Caroline met his eye. “I’m tempted. So tempted, Henry, I am, to let you back in. To care the way I cared once. But never mind my brother, or how we’re going to get back the French Blue. You have a duty to England. You’re leaving again, you said yourself you’re going back to Paris. I can’t—I’ve worked so hard to rebuild myself, my life—”
“I know.”
“Why didn’t you tell me this before? Didn’t you trust me?”
He dug a hand into his hair. “Of course I trust you, Caroline. I just—like you said, I’m leaving, I have to leave, and I didn’t know if the truth would help you, or if it’d just be best to leave you be . . .”
He inhaled a deep breath through his nose, willing his heart to slow its frantic thudding. It was only fair, her rejection. She owed him nothing. She was a dowager countess, for God’s sake; she was in possession of a title, a fortune, a freedom only afforded to women of her wealth and status. What the devil would she want with a man like Henry? A man who brought danger to her doorstep?
And she was right. He may have been the third son, but he was the son of a baron nonetheless. He had a duty to Caroline, once, a duty he had forsaken. He would not forsake his duty again.
His leg screamed with pain as he settled himself back into his chair. He swiped the bottle of wine from the floor and took a long, desperate pull, wincing as the wine burned its way down his throat. He could still taste her on his lips.
At least he had been able to give her that, he mused darkly.
A heaviness rolled over his chest. He hadn’t admitted it to himself; indeed, he’d denied it time and time again, but up until this moment Henry had been hoping to have her alone, like this, their passion transcending the slights and the questions and the impossibilities. Perhaps he hoped she’d run away with him, to Italy, to India; perhaps he hoped she had known all along, and had kept faith he would return.
But she hadn’t.
It crushed him, that truth.
If Henry hadn’t felt like flinging himself out the window (and not for his usual soft landing, either), he would’ve laughed. The irony of it, that he’d started this game of truth, only to be defeated by it, did not escape him.
He felt the heat of Caroline’s gaze. He looked up.
“Take me home, Henry. Please.”
Thirty
Caroline watched the shadows move across Henry’s face. His thoughts, his emotions—she could read them clearly.
Watching him suffer like this was tantamount to torture. But what else could she do? She had nothing left to give him. She’d made a promise to herself, and even though it hurt—it still hurt, and probably would for a long while yet—to refuse him, it was the right choice.
Never mind the swirling unease in her belly. She’d made her decision.
But that didn’t mean his confession hadn’t stirred her blood, that she hadn’t been waiting for it on the edge of her seat. The words had been so simple, and in their simplicity lovely. Were they true, those words? Oh, how she’d hoped, and how she’d feared, they were.
He was in love with her.
He’d hurt her once, badly. She could not bear to be hurt again. Caroline had fought, viciously, to mend what he had broken. And he had broken her, whether his intentions were good or not. It had taken years, years she would never get back.
Still. Whether or not his words were true, Henry had said them in good faith. He’d looked her in the eye, he hadn’t asked for anything in return, he hadn’t taken advantage of her obvious arousal. It hadn’t been easy to tell her the truth; she could see it pained him.
They walked back to her brother’s house in silence. She was too afraid to talk; she knew she’d burst into tears the moment she tried.
So she was quiet. Henry was, too, until they reached the house.
“Not the back door,” he said. “It’s late enough that the servants might be stirring. Here, I’ll see you up.”
With no small effort—Caroline was, after all, painfully clumsy—she managed to climb onto Henry’s shoulder. Her window was open to the cool, early morning air; she somersaulted through it, banging her elbow on her escritoire as she landed in a heap on the floor.
A moment later Henry landed noiselessly on his feet beside her.
“You didn’t,” she panted, accepting the hand he offered her, “have to come up.”
He pulled her to his feet. “Last time I was here, a certain sinister marquess had snuck into your rooms.” Henry glanced over her shoulder. “I must ensure he has not done so again. A moment, if I may.”
Henry ducked into the shadows, reappearing moments later with a sigh of relief.
“No sign of sinister marquesses?” she asked.
“You are safe.”
The unspoken words hung in the air between them: for now.
Henry took a step closer. For a moment they stood, breathless, half an inch apart. He reached up, as if he might cup her face with his enormous palm. Her body cried out for his touch, cried out when he pulled back, his hand falling to his side.
“I should be going,” he said, stepping back. “Notify me if you see anything out of the ordinary?”
“Yes.”
“Do you promise? Caroline.”
She managed a small smile. “I do.”
She watched from the sill as Henry lowered himself to the ground. He turned to the window, head tilted back as he moved to look at her. He managed to trip into a nearby bush, arms flailing in an attempt to regain his balance. He did, and then he met her gaze.
“Good night, Caroline.”
The burn in her chest threatened to consume her. “Good night.”
Caroline’s pulse thumped at the crunch of footsteps on the gravel behind Henry. Before she could warn him off, her brother, William, appeared. His dark hair was a sea of wild points and waves; he wore a rumpled shirt and jacket but no cravat, as if someone had torn off his clothes and he’d had to put them back on without the aid of a valet.
His face was a mask of fury.
