“You’re only hurting yourself. It won’t bring her back.”
“She was the first woman I ever endowed with a house, and look how I was repaid!”
“Has it not occurred to you that there are things other than your wealth that a woman wants?”
Adam scowled. “I should have offered marriage like that Italian bloke who snatched her away from me.”
“She obviously wanted marriage, but I’m not saying that you should have offered for her. Were she The One, you would have wanted her for your wife. I know it’s hard for you to believe now—now when the pain of her loss is so fresh—but you will love again. You will find a woman who you will love far more than you ever loved Maria.”
“Impossible. Maria was perfection. So beautiful. So talented. So . . . so affectionate.”
“Her affectionate nature is likely the reason you didn’t offer marriage. She’d been with many men, and you don’t want that for your wife.”
Adam’s black eyes singed. “How dare you impugn the woman I love! Why, if you weren’t my duther, I’d challenge you to a bruel.”
“You’ve had too much to drink. Come, let me see you home. Why isn't your driver near?”
“I sent him away. I plan to drink until White’s runs out of brandy.”
“It’s best you drink at Curzon Street. You don’t want to humiliate Agar after he sponsored us at White's.”
“I’m staying here.”
Nick stood. "I cannot persuade you?"
Adam shook his head from side to side with the determined sweep of a contrary lad.
* * *
Many hours later he collected his cape, top hat, and walking stick, left the establishment on St. James Street, and began to walk home.
Then he felt the patter of rain. What a fool he'd been to send home his driver. It was beastly cold—and thoroughly miserable. But even in the state of inebriation he knew himself to be in, he could easily find his way home in a little over five minutes. Better to rush along than to wait in this weather for a hackney.
Not even the thick, silvery fog could disorient him. He'd made the trek too many times. Of course those other times he'd observed the route from the comfort of his luxurious coach whilst his coachman guided them home.
His greatest threat could be footpads. He was, after all, a Birmingham. They were known far and wide as the richest men in the kingdom. Fortunately, there weren't many people out on a wretched night like this.
After he crossed Piccadilly and heard a dragging sound a short distance behind him, the hairs on the back of his neck prickled. He turned around sharply but could see nothing in the soupy fog. Clutching his walking stick which he could use as a weapon, he stood there on the pavement, every sense alert.
There emerged from the fog a girl. Or was it a young woman? She looked awfully young—possibly old enough to have just left the schoolroom. He would have been powerless to determine the color of her hair for she resembled nothing so much as a wet pup in need of a good meal.
When their eyes met, she smiled. "You look like a gentleman. I have refrained from speaking to any man who was not a gentleman."
So she wasn't a loose woman. Her voice was cultured. He bowed. "Your servant." It was then that he noticed she was lugging a portmanteau behind her. What the bloody hell?
"Could you direct me to Curzon Street?" she asked.
Bosky he might be, but this was a mighty coincidence. Was this some ploy to rob him? He did not respond for a moment. Soft rain slickening his face, he stood there gazing at the young lady. There was something incredibly vulnerable looking about her. She was small of stature and from her dress and lack of sophistication, provincial. As she stood there, shivering, a querying expression on her face, he knew she was sincere. A more innocent face he'd never beheld. "As it happens, that is my direction. I will accompany you there." He eyed her portmanteau. "Please, allow me to assist with your trunk."
She brightened. "Do you know my uncle, Simon Hastings?"
"The name rings a bell, but I daresay it's not someone I know well." If he weren't so inebriated, his recall might be more accurate. He began to haul the cursed portmanteau behind him, wondering what it held but refraining from asking.
The young lady moved to his side. "I shouldn't like you to think me a doxy or something equally as frightful."
Good lord, he'd never heard that word pass the lips of a gently bred woman. He did not know how to respond. He could hardly tell her that because of his vast experience with doxies he was assured that she was not of their ilk. Instead he merely said, "Anyone would know you are a lady."