Camellia was apprehensive of joining her sisters for supper. She had spent the entire morning cooped up in her bedchamber with the curtains drawn closed, fearful of what fate the morning’s scandal columns would bring. Her heart pounded with nerves as she presented herself in their private parlor.

Nothing. Not a peep. For the moment, her double identity seemed to remain a secret.

“How is your school?” she asked her sister before the subject could turn to the masquerade.

Dahlia’s face brightened. “Afloat, I’m happy to report. We received an anonymous donation nearly equal to the one that was lost when Lord Wainwright interrupted the charity meeting.”

Camellia’s answering smile was brittle. She was thrilled that the school for wayward girls was solvent for the moment. Less thrilled that Lord Wainwright’s unintentional gaffe still entered the conversation. The grudge-keeping was wearing thin.

Shock froze her teacup halfway to her lips. Dear heavens, had she just sided with Lord Wainwright instead of her own sister? A horrified gasp escaped her throat.

When had she undergone such a radical change of heart? It certainly hadn’t been last night, when his buttocks turned out to be as infamous as the rest of him. She had felt more inclined to a truly biblical smiting than to turning the other cheek.

It must have happened much earlier. Far before she’d discovered Wainwright was Lord X. Camellia returned her teacup to its saucer without taking a sip. Seen with objective eyes, rather than protective sister eyes, were his crimes against her family so grave?

He had apologized to Dahlia wholly on his own, and had seemed truly dismayed he had caused such harm with a careless word. The sole occasion in which he had purposefully spoken ill of her sister, Dahlia had provoked his remark by insulting him far more rudely than any person could be expected to bear in silence.

Not that Dahlia would see things that way. She had always viewed the world as black and white. Her strong constitution allowed her to cleave to a moral compass that perhaps wasn’t completely aligned with that of society, but always had the greatest amount of good at heart.

No matter his motives or lack thereof, Dahlia was unlikely to forgive the earl for jeopardizing the futures of two dozen indigent girls.

Just like she would never forgive her sister if she ever found out Camellia had compounded the earl’s villainy by sharing a bed with him.

“How was the masquerade?” Bryony asked, eyes sparkling with interest.

“Fine.” Camellia’s voice cracked weakly on the lie. She shoved a lemon cake into her mouth to prevent any unanswerable questions.

After all, what could she say? She now lived in a glass house. There was no honor in criticizing the earl’s nocturnal proclivities when she herself was no better. Camellia’s chin lowered. She’d engaged in the most salacious activities with him.

They were exactly the same.

A footman swept into the parlor bearing the afternoon paper on a silver tray.

“Thank you, John.” Bryony accepted the offering and shook out the paper.

Camellia tried not to sink through her cushioned stool.

“Well?” Dahlia leaned forward. “Anything interesting happen?”

Bryony scanned the pages. “Not really. Waterloo Bridge still isn’t open. Parliament is debating the reintroduction of the sovereign.” She glanced up. “There was another Princess Caraboo sighting.”

“Bah.” Dahlia wrinkled her nose. “Who cares about foreign princesses when there are more pressing concerns closer to home?”

“Here’s something.” Bryony folded the paper to highlight a section of classified advertisements. “Look at this poor bastard.”

“Bryony Grenville,” Camellia admonished, while her sisters still believed her in possession of the moral high ground to do so. “A lady doesn’t curse.”

Dahlia let out a slow whistle. “She does when she reads this.”

“‘W?’” Bryony exclaimed. “Who on earth could that be?”

“Wainwright,” Camellia choked out before she could stop herself. Her heart pounded as she reread the words. It had to be him. It had to be for her. Light-headedness assailed her. There was no other explanation.

“Wainwright?” Dahlia repeated in disbelief. “Lord Wainwright? The heartless, emotionless rakehell?”

“Smitten with a mystery woman,” Bryony crowed in glee. “The Lord of Pleasure himself. How rich! It’s positively delicious.”

“Positively,” Camellia echoed, her throat suddenly dry. A desperate, humorless laugh bubbled within her. Lord Wainwright had written her a love letter.

How could he ever believe she would answer such a publication? How could she possibly keep herself from trying?

Bryony chortled in delight. “What woman would be powerful enough to bring down a prize stud like that?”

“I would love to meet her!” Dahlia agreed.

Hands trembling, Camellia refrained from participating in speculation. Her sisters would kill her if they found out the truth. Which of course they would, if she were to answer the advertisement.

After all, the earl had been recognized. There were witnesses to her ruin. Linking Camellia’s name to such a scandalous affair would destroy the reputations of everyone in her family… and the trust of her sisters.

Dahlia would feel personally betrayed. Camellia’s parents would be even more disappointed. She was the good girl. The one they could count upon to do as she was told. To stay out of trouble. To marry a stranger. To never say no.

And yet… She couldn’t help but read the romantic words again and again. Could it possibly be true? Could Lord Wainwright mean even a fraction of what he had said?

“What time is it?” she asked as casually as she could.

Bryony glanced over Camellia’s shoulder at the clock on the mantel. “Half seven. Why, have you an assignation?”

Half seven. The sun was already setting.

“I’m… late for a fitting with my modiste,” Camellia lied and pushed to her feet. “For my… wedding.”

The one that would never happen.

Dahlia set down her plate of biscuits and brushed the crumbs from her hands. “I’ll go with you.”

“No,” Camellia said quickly, then blushed. “Not this time. It’s…”

“Intimate apparel?” Bryony guessed with a flutter of her eyelashes. “I would love to have intimate apparel of my own.”

“Not with Mr. Bost, you wouldn’t,” Dahlia muttered under her breath.

“I’m standing right here,” Camellia reminded them, then slid her arms into her warmest pelisse. “And now I’m gone. Be good, please.”

She slipped from the room before God could strike her down for hypocrisy.

By the time her hired hack reached Vauxhall Bridge, the sun had disappeared. She stared out through the dusty window at the tall figure standing alone amidst the cast-iron arches.

Lord Wainwright. He was here. Staring out at the soot-stained horizon with an expression of utter despondency.

He must have been here for hours. Waiting for Lady X. Hoping she might see his paid advertisement. Praying she would answer his plea.

Camellia remained in the hackney, her hands shaking with uncertainty.

She could end this farce right here. But should she? What good could come of confronting him? Of divulging who she was? Explaining why she had never been available?

Would he even be interested if he knew she wasn’t a mysterious lady in emerald silk, but mousy old Camellia Grenville, spinster sister to the hoyden and the termagant? No one would ever mistake her for a countess.

From the safety of her hackney prison, she watched him for the better part of an hour. He never strayed from his watch post against a stone pier. She gave the driver an extra shilling and pressed her face against the dirty glass.

Her heart twisted as an hour bled into the next. The earl stood handsome and stoic and utterly alone. Waiting for a woman who would never arrive… because she had never existed. Lady X was a fantasy. Wainwright lived in his world and Camellia in hers. The distinction was best for everyone.

When the night turned too dark to make out his outline, she gave the driver another shilling and bade him return home.

Tonight had been a mistake. Just like all the others.

She would not return.