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Chapter Ten

PRESENT DAY

February 1815

Louisa wasted no time in finding out as much information about Knight as possible. Her man of business, Mr Upperton, was a man of considerable talent and, she suspected, unsavoury connections, and she tasked him with discovering from where Mr Knight had come.

In the meantime, she contemplated all the ways she could deprive him of his evidence against her. Without the pictures or letters, his proof held less weight, and so it was in that direction her thoughts turned. Thomas Hyatt was currently in Italy, which both gave her a modicum of grace—she doubted Knight would act without the corroborating word of an expert—and allowed her to focus her mind in one direction only.

How to break into Knight's home.

Now she knew where the pictures were, she would be able to remove or destroy them easily enough. The letters would be harder, but she trusted she could locate them. What measures would he go to in order to hide the letters in his own home, anyway?

To that end, after some thought, she decided her best method of entry was to bribe one of the members of his household to let her through the door. From there, she trusted she could handle herself.

Infiltrating his household was more difficult than she had anticipated, but eventually one of her grooms got the ear of a pageboy, and the plan was set. When Mr Knight left the house, the pageboy was to send a note around to say so, and once the rest of the staff had gone to bed, he would leave a candle in one of the downstairs windows to say that the door was unlocked.

From there, Louisa would be on her own.

For several days, she waited on tenterhooks, attending as many engagements as always, but with a note to her servants to summon her immediately if they received word that Mr Knight had gone.

Eventually, on a mild March evening, at around eleven, she received the summons she had been waiting for.

Mr Knight lived on Lombard Street in the commercial district—not a fashionable address, and one where she trusted she would not be recognised. Just in case, however, she dressed in plain clothes lent to her by Lucy, her maid, and hired a hackney to take her a few streets away from the location.

"Wait here, if you please," she said to the driver, an aged jarvey who looked at her with concern.

"Not sure you should be walking around alone, miss."

She didn't bother to correct him. "I'll be perfectly well, thank you. I hope I won't be too long—not past half an hour."

"Yes, ma'am, if you're sure."

"Perfectly, thank you." Composed and confident, she exited the vehicle and walked purposefully along the road until she came to Lombard Street. Many of the houses still had lights in the windows, and only a few were dark.

It was well past midnight by the time she came to Mr Knight's house, only to find it sadly dark. According to her groom—who had been the only one to meet with the boy—the page had been quite clear: there would be a candle in one of the windows of the first floor. Yet there was nothing.

Perhaps the boy had merely forgotten the candle. She would hope he had not forgotten to unlock the door as he had asked.

Before she could approach the servants' entrance, however, she noticed a figure on the other side of the road. He was tall, cloaked in a greatcoat that was open at the front to reveal a dark, modest coat. For an inexplicable moment, she had the impression it was Henry, and cursed herself for thinking of him when all she truly wanted to do was forget him.

The figure let out a curse and strode towards her, and her shock dissolved into horror.

"Henry," she said as he approached, a scowl on his face. "What the devil are you doing here?"

"I could ask you the same question."

"What business do you have in Lombard Street?"

He glanced at Knight's redbrick house. "Presumably the same as you, although I cannot imagine what you are doing out here alone."

The idea he might be concerned for her safety made her irrationally still more angry. " You , I am convinced, cannot have any business with Mr Knight."

"As it happens," Henry said, "he's not home."

"Then you might as well leave."

He cast her a look that was just as scornful as her own. "I had not come here with the intention of seeing him, as you know very well."

"Then why?"

"Really, Louisa." He sighed. "Can you not guess?"

"If it is for the reason I suppose, then you are a greater fool than I had already credited you as being. My business is none of your concern." Her nostrils flared as she attempted to keep her voice low. "Leave."

"Not until I escort you to safety. It's not safe on these streets alone, as you well know." He glanced behind her, to where voices floated along the breeze. Drunken laughter followed. "Come," he said, gesturing down the street. "Do you have a cab nearby?"

"I am not going anywhere with you," she hissed. "And I am not sacrificing this opportunity." Ignoring his outraged splutter, she strode to the side door and tugged at the handle.

Locked.

No. She scanned the houses in case she had made a mistake, but this was definitely the right one—save the lack of candle in the window.

Had her page been discovered? He had sent the note not two hours ago.

Henry, damn him, followed her, a spectre in the darkness. "What were you hoping to achieve?"

"Be quiet while I think."

He stepped closer, providing a human shield in front of the drunkards merrily making their way home from the tavern. "Are you so inclined to put yourself in danger?" he demanded, his voice low. An unexpected shiver ran through her at his proximity. He smelt just as she remembered, warm and slightly spiced, like winter days and long nights by the fire. Woodsmoke and desire.

