooner die than have it taken from her. So she gave it to you.’ A soft, disbelieving smile appeared on Winnie’s face. ‘She…’

‘Stop talking.’

‘You and her…’

‘Madam, I must insist that you—

‘No, Mr. Hart.’ Abigail’s voice cut through the tension like a knife. Her face carried as much curiosity as Winnie’s, but with a steely note that made Adam quail in his boots. ‘Why, exactly, did Miss Fine give you her handkerchief? What is the nature of your rapport?’

He’d been in front of magistrates with less authority than these two women. Winnie staring at him as if he’d given her the most valuable gift in the world, Abigail glaring at him as if he’d… well.

As if he’d seduced Mary Fine, which he very much had.

Adam opened his mouth. Years of careful work, of professional charm, had to help him now in his hour of need. All of the lies, the elaborate, easily-told lies—they had all been leading to this moment.

No words came. Absolutely none. Adam closed his mouth, then tried again; still nothing.

Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck.

‘Well, Mr. Hart?’ The curiosity in Abigail’s voice was rapidly becoming anger. ‘Do I have to summon my husband and have him interrogate you for me? I imagine it would be much more awkward, considering your friendship, but…’

She didn’t have a chance to finish her sentence. Namely because Adam, with a sudden burst of pure, concentrated panic, had jumped up from his chair, turned on his heel and run out of the room as if the hounds of hell were chasing him.

‘Fuck.’ He said it breathlessly to himself as he fled, running along the corridor that led to the entrance hall with a pace so swift it threatened to trip him up. ‘Fucking hell.’

What, precisely, was the conclusion to this malformed plan? Was he going to run directly to the Thames and begin swimming for the Continent? Adam shot through the entrance hall like a bullet from a gun, skidding against a table with a cry of pain before rushing past the astonished butler and cannoning out into the street.

His first instinct was to run to Mary’s house, wild-eyed and panting, and apologise for what had just occurred. It was only as Adam was halfway down the street, shocking a passing gentleman so much that he almost lost his hat, that Adam realised he would never be allowed entrance in his current condition.

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