Chapter Twenty-Four

PRESENT DAY

April 1815

Henry did not have to wait long for Miss Winton to appear, a candle in one hand and a murmur to someone on the other side of the door. No doubt Caroline, keeping watch for any signs of someone coming to interrupt them.

A kindness that oddly touched him.

Miss Winton's gaze was on his as she advanced. "I hope this is not an assignation," she said in her usual blunt way. "That is not the relationship I have any desire for."

"I know." He dropped into a chair. "Believe me, it is not what I would wish either. I merely wanted to speak to you away from your mother."

Her unsettlingly direct gaze on his face, she placed the candle down. "I see."

"I understand this will come as an unwelcome shock, but—"

"You are ending our arrangement," she said calmly, her arms folded across her chest.

"Yes, but—" He controlled his response with difficulty. "How did you know?"

"You had that look about you. Everyone always does when there's news they don't want to deliver." A flare of pity entered her cool grey eyes. "I take it matters with Lady Bolton have not changed?"

The last thing he wanted was to explain his situation with Louisa again, but he understood that she deserved this much, at least. "Not favourably. But there has been a development."

Miss Winton took her time to reply, seating herself on one of the sofas by the darkened window. Her hands were folded neatly on her lap. "I suspected as much. There was no other logical reason for you to end our arrangement. We have not spent enough time in one another's company for you to take me in dislike, I flatter myself."

"No, no, of course not." First his proposal, now this: he was making a damnable mess of things. "I would very much like to be friends with you, Miss Winton. I merely . . . I can't marry you."

"I see," she said again.

"I'd thought I could put aside the urgings of my heart, but it's impossible. When you asked, I said I wasn't in love with Loui—Lady Bolton, but that was not strictly true."

Miss Winton viewed him steadily. "You have my condolences."

"Well I might need them," he said bitterly. This was the first time in his life he could remember going against the needs of his family. His mother had asked him to marry well, and he was actively turning down the best option he had.

The estate would be ruined.

For a moment, every muscle in his body revolted. His stomach churned, his chest constricted, and he had the vague sensation that all the air had left the room. What folly he was committing.

Yet all this would not have been necessary if his father had showed even a modicum of restraint.

"I am wholeheartedly sorry," he said to Miss Winton, recovering himself with difficulty. "I know the impression I must have given, and the assumptions you—everyone—must have made as a result, but—"

She gave a very unladylike shrug. "I don't care for them."

"You don't care about the rumours?"

"Can't be worse than the ones saying I smell like I'm in trade," she said serenely. "And they bother my mother more than they bother me. No doubt another gentleman will be seduced by my fortune enough to marry me one of these days. All I need is another penniless lord."

He stared, unsure if he was horrified or amused. "Quite."

"You need not be worried I shall give way into hysterics," she said, retrieving her candle and observing the flame with detached interest. "I find them rather dull, don't you?"

Amusement won out, and a reluctant smile tugged at his lips. "You are an interesting lady, Miss Winton, and I hope very much that we can be friends."

"Well, there's no reason we cannot. Is that everything you have to say to me? My mother will worry if I'm gone too long."

"I'm going back to London tomorrow morning, first thing. Once there, I expect I will retire to the country for the foreseeable future." After all, if he could not marry to save his family's fortune, then the least he could do was find a way to make the estate worth his time and investment.

His father would be unlikely to retire from London, but perhaps he could hold out until the end of the summer.

Then . . . Well, he supposed by then he would find out precisely what his father's excesses would cost them both.

"I'll see you when you return to London, then," she said.

"I hope you are happy, Miss Winton. You deserve to be."

"Happy," she mused, almost wistfully. "Yes, I should like to be, too. Very much. Goodbye, Lord Eynsham. I hope your journey goes well and you find everything you are looking for."

When Louisa returned to her room after dinner, she discovered the letters missing, and Caroline's self-satisfied smile was enough to explain precisely what had happened to them. She didn't bother investigating further, but presumed Henry had played his final role in her affairs.

Fine. If that was how it was to be, then she would learn to accept it with good graces.

The only thing left for her to do now was leave for London. Immediately, if possible. If she stopped for nothing but the occasional meal, she might make it back home by tomorrow evening. In time for her dear friend Thomas Hyatt to return home, and to make enquiries about this Arabella. Surely she would be able to discover something now she had a name and location.

And her memory had not entirely failed her: she had met the girl before. Then, she had been of a marriageable age, perhaps a year or two Louisa's senior. It was likely, therefore, that she had left to go abroad up to five years after that first and last meeting.

Either way, she would have enough information to be able to convince Knight she knew more than she did, and to compel his obedience in the matter.

After explaining her plan to Caroline, she went straight to George's dressing room, knocking and letting herself in. He was sitting before the fire in his robe with a book in one hand and a glass of brandy in the other. Every inch the gentleman, but so engrossed in his novel that he didn't so much as hear her come in until she cleared her throat.

"Louisa," he said, brows rising. "This is an unexpected surprise."

"I imagine it is." She took the chair opposite. "I came to inform you that I'm leaving for London immediately."

"Immediately?"

"Is that not what I said?"

He glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece. "It's almost midnight."

"I'm aware of the time."

