Chapter Sixteen

Louisa resolved to act after dinner. George had planned the reenactment of a play he had penned himself, and it was something that not only could Louisa stand to miss, but that Knight would feel obliged to take part in.

Ideally, once he realised that she was missing, he would have no immediate opportunity to follow her. And if he knew that she had searched his room after the event, what did it matter? So long as she had the evidence.

She really hoped there would be something to find. If not, she was at a loss. Having had no news from London, although she accepted she had not been gone long, this was the only avenue she had open to her.

As she passed Henry on the way to the dining room, she pressed in close, ignoring the way her heart fluttered at the proximity. They were here to do a job, nothing more.

"Follow me later," she murmured, giving him a look that she hoped conveyed its significance.

"Wherever you go," he replied in a low voice. His hand brushed hers in what might have been a show of solidarity, but that merely made her nerves fire in helpless anticipation. She gave a brusque nod and gave George and Caroline—who were conveniently together, as they had been for the past few days—a similar warning.

"Be careful," George said before she left. "I mean it. I can't protect you if he decides to act against you."

"I'll have Henry," she said simply, and his brow cleared.

"Then you'll be all right," he said with such confidence that her stomach twisted. It seemed everyone was certain that Henry could—and would—protect her. Whatever their past. But despite herself, all she could think about was the one time he had failed her.

George took the opportunity to stride to the front of the room and take command of the evening's entertainment. The drawing room was packed, every sofa and cushion and armchair filled, a few young ladies squashed on footstools in front of their mothers; several gentlemen were standing. In the crush, it was easy for Louisa to slip away unnoticed. The house was quiet as she moved to the back stairs, used less frequently by guests.

There was the sound of footsteps behind her, and when she glanced over her shoulder, it was to see Henry's tall figure, his face unusually grim.

"I doubt we'll have long," he said as he caught her up.

"Did Knight see us leave?"

"If he didn't, he'll notice you're gone soon enough. He's been watching you near constantly since you arrived."

She had yet to tell him about the confrontation she'd had with Knight by the pianoforte, and she filled him in now, with quick, terse words as they navigated to the second floor of the west wing where the gentlemen's rooms were situated.

"So something has happened," Henry mused.

"I believe so. He's ready to play his hand too early."

"Then it must be significant pressure. From what I've observed, he's not a foolish man."

"No." Louisa paused outside his bedchamber door. "He's not. Will you keep watch?"

Henry's eyes scanned her face before he nodded. "I'll be in the corridor. Go."

She needed no other encouragement, pushing the door open and hurrying into the room. Like every other room in the house, it was neatly furnished, comfortable without being extravagant. Knight was not given one of the best rooms, understandably, but given the shabbiness of his own house, this likely felt like luxury. The bed was a four-poster, there were a few books piled neatly on the bedside table, and a leather armchair—distinctly male—sat by the fire. There was a newspaper over the arm. A writing desk, beautifully inlaid, sat before the window, which looked out across the rolling countryside, now dimmed by dusk.

The writing desk seemed the most obvious place to look, and she crossed to it immediately. Evidently he had not anticipated her stealing into his room, and she flicked through the correspondence. Most seemed mundane, although she pocketed them anyway. Two stood out, however. One had been folded and refolded so many times, there was a dark crease through the middle of the page where the ink had smeared.

Arabella , the writer had signed.

The other was from Thomas Hyatt, expressing his intention of being in London by the end of the week.

None were from Bolton.

Not wanting to waste time, she tucked the letters under her arm and continued her search of the room, looking for any hint of a rolled painting. Under the bed, behind the curtains, in the cushions of the armchair. She had just opened his closet when Henry's voice hissed her name from the hallway.

"Louisa. He's coming."

Henry hardly knew how he moved so fast. A relic from army days, he would have said, but not once had he been required to creep around like a spy. He had been a captain, leading his men. A figure of authority, not one of deception. And yet, when he heard the sound of footsteps, he entered Knight's room, took hold of Louisa's wrist, dragged her out and into his bedroom before his mind caught up with his body.

Beyond a hissed curse—she truly had a foul mouth, and he did his best to hate it—she posed no objection, and then she was pressed against his door, her chest against his, her eyes wide and green and almost fearless. They were both panting, the fear of discovery in both their veins. She clutched a pile of letters in her hands, and they were both aware that when Knight discovered she had been trespassing, he would raise hell.

A gleam of ironic amusement rose in her eyes, even as they both listened to the footsteps, quick and impatient, moving to Knight's room. He'd been right, although he hardly knew how he had known. An inner instinct he'd had little time to examine.

