Chapter Thirty

PRESENT DAY

April 1815

When Louisa rose the next morning, it was to two interesting pieces of intelligence. The first was a note from Mr Upperton to say that Knight had returned to London. That note also included a few key pieces of information: Arabella Knight had become Arabella Princely when she had married Anthony Princely, and she had left for the West Indies a little over six years ago. Approximately a year ago, her husband had perished from the hot climate and one of the diseases prevalent there. Arabella had as yet made no move to return home, though Mr Upperton could give no concrete reason for this. The most likely supposition was that she could not afford to.

He did not have her address, but he could inform her that she was currently residing in Barbados. That, decided Louisa, was enough to be getting along with.

The second was that Lord Eynsham had visited her late last night, and with a special package he had evidently intended to pass directly to her. The moment Avery had delivered it, she had known precisely what it was, and her nose stung as she knelt by the tube, breaking the seal that held it together and unrolling it with almost feverish haste.

There, staring out with timeless serenity, was a young lady with a paintbrush in her hand and her smiling eyes content. Her childish vision of happiness.

Domestic Bliss .

It looked different in her drawing room than it had in Knight's, set beside the debauchery of her other. Despite everything, it remained as familiar to her as the shape and colour of her own eyes. The signature she had so carelessly put in the corner when she was young and in love and thought nothing could stand in her way.

And Henry had been the one to retrieve it.

The fool.

Her heart hurt. Had he not known that she could have handled this on her own?

Then again, he had disapproved of her method of reverse-blackmail, and so he had rendered it utterly unnecessary.

That high-handed, objectionable fool .

"Did he say anything when he brought this around?" she asked, her voice tight.

"He asked to see you."

"He did?" She looked sharply up at him from where she was kneeling on the floor. "Then why did you not wake me?"

As always. Avery looked utterly untouched by the irritation in her voice. "I judged it best, my lady. The gentleman seemed somewhat inebriated, and as you had retired some hours beforehand, I thought not to wake you."

"Drunk?" Louisa's brows knitted. "Henry?"

"So it seemed, my lady."

"Surely not."

"I can only say what I observed."

She touched her throat as she thought. What had become of him in the short time since they parted? She had never known him to drink more than a glass, and he often refused even that.

Yet Avery was not to be doubted, and he had seen far more of drunken gentlemen than even she had, no doubt. After all, he had presided over Bolton's house.

"He left a note, my lady," Avery said, seeming to her as though he relented. "I have it here. Would you like to read it?"

"Yes, at once." She snatched the paper from his hands and unfolded it eagerly. The handwriting was somewhat sloppier than she was used to from him, although it still had his distinctively assured letters. "Tomorrow I leave for the country," she mumbled as she read, and she shook her head, trying to clear it. Although it was not overtly a declaration, it was as close to. And his intentions, no doubt, were honourable. In true Henry fashion, he had sacrificed himself for her sake.

If she didn't love him so much, she would hate him.

"Avery," she began, and paused as she heard voices from the front hall. "Is that Mr Knight?"

"If it is, would you like to see him?"

As little as half an hour ago, she would have said there was nothing she wanted more. She had the information that would compel him to retract his claim over her money. It was a battle of wills and resources, and she had won.

But now there was nothing more she wanted than to see Henry. If nothing else, to bring him down a peg or two. Then kiss him.

"He truly has a knack for discovering me at my worst moments," Louisa muttered. "Very well. Show him to the library and tell him I'll be with him shortly. And while I'm occupied with him, have the carriage brought around. I must lose no time."

Avery inclined his head. "Yes, ma'am."

Alone in the room again, she sank into a chair and gave herself a few seconds to close her eyes and just breathe. She had told herself that she could not marry him, that she would never marry anyone ever again, that their past hurts—her barrenness—were obstacles too great to overcome. Yet despite it all, he had prevailed. Without her so much as noticing, he had banished her hurt, soothing it with the evidence of his love.

He had broken every vow for her.

She loved him.

She could not deny it any more: freedom was no longer enough when she must do it alone.

If he would have her once he learnt the truth, then she would give it all up for a chance at happiness. Heaven knew it had been long enough in the making.

Just as soon as she disposed of Knight.

She rose, brushing down her dress, and walked through the house to the library. Mr Knight was already there, pacing, and when she entered the room, he turned on his heel, his face flushed with anger and his coat creased.

"Where is it?" he demanded.

"Avery," she said over her shoulder, "be so good as to have some refreshments brought. I think we will need them."

"Very good, my lady."

Knight approached, his eyes half-crazed. "I know you were behind it. Sending Eynsham to target Markham."

The name was familiar, but it was a moment before she placed him as being the man whom they had followed to the tavern. So that was why Henry had been drunk.

She tucked her hands behind her back. "You had better explain everything."

"I arrived home a few hours ago to discover that your painting was missing, and the very man whom I had tasked with keeping it safe had been the one to gamble it away."

"Cards?" she asked, interested.

"How should I know? Probably." He paced in short, sharp circles. "Where is it?"

"You're mistaken, sir. I did not send Lord Eynsham anywhere; anything he did, he did of his own volition. I had a different method of compelling your obedience."

He curled a lip. "I will ruin you, my lady , if it's the last thing I do."

"I very much doubt you would succeed in your endeavour, however," Louisa said, smiling at the maid who brought a tray of tea and cakes. "Thank you, Mary."

Mary bobbed a curtsy and left. Louisa sat, doing her best to maintain an air of calm, and poured herself a cup of tea.

