Chapter Fifteen

For two days, Louisa contrived not to be alone with Henry or Knight. She spoke with George, discovering the location of Knight's room, and did her best to allay suspicions by throwing herself into the party games, arranging walks through the expansive gardens, and generally proving herself to be an exemplary guest.

On the morning of the third day, however, she was not so lucky. She arose early, unable to sleep, and when she descended the stairs, she discovered that the breakfast table was already laid and someone was at it, hidden behind a large newspaper.

It was barely sunrise; she had not expected to see another person for hours yet. "Oh," she said in surprise, and the newspaper lowered, revealing Henry's handsome face. Of course. She had never had such opportunity to study his habits as she'd had here, and if she were paying attention, she would have noticed that he was never present to eat breakfast when she was.

At the time, she had been thankful for it, but now she saw it was because he broke his fast several hours earlier than the other guests.

A frown marred his brow. "Louisa." He rose, putting the newspaper to one side. "Would you like me to leave?"

"No." She hesitated in the doorway. "Would you like me to go?"

"Of course not." With a wave of his hand, he gestured for a footman to lay her a place at the table beside him. "I am accustomed to rising early," he explained as she crossed the room to take the seat. "Old army habits die hard."

"Even in polite company?"

"Especially in polite company. This is a rare moment of peace in a house full of people." He poured himself some tea and when she nodded, also poured her a cup. His voice was measured and polite, no hint of anything he felt underneath it. And no mention of the last time they had met.

Perhaps it was better that they did not speak of it.

She preferred it when he was angry or hurt her. This polite gentleman, always seeing to her comfort, was confusing.

"Are you enjoying the party thus far?" he asked.

"Yes. George is an excellent host."

Henry's smile did not touch his eyes. "Yes, he is."

"Fear not." She sipped her tea. "I have no intention of marrying him."

"I'm glad of it," he said, the smile widening a little. "I think you would eat him alive."

"How unflattering a sketch of my character," she said dryly.

He chuckled, and she did her best to hate the sound. "Or of his."

"That would make you a very disloyal friend."

"I like to think honesty is not the same as disloyalty," he said, offering her a plate of eggs. "George has many excellent qualities, but patience is not one of them. That has no bearing on our friendship."

She had witnessed George's lack of patience for herself, and although he was an extremely obliging friend, she had already long ago come to the conclusion they would not suit. Aside from anything else, George was looking for a wife with the intention of providing his line with heirs. She would not be the right lady for that role.

That was, if she had ever intended to marry again.

Which, notably, she did not.

"Is that to say that you think you would better suit me?" she asked. After all, she now had a fortune. All his prior reluctance had no further grounds.

"You certainly thought so once." He looked at her, eyes dark and hungry, a sense of that half-starved denial she had sensed before. It made her feel a little unsteady, as though instead of sitting, she was floating. Untethered. A boat with no anchor.

"Once," she said. "That was before you refused to marry me. And left for war."

A muscle flexed in his jaw as he glanced down at his hands, one of which was clutching a knife. He relaxed his fingers. "I bought a commission because I could not bear to see him parading you around Town."

"For nine years?"

"I was somewhat occupied in fighting a war."

She raised a brow. "You could very easily not have been."

He nodded in acknowledgement. "Very well, it was cowardly of me. Anything else you would like me to confess, or would you like some jam?"

She blinked, disarmed by his easy acceptance of blame. "You admit it?"

"And I apologise for it. For—well, you know for what else."

"For refusing to run away with me?"

"For refusing to ruin you beyond all redemption," he said, and although she didn't want to admit it, she had to concede the point. Their only hope would have been if Henry had hidden her away until he could procure a special license, something she was now understanding was not so easy as she had once thought it. That, or they would have needed to wait until her birthday passed, but she was wise enough now to know her mother would not have given up so easily.

As a girl, Henry's refusal to marry her had been a sign of his lack of love and respect. Now, she was coming to understand, it represented the opposite.

"You must know that nine years ago, I thought—" he began, his voice urgent, just as the door opened. Another gentleman entered and Henry broke off, biting back whatever he had been about to say. The moment passed like smoke, in her mouth and nose and lungs, but nowhere to be seen. "Enjoy your breakfast," he said, inclining his head to her. "If Comerford should ask where I am, tell him I have gone for a walk. Promise me you will not approach Knight until I return."

She wanted to tell him that she had never aspired towards his help.