Louisa's chest rose and fell with each breath, and he was suddenly crushingly aware of her proximity. The temptation. She was mesmerising, just as much so now as she had been at twenty; perhaps even more so now, that cynicism having elevated her in a way.

"He is about to discover the letters missing," she breathed, her head tipping up to his.

"Did you find the paintings?"

She shook her head. "And none of the letters directly pertain to the evidence. Either he has the letters on his person, or they're still in London after all."

Her perfume rose around him, befuddling his senses. Jasmine. Vanilla. Her hair smelt divine, the delicate curls that fell around her face a provocation. No doubt she was unaware of all the multitude of ways she had tested him over the years. Now, even more so.

He ought to move back, but he could not bring himself to give her the space they both so desperately needed. Her eyes were still locked on his; there was a flush on her cheeks that travelled down her throat, and he had the dizzying urge to kiss it. To feel the skin with his own, to taste her blush.

In the past, he had been convinced there would only be a matter of time before she was his. No urgency, no sense of galloping time, of opportunities slipping through his fingers. He had believed that fortune favoured the patient.

Perhaps it did, but he was under no illusions that it favoured him.

A curse from beyond the door caught his attention, and he raised his head, listening intently. Underneath him, as silently as she could, Louisa turned, so her front was pressed to the door instead of her back, one delicate hand flattened against the wood. He spent a second too long looking at her hand and the shape of it before returning his attention to what was transpiring outside the door.

"I'll kill her," Knight was muttering. "Her bedchamber, perhaps. Or—" There was a pregnant pause, and Henry knew instinctively what was coming. Taking Louisa's elbow, he hauled her across the room to the bed.

"Under it," he hissed. "Now."

Her eyes widened and her chest swelled as though she was going to argue, but there was a knock on the door and she did as requested, dropping to the floor. Henry barely gave her time to disappear before striding to the door and opening it, giving Knight his best aristocratic stare. Bored, entitled. Derisive.

"Yes?" he drawled.

For a second, Knight's rage faltered into confusion. He glanced around the room, evidently confused by the lack of Louisa. The lack of any sign of a lady's presence at all, in fact. As well there wouldn't be.

"Where is she?" he barked.

Henry had not often had reason to play a bored gentleman, but he did his best to embody the role. "Excuse me?" he asked coldly.

"Lady Bolton. I know she's in here somewhere."

"Do you indeed." He cast a glance around the room. "Odd. I don't see her."

"Why aren't you downstairs with Mr Comerford playing his ridiculous game?"

Whatever Louisa had taken from his room had evidently made him panic, sharp-edged and frantic. Henry folded his arms. "Do I strike you as a man often given to acting in plays? Comerford is my friend, but that does not mean I'm obliged to take part in everything he does."

Knight stepped forward, and for the first time, Henry sized the other man up. Years of fighting and marching with the British army had given him a good eye. Knight was not a boxer, most likely—or if he was, not a particularly good one. His stature was on the smaller side, his shoulders subtly padded to give the impression of breadth. The days of wearing a sword with any regularity had long passed, but Henry was willing to bet the man wasn't a fencer and had little experience with a pistol.

If it came down to it, there wouldn't even be a fight.

"I know you have a fondness for her," Knight said, looking as though he was tempted to force himself into the room. Had he done that, Henry would have wasted no time shoving him away again. Perhaps that was not gentlemanly, but he felt half man, half animal, and it was taking all his restraint not to take his fists to this man's face.

"Lady Bolton?" Henry folded his arms as he leant against the doorjamb.

"Swooping in to defend her at every moment. Does she know you're in love with her?"

Henry heartily wished that Louisa, still under the bed, was rendered temporarily deaf. "I think you must be mistaken," he said coolly.

"Am I? I may not have been born in the same circles, my lord , but I recognise love when I see it." He smirked. "But man to man, I recommend looking elsewhere for a bride."

The more time passed in Knight's company, the more tempting it was to give way to violence. His expression stilled. "I never had any intention of marrying her."

"Forgive me, but I know that to be a lie." Knight's smile widened. "You intended to marry her at least once, did you not? When she was merely Miss Louisa Picard."

The words slammed into Henry's chest, brittle and ice-cold.

So, Knight truly had been doing his homework. Her past was not a secret by any means, and neither was their connection. She had never gone to any pains to hide her affection, and his had been blatant. When she'd married another man, he had chosen to leave the country rather than face the utter destruction of his hopes.