Even after all her years of liaisons and pleasure-seeking, nothing had ever made her feel alive as he had.

The knowledge made her hate him all the more, and she shoved at his chest, forcing him back a few steps. "I don't believe that is any of your concern."

"You've made that perfectly clear."

"Then why are you here?"

His jaw tightened and he looked back at the house. "You know why."

"No, I mean why even try and act on my behalf?" After all, when she had come to him for help nine years ago, he had decidedly not helped her. "That's hardly in your nature."

His gaze returned to her face, and it was as though he had trailed his fingers across her skin, the path they travelled burning. "And what do you know about my nature?" he asked, an odd note in his voice. Not mockery, precisely, but dry, self-deprecating amusement. Another reminder that these nine years had rendered them strangers.

"I know that you are finally searching to marry." She folded her arms. "It has only taken you nine years to be ready. Congratulations."

"Obligation is not worthy of celebration." His jaw tightened. "Your quest to easily enter the house has failed. Please, Louisa. Return home."

She was so close to stopping Knight once and for all. Or at least, being far closer to saving her reputation. "You go home, Henry. Leave me to this."

"No," he said, and closed his eyes as though he was in pain.

She attempted to slip out past him, but before she could bolt—where she was going, she had no idea—a carriage clattered down the street, coming to a stop on the main street outside Knight's house. Henry's hand came pointlessly to her elbow, but she remained where she was, watching as Knight and another man climbed out. The second man was a stranger to Louisa. Certainly he was no member of the ton . Even at this distance, she could tell by the cut of his coat, the way he walked, slouching along the pavement, his shoulders hunched as though he was preparing for a blow at any moment. No gentleman she knew walked like that.

She leaned up, one hand coming to Henry's arm as she brought her mouth to his ear. "Do you know that man?"

He gave a tiny shake of his head, but she thought his breath stuttered slightly.

"We must get closer."

Henry's grip on her tightened, and he turned his face half into hers. "If we approach, they'll see us. As it is, there's no assurance that man won't enter through this door."

"He would have a hard time doing so, considering it's locked."

He made a tiny sound of acknowledgement in the back of his throat, though it sounded more as though he was in pain. She, too, was uncomfortably aware of all the places their bodies were touching. Her hand on the taut muscles of his arm; his fingers around her elbow; his hip pressing against hers. There was nowhere for her to go save the rough brick at her back, and he seemed disinclined to give her more room.

Her heart pounded helplessly, and she despised that even here, even now, even bathed in darkness, she was thinking about all the ways his body had changed since she had last known him. Then, he had still been developing and growing. Now he was full man, broad and muscled.

Ahead, Knight finished his conversation with the man, who set off along the road with that odd slouching, ambling gait.

Whatever the reason, her ploy had failed, and now Knight had returned, she would have no way of entering the house. All she could do was follow this man and see if he held any answers. If nothing else, perhaps she could get a name.

"Louisa," Henry said, but she had already freed herself and was following the man, keeping to the other side of the road and ducking her head. After a second, Henry caught up with her. "Where are you going?"

"Well, that depends entirely on where he's going."

His jaw snapped shut in palpable frustration. "I could follow him for you."

"Why would you do that?"

"To find a way to prevent Knight from threatening you." He hesitated before adding, in a low voice, "I know he has demanded something from you."

"Is that so?" She glanced at him, but the darkness was complete enough she could not see his expression.

"Why else would you be here?"

"To protect my reputation?"

"The scandal would be large at first," Henry said, extending a hand in front of her so they slowed as the man ahead did. "But it would blow over in time. Is it worth endangering yourself over?"

She scoffed under her breath. "Oh, so now you think scandal is endurable?"

His steps faltered slightly. "That was different. We would have been destitute."

"Please, tell me again all the reasons you refused to marry me."

"Louisa," he said, half annoyance, half frustration. "You already know my reasons."

She concentrated on keeping her steps light and silent. Although it was unlikely anyone would recognise her here, she did not want to give them the opportunity. "Yes, I believe so."

He made a sound of irritation. "And you know how deeply I regret the outcome."

"Do I? How gratifying."

"Louisa—"

"Admit it. You were afraid of the scandal."

"On your behalf."

"Yet I am expected to passively endure ruin. Your double standards astonish me."

They passed under the flickering light of a lamp. The further they travelled, the less salubrious the neighbourhood, until she wondered if following the man had been a mistake after all.

"Impersonating your husband and deceiving people out of their money will cause some uproar," he said, "but your talent is undeniable, and you are still a Bolton. How very bad can it be? There have been other female artists."

Ah, so he was unaware of the whole. Many of the ton were; it was only a few, including the Prince Regent, who had seen her more erotic works.

"If that were merely the situation, I might claim ownership," she said.