She wanted to tell him a great many things.

Instead, she merely nodded, feeling as though he had carved out a portion of her heart and was carrying it away with him now. Silently, she cursed the other gentleman who bid her a merry good morning, commented on how early it was, and speculated what George would have in store for them today. Her smiles were mechanical in response.

You must know that nine years ago, I thought —

There was nothing he could say to change the past, and their future courses were set. He was to marry Miss Winton and she was going to live out her days as a merry widow, unindebted to another man. Just as she had promised herself when Bolton died. The only thing left for her to do was remind herself of all the reasons not to fall back in love with Henry Beaumont.

By mid-morning, Henry had still not returned, and Louisa was playing the pianoforte in the music room when Knight approached, coming to stand by the side of the piano.

"You are an excellent player," he commented as she paused between pieces. She glanced up at him, surprised to find his eyes were somewhat reddened, as though he had been awake for many hours of the night.

"Thank you," she said. "It helps to practise."

They were far from the only people in the room; two ladies were reclining on the window seats with books in their lap. Another lady was rifling through a pile of music, flicking past handwritten songs to books of Mozart. Louisa began to play again, confident he would not try anything too egregious in full sight of company. After all, she had watched him spend the past two days establishing himself to be a valued member of the party. Those who had at first viewed him with suspicion had warmed to him, and although he would not win any prizes as the most eligible bachelor around, it was clear that his presence was acceptable.

He leaned in, elbows on the lid, as though he was merely engaging her in conversation about her playing.

"I find it odd that you have made no attempts to sell any of Bolton's properties or procure me the money I have asked for," he said, and she glanced up to find him watching her, almost gaunt. "Did you think I would have neglected to watch your bank? Drummonds, is it not?"

"These things take time."

"I find myself growing impatient." He raised his voice slightly to be heard above the music. "Several of the dowagers here have some doubts about the suitability of Lady Augustus—your dear Caroline—in these exalted circles. Imagine what they would say if they knew what you had painted. It goes against every feminine delicacy."

"And blackmail goes against every gentlemanly instinct," she told him sweetly, offering him a saccharine smile. "No doubt they would be fascinated to know that the very man who aspires to be among their ranks has resorted to such base tactics."

"To reveal me would be to reveal yourself." His nostrils flared and he looked away. "And there are more important things than my mere aspirations. Reveal me if you wish, but it changes nothing."

She took another look at him, this time lingering on the very slight air of dishevelment that surrounded him. This was not the same man who had confronted her and Henry the day of her arrival. Something had happened to discompose him.

Debts, perhaps? Thus far she had found very little information about his background or even his debts, but if he was providing for a parent who was unable to pay their dues, then maybe this demand made sense.

"Have the debtors come calling?" she asked.

His brows flew up. "Pardon?"

"Well, I presume something has occurred to make you seek me out in this way."

"Have you forgotten what's at stake?" His eyes turned cold, dampening the other emotions in them. One may have been close to panic. "A word from me, and you will be shunned. How will George Comerford react to knowing your transgressions?"

George would probably take it in stride, but publicly siding with her if her paintings were publicised would tarnish his reputation, too. A reputation he had spent years establishing.

"If you say anything now, no one will believe you," she said, and raised her brows. "Unless you brought your proof with you. Is that the case? A fitting place for a grand reveal, don't you think?"

If she was correct, he showed no sign of it, merely pushing back from the piano. "This is your last chance to assure me of your cooperation, Lady Bolton."

She stopped playing altogether, though her fingers still rested on the keys. If she refused and he had the evidence with him as she hoped—or at least, as she suspected—then perhaps he would stage a reveal after all. Ruin her reputation out of revenge, and cast the final blow when they were all in London.

But that, she was certain, was not what he had planned; he had not expected to find her here.

If he needed the money desperately enough, he would merely put the pressure on her.

"I will move slowly," he said now. "Targeting your friends first. Mr Comerford, our delightful host, will be the first to learn of your indiscretions. Then your other friends."

"And if I assure you of my cooperation?"

"Then you have until the end of the week to deliver the first five thousand," he said. "And if you have given me nothing when we return to London, I will meet with Prinny and tell him the whole."

Five thousand by the end of the week. It could be done—in the scheme of things it was not such a large number, and she could withdraw it easily enough—but she balked at the principle of the thing. Paying her blackmailer—it would not do.