"If you ask me," she said, "you would do well to hire more reliable retainers. So, you are deprived of the source of your best proof against me. I do hope you haven't written to the Prince Regent already." She gave a tight-lipped smile at the white lines forming around his mouth. "Ah, so you have? A shame. Perhaps that gentleman will honour you with a visit, in which case you will have to explain that the proof you offered no longer exists."

"I still have the letters," he hissed, hands clenched by his sides. If it were not for the presence of two footmen in the room—Louisa had judged it prudent—she thought it likely he would have already flown at her. "And your erotic work."

"Peace, Mr Knight, and have some tea. Your lack of breeding is showing." She took a bite of plum cake. "You may still have the letters and painting, but I'm positive you will find reason to burn them."

He dropped into the chair beside her, eyes glowing with almost unhinged rage. "I will be showing them to everyone I meet. Your husband was a foolish man; no doubt your acquaintances will believe you to be the true artist after a little persuasion."

"I'm afraid Thomas Hyatt will not be so obliging as to back your claims," she said, examining her nails. "I must say, threatening his daughter was a low blow, even for you."

"Ah, so you've visited him, have you?" Knight sneered, tugging at his collar to loosen it. "You've been busy."

"It was a very productive, and may I say illuminating, meeting." She looked up and favoured him with a cold smile. "But that is not all. You see, I have been doing a little investigation of my own. The letter your sister sent you was pitiful indeed—I've heard Barbados can be unpleasant. All that heat."

Knight's face paled, blotchy and grey like stale oats. He swallowed and his gaze darted from the window to the door. The anger had left him, replaced by something that looked a little like fear.

When she had first read the letter, she had been certain that she wanted to exact revenge on Knight however possible, and if that involved making him suffer, then so be it.

Now, all she could think about was the lengths Henry had gone to in order to procure her painting.

"You thought I would not make investigations into your sister?" she asked, raising her brows at him. "I supposed her predicament to be your primary motivator, so I acted to remove it. Arabella Princely," she mused. "An imprudent marriage, though she would not be the first. No doubt he would have made his fortune if he had not died."

"I—" He swallowed. "How did you find her?" His knuckles were white around his coat, but his voice was quiet.

"I have many resources at my fingertips. Oh yes, you covered your tracks well, but your sister's marriage was put in the papers." She placed her cup back in its saucer and laced her fingers together. "You do not have the painting. You do not have Hyatt in your pocket. All you have is one of Bolton's current paintings—I assure you that you are not the only one—and a series of letters from my admittedly foolish husband claiming that I am the artist. You see now how these claims will not hold up against scrutiny? Especially when, if I am asked, I am sure to deny it."

He swallowed a few times, his anger quite extinguished.

"Here is how this will happen. You will deliver the letters to my household by the end of the day, and they will be burnt. And you will say nothing of this to anyone. If Prinny responds to your letter, which I doubt, then you will swallow your pride and say that you're mistaken. If ever you are tempted to exact revenge, you will think of your sister and her wellbeing, and you will resist the urge. Do you understand me?"

His eyes sparked defiance, but his mouth was a flat line, and after a few long seconds, he gave a curt nod.

"I advise you leave London for the time being," she said. "I have the rather unflattering habit of holding grudges, and believe me when I say it would be unpleasant to be in my bad books. Do not stay unless you would like to know how it feels to have the world turned against you."

"I was born the son of a tradesman," he said, grey eyes bitter. "I know rejection well enough—I've had to fight for my place here. You were born to it."

"If you had wanted my pity, Knight, you should have appealed to my better self before you betrayed me." She took another sip of tea, finding that nothing irritated him so much as that. "You know, if you had applied to my generosity directly, you would not have found yourself disappointed. I'm not unreasonable, and although I can only assume the cost of discharging your sister's debts and bringing her back to England would not be insignificant, I doubt I would have balked. My fortune, as you have ascertained, is considerable, and I am not extravagant."

He merely stared at her, his expression, while pale, rigid and carefully blank.

"As it is, you have tried my patience one too many times. You thought that because Bolton had the recourse of brute strength, you could bend me to your will, but that was an error of judgement. I have fought for my freedom, and I have no intention of being shackled to you or any other."

His jaw clenched, but he was otherwise silent. At least, she supposed, he knew when he had been beaten.

She also knew that even with the threat of his sister to hand, this would have been a different conversation if he had still possessed the painting. More of a battle.

Perhaps she did not intend to shackle herself to any man, but Henry did not offer her chains: he offered her a different kind of freedom. She had known that for a long time, but it had taken this final act of selflessness to shine a light into the true depth of her feelings. How much she would now sacrifice to be with him.

The past had been bitter, and it had come near to breaking her, but that was a fault she no longer assigned to Henry, ignorant as he had been to Bolton's true nature. He had done what he could, and everything she had suffered since had been the fault of the man who had compelled her to suffer it.

Not Henry.

She might have needed every second of her nine years to forgive him, but forgive him she had. He would not break her heart again—and for that, she would have to marry him.

Fate was nothing if not fickle.

"Do you have anything to say to me before you leave?" she asked, and Knight glared balefully at her.

"You think you're so clever," he said, his voice shaking with suppressed emotion. "Threatening my sister."

"Your capability for irony is truly astounding," she said, waving her hand at one of the footmen to lead her guest away. "Don't forget those letters."

He gave her a mocking bow. "You've left me with no choice."

"Excellent. That was wholly my intention." Leaving the remainder of the cake where it was, she glanced at the other footman. "Is the carriage ready, William?"

"Yes, ma'am."

Something in her chest loosened. "Then I will leave at once."