Chapter Eleven

Henry insisted on accompanying Louisa back to her carriage. Although she evidently thought she could handle herself, he knew the danger that lurked on the streets at night. A lady of quality, no matter how she dressed, would be a target for thieves and beggars. No doubt she had money on her.

If not, she was beautiful, and often that was enough.

He had seen terrible things while at war. Most of them involved death and the dying, but not all.

As they approached her carriage, she let out a sound of relief. "There. Now we may part ways, Lord Eynsham."

"Let me check the interior first."

"My coachman has a pistol."

"He may not have been the only one," Henry replied flatly. She had nothing to say to this, and they continued in silence until she hailed the coachman, who greeted her with relief. It transpired Henry was not the only one to have doubts about the wisdom of allowing her to roam the streets alone.

Inside the carriage, there was nothing but a lamp burnt low and two threadbare seats. No assailant lurked in wait for the rich lady who had hired this vehicle.

"Out of interest," he said as he removed his head from the doorway, "what was your plan?"

"I had a man on the inside who said he would leave the door unlocked."

"So you were going to enter his house and—what?"

"He has evidence. Domestic Bliss among them. I was going to take it."

Domestic Bliss . He remembered when it had been displayed in the Royal Academy. The first time he had truly come face to face with her talent, the sheer force of her ability. Before then, she had talked to him of her dreams and he had listened, but he hadn't appreciated how possible it was for them to come true.

That was, until Bolton.

He was doing his best not to think about the other paintings she'd confessed to. Every instinct rebelled against it. He detested that she had been forced into it, and could he have called Bolton out from beyond the grave, he would.

Underneath it all, however, was a darker feeling. One grounded in something he refused to acknowledge.

"And what if you were discovered?" he demanded. "In Knight's house, stealing his possessions? They would have you arrested."

"I doubt—"

"If you think for a second that he would balk at sending for constables to lock you up, you are mistaken in the matter." He gritted his teeth. If she could not comprehend the danger that lay behind her actions, he could. "At best, you would have to wait for someone to pay your bail. At worst, you would be found guilty at trial."

Her eyelids flickered. "I am a countess. Forgive me, Henry, but I am perfectly capable of looking after myself. Knight is no match for me."

"No? Then how were you unable to enter his home?"

"I will find out. Now, will you leave me, or do you wish to argue more in the street?"

Her words recalled him to his sense of propriety, and he stepped back. No doubt the jarvey had been listening to their conversation with avid interest. "Be safe," he said curtly.

Instead of returning to her carriage, she looked up at him through the folds of darkness between them. "I won't marry you, you know."

"Pardon?"

"Just because you are kind to me now, or do me favours, or think to help me."

He gave a low bark of laughter, unable to help himself. Once, he had dreamed of her marrying him, but not anymore. He knew better than to hope for that now, even if he still preferred her over every single other woman he had met, infuriating habit for endangering herself and all.

"I would not have expected anything else," he said dryly, and bowed.

"I have a large fortune now, you know. And I'm aware you're in need of one."

"Tell me, Louisa, is there anything I could do to induce you to marry me?"

Her chin lifted. "No."

"As I suspected." He stepped back, giving them both space. Her face was still upturned, and he longed to catch it between his hands and kiss her.

But she had made herself perfectly clear: she would never be his wife.

"What did you intend to achieve tonight?" she asked.

"I knew Knight was out and hoped to speak with him privately when he returned."

"To say what?"

"Merely remind him that you are not friendless."

Her nostrils flared, and she folded her arms across her chest. "You are not my friend, Henry. And I thank you to steer clear of my business. I don't need your help."

"You don't have to like me to accept my help," he said.

"I don't trust your motives in offering it."

He ground his teeth together. Frustrating, stubborn, infuriating woman. "Then consider it an apology of sorts." He didn't say for what, but he saw the way comprehension dawned across her face. He would never be able to articulate his regret that she had suffered at the hands of Bolton, but this, at least, he could do. And he would continue to help her so long as she was under threat.

Then, when he was done, he would marry Miss Winton and this portion of his life would be over.

"Very well," she said after a long, pregnant pause. "Do as you please. But do not think it will earn my forgiveness."

He bowed stiffly. "I know."

She flicked something at him from the window of the carriage and tapped the roof. Henry caught the object reflexively, opening his palm to reveal the silver shilling as the carriage rattled away.

Louisa's failure to forcibly remove the evidence from Knight's house convinced her that such an endeavour was useless—at least while he was still living in it. The logical conclusion, therefore, was to remove him from London. If he was suspicious of her, as she suspected he was, she thought it likely that he would take his evidence with him.

The trick would be to provide him with an offer good enough that he would not turn it down. An offer from someone occupying a notable position in the ton. Knight aspired to be fully integrated into high society, and thus would not be able to resist an invitation from a leader of fashion.

