LITMIR.BIZ

       CHAPTER ONE

      London 1875 Two weeks before Christmas

      WESLEY GRANT STUDIED the wall of brass plaques engraved with the names of illustrious members of the Explorers Club who had perished through the years. The memorial wall greeted all who entered through the main door of the venerable club. It was an impressive display that was obviously designed to give new arrivals to the hallowed halls of the Explorers Club a not-too-subtle sense of the prestigious nature of the club’s membership, as well as honor those who had gone before. His father would have loved this.

      “Good evening,” a female voice said beside him.

      Wes turned. A pretty young woman, no taller than his shoulders, stared up at him. Dark curls pinned with pearls tumbled down her back. Her chin was slightly pointed, her lips decidedly lush and her green eyes fascinating, even if the expression they held was vaguely annoyed. He smiled down at her. “Good evening.”

      “Good. I hoped it was you.” Relief rang in her voice. “I couldn’t be certain until I heard your accent. Aunt Lillian described you but she’s not good at that sort of thing and simply said you were tall, dark-haired and handsome.” Her gaze flicked over him in an assessing manner. “But then I suppose most actors are handsome, aren’t they?”

      “I have no idea,” he said cautiously. What on earth was she talking about?

      “It scarcely matters, I suppose.” She waved off his question. “You’re late, you know.”

      “Am I?” As he was using his uncle’s invitation to the Explorers Club Christmas Ball, Uncle Nigel had suggested it would be best to arrive after the first onslaught of guests. He’d said those checking invitations were always a bit lax as the evening grew later.

      She glanced around, as if to see if anyone was watching, then took Wes’s arm and steered him down the corridor. “I was afraid you might not be coming at all.”

      “I think you have me confused—”

      She pulled up short and stared at him. “She did pay you, didn’t she?”

      “Pay me?” He frowned. “Who?”

      “My aunt? Lady Farstead? The woman who hired you?”

      “Ah yes, now I remember.” He didn’t, of course, but he was far too intrigued to stop now.

      “If she didn’t pay you, we shall have to discuss payment, but it cannot be made until a later date. I hope you will agree to trust me in that regard. If not, I’m afraid you’ll have to leave. I have no funds with me tonight.” She grimaced. “But I do hope you’ll stay. I am rather desperate.”

      There were all sorts of things Wes could have—and probably should have—said at this moment. Prime among them that she had made a mistake, he wasn’t who she thought he was and he had no idea what she was talking about. Still, she was very pretty and obviously distressed. What kind of a man would he be if he didn’t come to her rescue? Besides, she’d aroused his curiosity and he’d surely regret not finding out what she was up to. “Of course I trust you, Miss... I’m sorry, I don’t recall your name.”

      “Knowing my aunt, she forgot to tell you.” She shook her head in exasperation and continued pulling him down the corridor. “My aunt is a lovely woman and is brilliant when it comes to any kind of scheme. She and I came up with this idea only a few days ago, and the planning has been rather rushed, but we really have no time to waste. Unfortunately, she pays no attention whatsoever to details she deems unnecessary. Although I would have thought my name was necessary.”

      “She said something about maintaining anonymity,” he said smoothly.

      “An excellent idea but that won’t be at all possible.” She paused in front of tall double doors, glanced up and down the corridor, and then pulled open a door and waved him in. “I’m Miss Snelling. Anabel Snelling.”

      He nearly tripped stepping over the threshold. “Then your father is—”

      “Sir Archibald Snelling,” she said and closed the doors behind them.

      Sir Archibald Snelling was one of the men Wes had traveled to London to see. This was either the greatest stroke of luck imaginable or a disaster in the making. Probably the later. It usually was when a beautiful woman was involved, at least in his experience.

      They were in a large room, apparently a library. Tables designed for work or study ran in precise rows. The walls were filled with shelves crammed with books. Flames flickered in the closest pair of gas sconces, but the rest of the room faded into the shadows. One had the strangest impression that this library stretched on into infinity.

      “Your accent is excellent by the way.”

      “Thank you.” He paused. “So is yours.”

      “I don’t have an accent.” She huffed. “This is London and I am English. I speak precisely the same way everyone here does, so I am not the one with an accent.” Her brows drew together. “Are you really American?”

      “I really am.”

      “Well, then it’s much easier to pretend to be one, isn’t it?”

      “Yes, as I’m not pretending.”

      “Aunt Lillian said she knew of an actor who played American roles, but she wasn’t entirely sure if he—or rather you—was American or not.”

      An actor? She thought he was an actor? He bit back a smile. This just got more and more interesting. “Your aunt, Lady Farfetched—”

      “Lady Farstead.”

      “Sorry. She wasn’t entirely clear on exactly what role I’m supposed to play.”

      “To be expected, I suppose.” She heaved a frustrated sigh. “It’s really very simple. From now until the day after Christmas, you’re to play my suitor. The one I hope to marry.”

      He stared. “Why?”

      “Because I need to avoid marriage to someone else.” She wrinkled her nose. “I suppose I should tell you everything.”

      “One

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