Chapter Seventeen

Louisa stared at the letter, the paper along the fold feathered and the ink smudged. This was no doubt what Knight was so desperate she return to his possession. Not because it was evidence against her, but because it was evidence of his weakness.

He had a sister.

All the investigations she had commissioned had never come back with this information. It had been as though he had emerged from nowhere, nothing to his name but enough charm to compel her husband.

Henry caught her elbow as she stepped back, her knees soft as butter. Knight was cruel and cold in so many ways. The method he had gone about securing her money proved that, and he had evidently looked into her past as thoroughly as she had attempted to look into his—with significantly more success. Her past was an open book; she had always been a member of the ton , and many people of the ton had long memories.

Yet now she knew he had a sister, finally a memory tickled the walls of her mind. A bright young lady with laughing eyes and a brother who gave in to her every whim. Not members of the ton , but not so far below it that they could not aspire.

"A sister," she murmured, regaining her balance. "He has a sister. That is why he wants the money."

"For her alone?" Henry's voice was scathing, his hand still at her elbow. "Unlikely. Think, Louisa. That amount of money is unlikely to be all destined for her."

Perhaps not. But enough of it would be that it explained his sudden urgency, why she could not find any evidence of pressing debts.

She smoothed the paper, reading over the lines again. The girl's handwriting was poor, and there were some splotches that she attributed to tears. Arabella, a girl who had evidently married either because she was compelled, or because she had been seduced by money. Poor, foolish child. It was a wicked thing to be married to a man one could not respect, never mind love. And crueller still to hold a widow accountable for the sins of her husband.

"He must have received this while being here," she murmured, thinking through the timeline. "That would explain why he demanded a portion of the money early."

"It doesn't make what he's doing to you any less heinous."

She glanced up into his face for the first time since reading the letter. His eyes were dark and serious, fixed on hers in a way that made her stomach do something uncomfortably like flutter. "You need not be so concerned for my safety," she said lightly, discomposed by her reaction and the accusations Knight had levelled at Henry.

Does she know you love her?

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.

Finally, Henry dropped her arm. "Must we go through this again? You know why."

She did, or at least, she knew his explanations, and they again made her chest tight.

"You have done all you came here to achieve," she said, tapping the letter against her hand. "I haven't retrieved the proof, but I have something almost as good."

"Which is?"

"Leverage."

He folded his arms, eyes narrowed. "What do you intend to do with this information?"

"Now I know he has a sister named Arabella, who married Anthony, and who is presumably living abroad. She writes that England is so very far away. Once I discover who she is and where she lives, I will have something over Knight in return. Arabella Knight. Perhaps I can search the newspapers for a marriage announcement."

"You don't know when she married," Henry said, striding across the room impatiently, as though he could not bear to be in her vicinity a second longer. "And for all you know, hers was not the type of marriage to be announced in advance."

Louisa closed her eyes, summoning that flash of familiarity. The bright eyes, the cheerful laugh. "No," she said slowly. "Think, Henry. Knight has done nothing but aspire to be accepted as a member of the ton . His sister made a foolish marriage that took her somewhere far from home—that must be east to India or west to the West Indies, surely. Only a man intent on making his fortune—or who already has a fortune made there—would make such a journey with a young wife in tow. A lady like that would make a wedding announcement."

Henry made an impatient gesture, facing her with a tight expression. "Then what? You discover her identity and where she's living, which could take weeks. Time you do not have."

"No," she murmured, lost in thought again. "All I need to have are the relevant details. Then I can use it against Knight. His sister's wellbeing in exchange for my reputation."

"You would do that? Threaten him with the fate of his sister for your gain?"

"Why?" she asked sarcastically. "Does it offend your delicate sensibilities? Your moral standards? Do I offend you, Henry? Would you like me to leave? Or would you prefer to lecture me?"

His mouth snapped shut, and his eyes gave a dangerous flash. "I'm not helping you in order to deliver a lecture at the end of it."

"No? Then why the judgement?" She tossed the letters on to the low sofa in front of the fire. "I thought you wanted Knight to pay for the things he has done."

"I do."

"Then why are you looking at me as though I have vowed to steal away your first-born?" At the mention of children, he flinched, but she ploughed on. "Am I not the girl you remember? Sweet and innocent?"

His gaze flickered across her face, from the tight slash of her brows to the hardness of her mouth. "No," he said after a moment. "You are no longer that girl."

"I am what I've been made to be. Or did you forget what Lord Bolton made me do?" She made a violent slashing movement with her hand. "Forged steel is stronger for the fire, and I will do anything to preserve my freedom."

"Then let me," he said, just as urgently. "Let me face Knight and be the one to threaten his sister's safety."

She paused, chest rising. She had never intended to hold this Arabella responsible for Knight's wrongs. The girl was not to blame for her brother's misplaced zeal, or the twistedness of his actions. But Henry was prepared to do just that, holding himself out as a sacrifice.

Anger flared inside her at the thought.

"Why?" she demanded, stalking forwards. "Why is it so imperative that you take this on for me? Are you trying to save me, Henry Beaumont? Because let me remind you that it's too late for that. I don't need a knight on a white steed."

He looked down at her, jaw flexing, his eyes black ink. "That isn't the reason."

"Then what? Are you trying to lure me into a marriage for my fortune?"

"Is that truly what you think?" The anger in his voice scraped something free inside her, and a shiver ran over her skin. This was what they had become: sparring partners. Young lovers to adversaries.

"We both know your family situation is unfortunate. Miss Winton's fortune is nothing to mine."

He gave a rough little laugh. "As though I would be so foolish as to think you would agree to marry me now."

"Then what? Why are you trying to shield me from every unpleasantness when we both know I am more than capable of resolving my own problems without your assistance?" She raised her chin. "I have done so for nine years."

"I know that, too," he said, and took her face in his hands, gentle despite the searing heat of his words. "For nine years, I have not been able to help you, and this is my one chance to do so."

He deserved no other chances. He had hurt her more than she had ever conceived anyone hurting her. More, even, than Bolton, though the source of the hurt was so very different. For so long, she had done her best to leave him in her past with the same indifference she had condemned Lord Bolton to time's forgetfulness. She had done her best to forget—or perhaps deny—her ludicrous attraction to him.

Sternness ought not to be so appealing, especially when it was written across his face like pain.

"Until recently, I thought you indifferent to me," she said, her voice wavering a fraction. That had been a solace, to think he felt nothing, that he would never have loved her anyway. A truth she craved and dreaded in equal measure.

"Indifferent?" His voice was incredulous, and he tipped her chin up to face him. How she had found herself in his arms, she hardly knew, but she couldn't bring herself to move. "If I was indifferent, would I have spent these past years endeavouring to forget you? If I was indifferent, do you think I would have turned down every offer of intimacy?" His thumb scraped her bottom lip, and heat rose in her, a sudden, urgent flood. "I have not your nature. And even if I had—if I had not sworn myself to celibacy until my wedding night—how could I have entertained a lover when the only person I have wanted for eleven years is you, Louisa?"

Her heart clenched, and she wanted nothing more than to set fire to the chains of his restraint. Let him burn. Let them both burn.

His breath was coming too fast. "Tell me you hate me."

There was no room for truth between them; she tilted her chin to his and gave herself to the inevitable. "I hate you," she said, and he finally kissed her.

From the moment Henry had met Louisa, she had awakened something in him that could not be put to sleep. He had destroyed them both a thousand times over, but this felt like redemption. A chance to start anew.

As her mouth claimed his, every reason he had to keep his distance from her turned to ash.