"Ah, so I am right," Knight continued, his smile spreading but not reaching his eyes, which were grey and cold. He looked like a predator faced with a new meal, but there were shadows under his eyes, and an unusual gauntness to his face, as though the skin clung especially firmly to his bones. Just as Louisa had said, evidently something had occurred.

He folded his arms. "Not in the slightest."

"You did not marry her then, but now . . ." Knight tilted his head. "Now you hope to establish yourself in her affections just as you did before. Is it her fortune? Things are different from when you were children, are they not. She has prospects, and she could save your familial predicament."

"You should be very careful," Henry said, his voice low.

"This is the house of a gentleman and you, too, are a gentleman." Knight's lips twisted—not a smile or a smirk, but something in the direction of both. "You would do nothing to harm me."

"Is that what you truly believe?" Henry asked, raising his brow. "That you are safe from me? Because I ought to tell you that I am a soldier first, gentleman second. And if you endanger anyone I care about, I will have no compunction about acting against you in any way I see fit."

"You would not want to be banished from the country now," Knight said, his lip curling. "After all, what would your family do without you?"

If it weren't for Oliver, Henry could have said with all honesty that he would not have a problem living in another country. At least there he would not have to face the reality of encountering Louisa at every social gathering he attended; he would not have to ignore the tug he felt to be by her side.

"You forget," he said with a carelessness that would have made a rake proud, "that they have been without me for almost nine years. I imagine they could suffer some more."

To his credit, Knight's expression remained unchanged. "You wouldn't be so fast to defend her if you knew what she has done. And if you dare act against me, I will tell the world and she will be ruined."

Henry was silent. Threatening him meant nothing, but . . . Knight was wrong: Henry knew precisely what she had done. And thus he knew how thoroughly she would be expelled from Polite Society if the truth were known.

"If you see her," Knight said with enough emphasis that suggested he expected Henry to come into close contact with her imminently, "be so good as to tell her that if she does not give my letters back by the end of the day, I will write to the Prince Regent personally to inform him of what I know about her."

"It has nothing to do with me," Henry said, though there was hardly any point keeping up the pretence now.

"And you may also tell her that I was not so foolish as to leave my most prized possessions in my home or on my person ready to be discovered. She will have to try harder than that." He waved a hand as he left.

Henry closed the door and turned to find Louisa already dragging herself out from underneath the bed, her hair dishevelled and the letters still clutched in her hands. Her face was pale, her eyes large and serious as they landed on him, and he felt as though the air had been summarily sucked from the room.

Given Knight's anger, it would be unwise to send her back to her bedchamber alone, but if she remained any longer with him, he would do or say something rash.

She was not his, and by her own admission would never be, but he wanted. He wanted .

Does she know you're in love with her?

When he had returned to England from the war, he had been so certain that his love had died along with his hopes. That now all he felt for her was residual fondness and the desire he had never been able to repress. Now, with Knight's voice ringing in his ears, he wondered if he had ever conquered his affection, or if it had slumbered in his chest, waiting for her to reignite it all over again.

Cruel of fate to compel him to love her twice, and both times to be denied her.

She came closer, the dusty skirts of her dress brushing her legs. The sound of the fabric was the only sound in the silent room, not even the ticking of a clock to interrupt the tension.

"The letters," he said before she could mention what had passed between him and Knight. "Why does he want them so urgently?"

She glanced down at the letters in her hand as though she had forgotten they were there. "Ah yes," she said, and cleared her throat as she unfolded the most worn page and began to read. " My darling brother . Forgive me for not writing as often as I said I would. I never meant to make you worry, although I know you will have done, but the truth is, things are more difficult here than I ever could have imagined. In your last letter, you described the house you wish to buy for us, and I cannot stop thinking about it. In my darkest moments, I think it is the only thing that keeps me going.

"I wish I could bring you good news, but I miss you terribly and it is so miserable here. I am frightfully hot, and I dare not leave the house, though there is little enough furniture. Mr Roberts—you remember I mentioned him in my last letter; he is in charge of reclaiming Anthony's debts—is an odious man. Now there is nothing of mine left to sell, he is talking of marrying me off to his son and calling the debt complete. Papa is dead, and even if he were not, England is so very far away.

"You were right when you told me never to marry Anthony. I wish now I had listened to you.

"Please come for me soon, Vin. You said the end of the summer, but I'm afraid I do not have that long. I'm so scared.

"Your loving sister,

"Arabella."