Caroline’s belly turned inside out. This was not good.
William strode purposefully toward Henry. Without slowing his gait, he pulled back his arm and drove his fist into Henry’s jaw.
Thirty-one
Caroline’s scream filled his head as he recoiled from the blow. Cupping his jaw in his hand, Henry straightened. The salty tang of blood filled his mouth.
Well, then. He hadn’t been expecting that. What the devil was the Earl of Harclay doing in the drive at half past four in the morning?
The answer appeared at William’s shoulder. Lady Violet, eyes and lips swollen, wrapped her fingers around his elbow as if she might hold him back. He pulled free of her grasp.
Breathing hard, Henry met William’s eyes. His face was flushed with rage; his lips, too, were tellingly raw.
Henry would’ve laughed if his mouth weren’t full of blood. The gentleman jewel thief and his mark, falling in love, getting naked. It was like something out of a novel; it was absurd.
So was falling in love with the woman you’d left twelve years ago, Henry knew, but he didn’t have time to stew properly over which was the more ridiculous scenario.
Not only had Caroline’s brother the earl caught Henry sneaking out of her rooms at dawn, but the diamond was missing, and her life was in danger. He had to act quickly, before the French Blue disappeared for good.
The last thing Henry needed was to be sidelined by a dramatic interlude with his lordship.
“You trespass on my property,” the earl ground out. “You harass my sister, despoil her under cover of darkness, while she is under my protection. Tell us, what other secrets have you been keeping?”
Caroline was begging them to stop, stop it, or she’d jump from the window.
Henry replied without looking away from the earl. “I’d catch you if you did. Though I
daresay your brother might shoot me in the back before I could reach you.”
Blood spilled out onto Henry’s fingers. One of his back molars felt loose. God, but that would hurt later.
Harclay scoffed. “I would do it gladly, if it meant getting rid of you.”
They traded barbs then, Henry and the earl. Henry called William a rotten, cowardly thief (an admittedly feeble rejoinder, but he was bleeding from the mouth, God damn it); he told some lies about the jewel; and then, without warning, Harclay’s eyes widened and his mouth fell open, as if he’d been struck squarely between the brows.
“It was you,” he said, jabbing his finger into Henry’s chest. “You were the one who informed those damned acrobats that I was the man who hired them. It’s all your doing—Hope turning me away at the bank, Violet’s kidnapping. It was all you.”
His voice shook at those last words. The earl was seething with rage.
And so was Henry, suddenly. It wasn’t his intention for things to play out the way they did. He needed Caroline to understand that.
Shoving his face into William’s, he growled, “It was the only move I had to make, and so I made it. I never meant for Violet to be involved; on my honor, I would never place her in harm’s way.”
The earl did not appear convinced. Despite the cool morning air, perspiration beaded along his hairline and at his temples. The whites of his eyes were bloodshot. He was enraged.
Henry clenched his teeth at the unwelcome swell of sympathy inside his chest. This wasn’t supposed to happen; he wasn’t supposed to feel this way about the enemy. Henry should be pulling his fingernails out, or at the very least threatening to.
But in the earl’s dogged defense of Violet, Henry recognized his own unrelenting fear for Caroline; fear that his actions, and his mistakes, might haunt them both more than they already had. William, rakehell and despoiler of virgins though he was, was terribly, awfully, irrevocably in love.
And so was Henry. He’d like to think he’d tear any man apart who’d caused Caroline harm, same as William wanted to tear Henry apart now. Only Henry was that man, the one who hurt Caroline. He hurt Violet, too, and for what? He was no closer to finding the diamond, to saving Caroline’s life, to negotiating with the French on behalf of England’s interests on the Continent.
As usual, Henry had made a muck of things. He understood Harclay’s rage, his desire to protect the woman he loved. He knew it, and he lived it.
He did not begrudge the earl his anger.
Still, Henry would do as honor demanded. He may not have Caroline after all this was done, or the concessions he’d worked so hard to squeeze from the French, but by God, he’d protect the honor of the woman he loved.
“Today, at dawn,” William said. “Farrow Field, just outside the city. I’m sure you know it well. Choose your second. I shall bring the surgeon.”
Henry glanced up at Caroline’s window. She had disappeared, the drapes sighing as if she’d just brushed past them. His heart clenched.
Henry turned back to the earl. He bowed. “I accept your challenge.”
The plunk of gravel broke out behind them. Henry looked to see Caroline skidding toward him, her slippered feet caught in the hem of her dressing robe; it hung haphazardly off one shoulder, baring the other.
That shoulder. It did something to him, made his limbs sing with longing.
Together she and Violet stepped between the gentlemen.
Caroline spun on her brother. “If you hurt him, Harclay, you’ll be as good as dead to me. Do you understand? I’ll disown you, shame you, throw you to the wolves.”
Henry had never heard Caroline speak like this. Savagely, the words born at the back of her throat. It made his mouth hurt a little less.
He did not dare imagine her defense of him meant anything. For God’s sake, he’d just told her he loved her and she sent him packing. But there was the kiss, the one they’d just shared mere hours ago . . .