Ahead, the man stopped, drawing a cigar from his pocket, lighting it in a flare of match light. He shook out the light and tossed it to the ground as he continued on.

Henry tensed beside her. "What do you mean ‘if'?" he asked, voice so low she hardly heard it. Vibration more than sound, passing straight through her.

"Do you think Bolton merely left it at that?" she asked. "His tastes were more sordid, and he liked to throw parties that would make you blush." She could imagine them now. From a purely artistic viewpoint, there had been something inordinately beautiful about the sight, pale skin and sweeping curves against taut lines. Bronze and gold and porcelain. Hooded smiles and gasping laughs and the slow undulation of soft bodies against hard. Candlelight spilling across the scene like the dawning sun.

Debauchery, such debauchery. And she, the lady painter, had been the one to commit it to a canvas.

Understanding dawned slowly, and Louisa might have been mistaken, but she thought she saw Henry's face redden. "Are you telling me that you painted . . . that?"

"Shocked?" She laughed, though nothing about her situation was funny. "Have I lowered myself in your estimation? Do you renounce me, declare me morally corrupt beyond measure?"

"Not you," he said, teeth clenched. "Bolton."

For an odd reason, his defence of her made her want to push him until finally he behaved the way she had expected him to. "The Prince Regent has several copies," she said, looking up at him. "Believe me when I say this scandal will not be resolved after a small rustication. The future king will have a vendetta against me, and he will not hesitate to make my transgressions known to the world."

His throat worked, and she thought she had finally reached him with the depths of her ruin when he caught her arm, turning her and pushing her against the wall. "Quiet," he said, his knee pressed against her thighs, his hand on her wrist, holding it between them as though it could prevent them from being so close.

Louisa's stomach dropped, the heat in her body rushing south, and as she looked into Henry's darkened face, she wondered if he was thinking the same thing as her. How it would feel if he allowed himself to touch her. Whether he would press his mouth to her in the name of disguise.

"I had not thought you were this sort of gentleman," she murmured, looking up at him. His jaw was sharp and tight, his eyes gleaming, their colour obscured. Yet even though she couldn't see their precise shade, she had never forgotten it.

"If you had not forced my hand, I wouldn't be."

If she kissed him now, would his lips taste of the night mists?

"Is he watching?" she whispered, wishing she were not so conscious of the way his knee pressed against her skirts. His body was hot, greatcoat falling open to partially encompass her, and she could feel the trembling from his heartbeat.

Perhaps he no longer cared for her, but he was not immune to this, at least.

He glanced a little to her right and shook his head. "He's entered a tavern."

"Then we should—"

"No," he said firmly, stepping back to give her some much-needed space. The hands that fell to his sides were clenched tight. Her nipples pinched, hardening utterly against her will. "That I draw the line at."

Perhaps he was right to, but she would not give up so easily.

"You forget," she said, marching past him, "that you have no power over me."

When he reached out for her wrist, she dodged him, and entered the tavern. The stench of ale and unwashed bodies hit her, along with the noise. With Bolton, she had been to her fair share of coffee houses and inns, but this was something different. Pockmarked tables gleamed sticky in the light from what might be tallow candles, the stink immediately repulsive. Barmaids perched on patrons' laps, giggling, their dresses low-cut.

Their target, his gait recognisable even through the crowd, tramped along the straw and spilt ale to a table at the back.

"Now then, pet," one of the buxom maids said to her, and glanced over at Henry. Her smile widened. "What can I do for you, sir?" Her voice dripped with lasciviousness, and when Louisa looked up at Henry, the red was back in his cheeks.

"Who is that man?" Louisa asked, nodding to their target, whom it transpired had a broken nose. He wasn't so much as looking at them, too occupied in dealing cards on to the sticky wood of the table. A barmaid bought him a tankard of ale, the pale liquid sloshing over the sides.

"Him?" The girl raised her brows. "What makes you think I know him?"

The ease with which the man had moved across the room told Louisa that this was not his first visit. And she suspected all the maids knew the names of the regulars.

Henry held out a shilling. "Perhaps this might help you remember."

The girl snatched it from his hand, and it disappeared almost instantly into her stained dress. "Name's Markham," she said, flashing him a coquettish smile. "Comes here a lot, likes his ale and his cards. Good to us girls, too, so long as we're prompt with the drinks."

Markham. Louisa stored the name inside her.

"Thank you," she said to the maid, glancing one last time into the corner where Markham was presently occupied. Fun as it might be to watch Henry's discomfort, it would not be wise to linger for long. She turned, pressing a hand against Henry's chest, urging him back. "I think we should leave," she said, smiling despite herself at the flush still on his cheeks.

"Thank heavens," he muttered, taking her hand and leading her from the tavern.

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