What was more, that person had to be separate enough from her that Knight would not suspect her hand in it. Her first thought was Lord Sunderland, who since his marriage last summer had settled down a great deal from his rakish ways. But their names had been connected too many times, and she had even (once) taken him as a lover.

No, it would have to be someone different. One who would agree without asking too many questions. Annabelle, Sunderland's wife, was now with child—it would be too much of an imposition to ask him.

George Comerford, on the other hand . . .

She had first met him as Henry's particular friend, over a decade ago—and long before Knight had ever entered Polite Society. After Bolton died, they had rekindled their friendship, but it was not commonly known. Moreover, George was known for his lavish and extravagant parties, and he was commonly thought to be a leader of fashion.

The final nail in his coffin, so to speak, was that his ancestral home was in Yorkshire, sufficiently far enough from London that Knight could not conveniently travel between the two.

With her plan in mind, she went to call on him, and was immediately ushered into the drawing room. George came to meet her, and pressed her hand in welcome.

"This is a lovely surprise," he said, leading her to the sofa. "To what do I owe this pleasure? Have you come to ask for my advice about Henry?"

"Henry?" She blinked, displeased. He had been distressingly on her mind after their chance encounter, although she still could not fully understand his motives. He'd had nine years to contend with any guilt he might feel; the fact that he was choosing to do so now suggested he had more on his mind than mere redemption.

Then again, she knew his devotion to what he considered his duty. Perhaps he viewed helping her as his duty, although if that were the case, she despised the thought. She was not his to feel dutiful towards.

More than anything, she disliked him being so much in her thoughts.

"I see I was mistaken," George said, a dent in his cheek from where she suspected he was biting it to keep from laughing. "Very well. Have out with it."

"I have a favour to ask."

"I won't ask you to marry me," he said sternly. "No matter how handsome you think I am."

She paused partway through removing her gloves and smacked him across the arm with one. "Be serious."

"Very well. I'm serious as the grave. What's this favour?"

"I would like you to host a house party and invite Mr Vincent Knight."

The laughter in his eyes was replaced by confusion. "Knight?"

"Yes. And if possible, I would like the house party to be more than a week."

For a long moment, he was silent, and she could almost feel the way he turned her request over in his head, debating her reasons, its merits, whether it was within his power to grant.

"Why?"

"Is it not enough that I've asked you to?"

"Not in the slightest," he said crushingly. "Why would I put myself out?"

She smiled despite herself. "You are the son of a rich viscount, a man of thirty, still unwed, with an ill father and a title to inherit. It is within your interests to promote a match, and what better way than to invite all the candidates to your home?"

"Perhaps this has escaped your notice," Comerford said, "but Knight is not aspiring to my hand."

"No. That would be my favour."

"And why," he said, elbows on his knees as he observed her, "do you want a man on the edge of the ton to be invited to what I assure you will be a legendary party?"

She considered for a moment, weighing her desire to keep her secrets close to her chest against the need for an ally. Henry had already vowed to help her, for better or worse, and George was his closest friend. If they hadn't already discussed her situation, no doubt they would soon.

"Very well," she said, making her decision. "But what I tell you is not to leave this room."

"Naturally."

"Knight is blackmailing me." She watched as shock and anger bloomed across his expression. "The details are not important, but he has some proof, which I would like to tempt him to bring with him. If he believes me to be remaining in London, that should be incentive enough."

"But, I gather, you will not be remaining in London?"

"No. But my entrance will be an unpleasant surprise, no doubt," she said. "Once there, I'll search his rooms and relieve him of any evidence he has brought."

George narrowed his eyes. "That sounds dangerous."

"Perhaps. But I doubt he would dare do anything to me."

"He's already blackmailing you," he pointed out. "A man desperate enough to do that is perfectly capable of doing more."

"Then I shall be careful," she said impatiently.

"I won't let you put yourself in danger, Louisa." He pinned her with a sharp gaze, his usually playful expression all seriousness. "If that's your goal, I won't have a hand in it."

"What will it take for you to agree?"

"Take Henry with you."

Shock flooded her system; her heart gave an unpleasant lurch. "Excuse me?"

"If anyone is going to be capable of protecting you, it'll be him. And I must invite him. It would be strange if I did not."

"I won't marry him." She held up a warning finger. "If that's your plan, you can abandon it now. If he wants to marry for a fortune, he's welcome to Miss Winton's."

"And I'm certain if he had any intention of marrying you, he would ask," George said dryly. "Those are my terms."

"If I agree to your inviting Henry, you'll agree?"

"And so long as you don't attempt anything dangerous on your own."

"But you'll do this for me?" she pressed. "Host the house party and invite him?"

"God help me," he said, and extended a hand. "Let us hope neither of us regret it."