The earl said something about Henry not being worthy of her affection. That he was a dog. Henry agreed, though he did not say so. No one was worthy of Caroline.
Brother and sister exchanged heated words. Blessedly, Henry’s pulse beat so loud in his ears he could block out most of what they said. He couldn’t bear to hear Caroline’s defense. He didn’t deserve it; while the blame lay squarely with William as to why they all found themselves in this mess, Henry had made one mistake after another, and only made the mess worse.
Never mind that he’d confessed his undying love for Caroline (in a terribly romantic fashion, he hoped) and she’d refused him. Crushed his heart and his soul and whatever was left of his hopes.
No, never mind that.
He half wished Harclay lived up to his reputation as an excellent marksman, and at twenty paces shot Henry dead.
The earl disappeared into the fading night, Lady Violet in tow; she’d called out to Caroline, promising that together they would make things right, but Henry knew better.
He just agreed to a bloody duel, for God’s sake. If it was to be believed, Henry had never fought a duel before. He’d been too busy extorting Frenchmen and fighting for Harry, England, and St. George. There’d been no time for duels.
Until now, that is. He may have never fought a duel, but he knew they usually ended badly.
Caroline could not bear to lose her brother; Henry knew this. As much as he loathed the earl, and wished upon him all the plagues of Egypt, Caroline loved him deeply. He was the only family she had left. Not that Henry ever had a chance with her, but killing her brother in a duel would sever what little affection, friendly or otherwise, Caroline still bore him.
Henry let out a long, low breath, tugging a hand through his hair.
Caroline was looking at her hands. The light around them burned from blue to gray; they had an hour, maybe less, before dawn. Her hair hung loose about her shoulders. It was darker than it was when he’d married her; before it had been honey-hued, still brown but shot through with gold. Now it was chestnut, a shade lighter than coffee.
He wished he’d been there to witness the change. Perhaps it had been gradual; he would’ve noticed it one day in disbelief, the way a parent might look upon a small child and wonder where his baby had gone.
“You did not have to speak on my behalf,” Henry said. “But thank you nonetheless.”
She looked up. “A duel.” She said the word as if the very syllables that composed it were as ridiculous as the thing itself. “My brother did always have a flair for the dramatic.”
Henry stepped forward. “You need to stay here, Caroline. I’ll do what I can, but I don’t want you to be there if something . . . happens.”
She looked at him for a long moment. He ached with the desire to reach out and take her face in his hands. “You’re not going to do anything stupid, Henry, are you?”
“Of course I am. Now go back to bed, and don’t you dare follow your brother to Farrow Field. With any luck he’ll lock you in your rooms so I don’t have to worry.”
Caroline crossed her arms, toed at the gravel on the edge of the drive. “But then I’ll worry about you.”
Oh, God, she was killing him.
“I’ll think of something. I can take care of myself,” he said. And I can take care of you, too.
He would take care of her. It was all he could do.
When he met his gaze, her eyes brimmed with tears. “You’ll think of something,” she said. She hesitated, and then she turned and made for the back of the house.
* * *
Farrow Field was little more than a stretch of green surrounded on all sides by adolescent oaks. The nascent sun was sharp with late spring, streaming ardently through crisscrossed leaves to blind the men gathered there. The air smelled clean, of dew and grass.
“So,” Mr. Moon panted as they made their way back across the field, “have you thought of
anything?”
“Not since you last asked me two minutes ago, no,” Henry said grimly.
“You always work best under pressure. No doubt you’ll think of something before . . . er, shots are fired. I thought the terms were fair, though twenty paces sounds a bit excessive, doesn’t it?”
Henry grunted in reply. Across the field Harclay and his man, Avery, were scrubbing imaginary dust off the earl’s gleaming Manton dueling pistol. Henry held its mate in his left hand; it felt beautifully heavy, a heaviness that spoke of expert craftsmanship, of history, of loving use. No doubt the pair cost a fortune; no doubt the earl had gotten his money’s worth out of them.
Glancing about the field, Henry breathed a silent sigh of relief. Caroline hadn’t come. Thank God she would not be there to see whatever it was that was about to happen. Henry’s stomach had roiled itself into a knot; he had a bad feeling about this. About what would come next.
The surgeon seemed to feel the same; on the opposite edge of the field he held his hands clasped at his back and shifted uneasily from one foot to the other. On the ground beside him rested his leather valise of tools and potions.
Mr. Moon cleared his throat. “Are you . . . er . . . going to walk straight, sir? Without the limp, I mean.”
Henry started. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said carefully.
Mr. Moon took the pistol from Henry’s hand, pretended to inspect it. “I, um, know. I know about your limp, how it comes and goes, depending on your mood. And your aim, it might help to have two steady legs instead of one?”
Henry blinked. And then, after a moment, he clapped Mr. Moon on the shoulder. “You’re a much better agent than I give you credit for, Moon.”
“Yes, sir,” Moon said steadily. “I’ve been waiting for you to acknowledge that fact for quite some time now. Just because I’ve a flair for disguise doesn’t mean I don’t excel at the fundamentals. Sir.”
The Undercover Scoundrel Page 24