"You said until the end of the summer," she said, shutting the lid of the pianoforte with more force than strictly necessary.

"Did I?" There was no flicker of sympathy in Knight's eyes. If ever he had harboured misgivings, they were well and truly gone now. "Then I have changed my mind. Don't be late, Lady Bolton. I do not make idle threats."

No, she suspected he did not.

Then again, neither did she.

"You don't say!" Caroline sat straight up from where she had been sprawled across the sofa in Louisa's bedroom. Candied nuts spilt onto the floor. "Even the filthy ones?"

Louisa levelled her friend a quelling stare. "Yes, even the filthy ones."

Caroline cackled. "Oh, my husband would have been shocked to his core to know a lady painted those. Prinny has a collection, you know."

"I'm aware," Louisa said dryly. "That's half the reason this is such a disaster. And why Knight's threatening to meet with Prinny so soon is forcing my hand."

"What are you going to do? Pay him?"

"That entirely depends on what I find in his room," Louisa said, pacing the floor. "I've sent my men to search through Knight's house while we're certain he's away, but if he is still employing guards, there's a chance they won't succeed. My thought was that he would suspect me of acting against him while he was away and so would take the evidence with him, but if I can't search his room and find it, then I may have to pay him just to keep quiet." She folded her arms across her chest. "The paintings are the biggest problem. Bolton's letter could be forged, Hyatt is still in Italy to the best of my knowledge, but the paintings prove all."

"Do you truly think he would have brought them with him?" Caroline asked, popping a nut into her mouth.

"Perhaps. I hardly know. I expected him to not let them out of his sight—it's his guarantee that I will pay."

"I always knew you had a secret," Caroline said, watching her. "And I knew it would come to light in the end."

"I need an ally."

"Well of course you need one, darling. This is war." Caroline tucked her legs under herself as she considered. Her blonde curls were ever-so-slightly dishevelled, giving her the appearance of having just walked out from a liaison, but although the effect ought to have been sordid, it was charming. "What do you need? All I have is at your disposal. Which," she added with a wink, "is very little more than you see before you. But I am more than free to offer advice."

Louisa regarded her friend. "What would you suggest?"

"Either you extract his evidence from him or find a way to undermine his leverage. What do you know of him?"

"As yet, very little." Louisa sighed. "He covered his tracks well—whatever his background, I can't use it against him if I don't know what it is."

Caroline nodded sombrely as she considered. "In my experience, there is only one way to extract information."

"Let me guess," Louisa said wryly. "Flirtation?"

"Seduction. A naked man is a vulnerable one."

"Do all your solutions involve seduction?"

"We are women," Caroline said. "We have limited powers in this world, and it is our responsibility to know how to use them to our best advantage."

"Is that so," Louisa said. Part of her wished Henry could be privy to this conversation; she hoped he would be shocked. She hoped he would be jealous . "Then what, pray, are my powers?"

"As though you aren't aware of your uncommon beauty." Caroline scoffed, and returned her attention to the nuts. "And, because you are fussy about which men you bring to bed, you have the advantage of being unobtainable. Men rarely find anything so valuable as that which they cannot have."

"Then why do you have so many gentlemen queueing to get a glimpse of your bedchamber?"

"Because, my dear, I am old enough to not give much consideration to reputation, and young enough that my assets have not wholly sagged."

"A charming sentiment."

"I presume you told me for a purpose?" Caroline asked. "What do you need from me? Would you like me to search his room?"

"No, no, I can do that." With Henry's help. In fact, she was surprised he hadn't done it for her already, and relieved that he had not acted against her, stripping her of the autonomy she had already lost so much of. "But I have no faith that he will have left the evidence in his bedchamber."

Understanding flared in Caroline's eyes. "And you would like me to ascertain if he has any papers on him?"

"He won't be carrying the paintings, but there's a chance he may have the letters on his person."

"How very scandalous." She crunched on another nut as she thought. "Very well, darling, but only because those paintings were deliciously shocking, and I am so difficult to shock in my dotage."

"If five-and-thirty were a dotage, most of our acquaintance have one foot in the grave."

"You deprive me of my sense of the dramatic." Caroline ate another candied nut. "What will you do if you find something?"

"Destroy it," she said immediately. "If it is merely his word against mine, I have nothing to worry about."

"Very well," Caroline said. "But be careful, darling. I would truly hate to see you hurt."