Page 29 of When Hearts Are Wylde
Hermione grinned, recognizing the shift in mood. “Indeed. Let’s do just that.”
They completed their purchases and stepped outside into the pale afternoon sunlight. Hermione blinked, her eyes adjusting, and then felt her body go still. Across the street, a familiar figure stood half in shadow—Baxter. Again.
“Hermione, Mr. Baxter is watching us again,” Felicity murmured, her voice tight. Hermione had noticed him on previous outings, lingering too near, his gaze far too intent.
“Let him watch,” Hermione said sharply, her jaw tightening. “I’ll not be cowed by him. How foolish I was to think I should ever marry him. No husband at all is better than the wrong husband. That is a lesson well learned.”
“Indeed, I am terribly relieved that you have avoided that awful fate,” Felicity said with a shudder.
Hermione reached out and brushed Felicity’s arm in silent reassurance. The last thing she wanted was for her sister-in-law to carry even a whisper of fear because of her own foolishness in indulging Joseph Baxter’s courtship of her. “He will not harmyou,” Hermione added quietly, with a conviction she did not entirely feel—but she would not allow Felicity to see her doubt.
Aphrodite lingered in the dim interior of the shop, half-hidden by the veil that had become her armor. Through the window, she watched them—Hermione and that insipid viscountess, standing together as though they belonged in that bright, bustling street. They spoke, heads bent toward one another, and Aphrodite’s pulse quickened with an ugly heat. She imagined their words; she could almost hear them, the disdain, the dismissal.
It didn’t matter. She had already heard enough inside the shop—enough to confirm what she suspected. Hermione’s tone when she spoke of the viscount, the soft undercurrent of satisfaction… Aphrodite could read between the lines. He was happy. Happier than he had any right to be when she herself was left with nothing. It was no longer enough to have simply ruined Hermione. She’d see Phinneas Merrick destroyed as well.
“Are you going to buy anything?” The shopkeeper’s voice broke into her thoughts.
She turned slowly, her lips curving in a parody of politeness. “Well, that depends upon whether or not you have anything worth purchasing. Thus far, I’ve only seen subpar goods that can be purchased from any other shop in town. I require something special.”
The man puffed up, offended. “Then you are welcome to leave, madame. Your patronage is not the sort I care to acquire, at any rate. I prefer to serve the ladies ofthe Ton.”
The words scraped across her nerves, feeding the restlessness that had been growing in her for weeks. She smiledthinly. “Then toady to them as you will. I’ll spend my coin in the shop of someone who isn’t a sanctimonious prig.”
She swept out into the street. Baxter was waiting, eyes sharp with expectation.
“Well?” he demanded.
She nodded once. “It’s time, Baxter. I believe that the viscount is suitably enamored enough of his new bride that losing her would be a terrible blow to him. According to Miss Waring, he has never been happier. You will make your move during their next outing.”
“He’ll never look at her again when I’m done with her,” Baxter sneered. “And Hermione will have to live with the guilt of having caused all of this because she lifted her skirts for Hartley.”
Oh, how simple he was to manipulate. Aphrodite smiled behind her veil, the gesture unseen but satisfying. “Let us go, Baxter. It would not do to be caught loitering here together.”
“Quite right. You’re a good one, Aphrodite,” he said.
“And so are you.” The lie cost her nothing.
They parted, Baxter striding off toward his club, Aphrodite retreating to the cramped Cheapside house she shared with Venus, Belle, and Simone. They were not friends—merely women in the same trade, pooling resources until the day their looks and youth deserted them. For Aphrodite, that day was approaching faster than for the others. The lesions from her disease were spreading, becoming more difficult to conceal. The affectation of the veil would not longer enough to conceal it.
Her thoughts turned, as they always did, back to Hermione. Hermione, who would never fear such a future. Who would never have to watch her worth decay with each passing month.
The bitterness was familiar now, a constant hum beneath her skin. But it was changing, sharpening. It no longer felt like mere resentment or even hatred. It was a purpose, a driving forceinside her. Because she knew that her time was running short. Waiting was no longer an option.
Chapter Sixteen
Phinneas did not meet him at the club, which was a pity. Hartley rather liked the idea of an audience, even a hostile one. Instead, Randford had come directly to his home, no doubt to avoid any appearance that the two of them were in collusion. Sensible, he supposed—if the blackmailer caught scent of their alliance, it could end this little game before Hartley had the satisfaction of finishing it.
Not that the blackmailer was his only concern.
Hermione.
His Hermione.
She was never far from his mind, no matter how he tried to drive her from it. He’d kept away—kept his hands to himself, his eyes averted—but it was a fool’s abstinence. If he meant to have her, there would be no asking, no coy dance of courtship. He’d take her. They would elope. Gretna Green, a ring, and the matter settled before anyone could interfere if need be.
When Randford entered his study, Hartley made no effort to disguise his bleary-eyed state. The aftereffects of the bacchanal were more the result of a sleepless night’s scheming than drink, though he let Randford think otherwise. Let him imagine he washungover and careless—he was far more used to people thinking of him in just such a light.
“What have you learned?” Randford asked without so much as a greeting.
