Page 105 of Gone with the Rake

She had slipped into the stables, waited until the groom was busy exercising another horse, and galloped away.

Everything had gone off without a hitch.

She galloped most of the way, stopping only for brief rests and changing horses often. She wanted to reach London before Art—so she could deal with Rivendale on her own, berate Art for leaving her and locking her inside that hated estate, and then… kiss him.

Then they could start their life together.

Or maybe she’d kiss him first and then berate him.

No matter.

But she had miscalculated. Because as she arrived in Mayfair, Art’s carriage was already outside his townhouse.

Without stopping to rest, Lydia rode past it.

There was one last errand to run before she could retire for the night. And that was why she reined in her horse in front of Hades’ Hell.

Again.

Lydia was getting quite tired of this place. But luckily for her, thanks to her previous visits, she already knew the layout—every entrance, every exit, every way inside.

She performed the secret knock and waited.

As soon as the door cracked open, she jammed her foot in and pointed a pistol at the guard. “Do not make a noise,” she ordered in a low voice. “Pretend you have no issue letting me in—or you die.”

The guard, wisely, did not risk his life.

Lydia tucked her pistol back into the folds of the cloak she had stolen from Art’s wardrobe. “Lead me to your mistress. No sudden moves. No alerting anyone.”

He tipped his head toward another guard—silent instruction to watch the door—and then said loudly, “Follow me, sir.”

Lydia followed him through the familiar halls, up the stairs, past the painted ladies, and toward the offices. Another guard stood by the door, his eyes glinting ominously as Lydia’s guide walked past him.

Lydia tensed but kept moving. The moment she stepped inside, the door slammed shut behind her and her so-called guide turned on her sharply, knocking the gun from her hand.

He widened his stance, preparing to pounce, but Lydia dropped, sliding between his legs before he could react. She sprang to her feet, ready to fight when a sonorous voice commanded, “Enough.”

Lydia and the guard froze. Both of them turned toward the voice.

Miss Melissande Monroe stood in the doorway to her office, arms crossed, a single brow arched. “Nice to see you again… Mist.”

“I need an audience,” Lydia said without hesitation.

Miss Monroe studied her for a moment, then stepped back, gesturing for Lydia to enter.

Lydia’s breath was still ragged as she looked between the guard and Miss Monroe—then slowly, cautiously, walked inside.

“To what do I owe the pleasure?” Miss Monroe asked, closing the door behind them.

“I need your help,” Lydia said, straight to the point.

There was a pause. Then a peal of laughter. “Do you?”

“Yes.” Lydia tried to ignore the untimely laughter from her host. “And if you don’t help me, you will be dooming an innocent man. An honorable man.”

Miss Monroe tapped her index finger against her lips, feigning deep thought, as she walked toward her desk. “Let me guess…” She plopped into her seat. “Viscount Thornton? Or should I say, the Marquess of Wakefield, since the old man has passed on?” Then, under her breath, she muttered, “Finally.”

Lydia frowned. “Um… yes.”