He closed his book, one finger between the pages, and rose to ring the bellpull. "Explain it to me. Is this merely to avoid Eynsham?"

Ah, so he knew after all. She'd suspected he would, either from Henry or Caroline. "No."

"Then why?" He gave the rope a hearty tug, and when his valet appeared, directed the man to fetch Lord Eynsham.

Louisa pushed out of her chair the instant the man left. "What do you think you're playing at?"

"If you're not avoiding Henry, then it makes sense you both travel together. I can spare one coach, but not more."

"He intends to leave?"

"Were you unaware?" There was a wry note in his voice, and he patted her shoulder on his way back to his chair. "Sit down, my dear, and don't make a cake out of yourself. I can't have you travelling post alone without so much as a maid, and you know with this many guests I can spare no one to travel with you."

Louisa slowly sank back into the armchair, but the injustice still stung. "I'm hardly a girl in my first Season; I can travel without a chaperone."

"It's not a matter of age. There are all sorts of cads and rogues on the road, and if they get wind of a lady travelling by herself—"

"Then I will defend myself," she said sharply. "Do you think me helpless?"

"I think you reckless, my girl, and that's just as bad." He tapped his book against the arm of his chair. "If Henry will travel with you, there will be no need for this foolishness."

"It's not foolishness to have the expectation of independence. Why, do you think it's my first time travelling alone?"

His lip curled. "No. But I have no intention of letting you do so from my home."

"No one will know."

"I will know." He tossed back the rest of his brandy. "Drink?"

"For heaven's sake, George, this is serious." She eyed his back as he moved to the cabinet on the wall and said, impulsively, "Oh, very well, then. But I mean it when I say I would rather go alone."

"Why? Because he was fool enough to ask for your hand in marriage?" George gave a bark of laughter and handed her a tumbler of amber liquid. "Rather him than me, I can say that for certain."

"I'd be offended if I had any desire to marry you," she said coolly.

"Oh, don't give me that. There's no denying he made a mistake, but—" A knock at the door interrupted him and he broke off. "There he is now."

Louisa steeled herself for the sight of him. This was not a position she was precisely accustomed to. Of course, she had received an offer or two since Bolton died, but she had never felt as though their affections were engaged, and thus seeing them again held no particular awkwardness.

Henry was different. And already the blaze of anger and resentment that had sustained her during their last meeting had slumped, mere embers instead of a flame.

If it were not for her inability to bear children, perhaps she would have embraced the opportunity to have some time alone with him.

As it was, she knew she could not provide him with the things he needed—most importantly, children—and she could not bear for resentment to grow between them once more.

It was better this way.

When he entered the room, however, she caught her breath. There was no way for him to be anything other than startlingly handsome, but it was as though the last few hours had aged him, casting his face in a gaunt, tired light.

To suppose she was the sole cause would be foolishness, and yet she felt a twinge of guilt in her chest.

"Eynsham," George said, greeting his friend as though he saw nothing amiss. "Come, sit by the fire. Drink? No? Well, I suppose I can't count myself as surprised."

Henry's gaze stuttered across her face, and his expression was confused as he glanced at George and the book lying on his chair. Then fond amusement replaced the confusion. "Reading again?"

"A man must have his vices," George said, putting the book to one side.

"Why am I here, Comerford?"

"Louisa also wishes to return to London," he said bluntly, and Louisa scowled. "She intends to travel post alone, and I've informed her that would not be sensible for a lady of her station."

"I could very well hire a chaise at the first inn I see," she said.

"You could," George admitted, "but given that Henry also wishes to travel to London, I wish you would travel under his protection."

Henry's brows caught together; his throat worked. He looked, for a long time, as though he intended to denounce the entire plan, and she hoped he would. Then, to her disappointment, he nodded slowly. "Are you offering us one of your carriages, Comerford?"

"I am. Do you accept?"

"I do."

"And you?" he asked Louisa. "Do you accept?"

Louisa drew in a long, steadying breath. Her instinct was to refuse the offer and insist on hiring her own coach. But she could hardly ignore the sense in the offer. A travel companion and the offer of a free coach. Money was of no consideration, but convenience was.

"Why are you returning to London?" she asked Henry.

His expression was smoothly impassive, as remote as it had been when they'd first met again. "I have some business there, and then I intend to return to the country."

"You see?" George clapped his hands together. "It is the perfect scheme. It releases my obligation to see you safe while I am here, and ensures you both return to London at the first possible moment."

"I had not intended to stop overnight," she said, raising her chin.

Henry merely inclined his head. "Very well."

They were in store for a night of discomfort, but without openly admitting she wished to avoid him, there was nothing more she could say. And if it would ease George's conscience, then it was the least she could do after he had arranged this entire house party for her benefit.

"I'm leaving Caroline here," she said to George. "Embrace the opportunity while you can."

"She is a mistake waiting to happen, and I am a fool willing to dive in headfirst." George's voice was matter-of-fact, but there was a wry twinkle in his eye. "But I suppose I will do my best to make a proper match when I return to London."

Louisa kissed his cheek in a burst of sudden affection. "Thank you for all you've done."

"You're the sister I never had." He patted her hand. "Be off with you now, and be safe. I'll instruct the groom to bring the carriage around for you, so come down the moment you've packed and I'll see you off."