Either way, it was scarcely her concern. Mayhap the man had changed. If he had, it hardly affected her. He was still the man who had betrayed her, lied to her, and pretended to love her. The evidence of what he had done had been undeniable. Her own brother Worthington had confirmed.
“Please,” Pippa said against the prickle of another wave of tears. “No more apologies. I shan’t accept them. However the news was delivered to me, it was necessary. Indeed, I should have been aware of George’s secrets myself. I cannot credit that I was not. I feel so foolish.”
She felt worse than foolish, it was true. She felt… There were no words sufficient to describe it. She had risen one morning to realize that everything she had spent the last few years believing had been an utter lie. And that something must be wrong with her.
How had she not known? How had George deceived her so fully, so cruelly?
And why?
Why had he done what he had?
Greed?
“You must not blame yourself for the decisions he made,” Tilly said softly, interrupting Pippa’s tumultuous thoughts. “My dearest friend, you had no notion of what he was doing. I know that. I know your heart. Indeed, I was shocked when we discovered the letters. The man I thought I knew would never have been capable of such treachery.”
Once more, tears rose in Pippa’s eyes, stinging. “Nor I.”
She could not manage more words for a moment past the emotion which had clogged her throat.
“I am sorry, Pippa.”
There was agony in Tilly’s expression, in her voice. Her friend was far too good, far too forgiving.
Pippa shook her head. “Do not apologize to me, I beg you. You have no need, after all you endured. To know my husband was a part of it, and worse, is almost more than I can bear. After I read the letters you discovered yesterday, I searched through George’s writing desk. I found more correspondence from others, every bit as incriminating if not more so.”
From the letters, she had gleaned devastating information.
It appeared George had been involved in bribery, scheming, swindling, thieving, perhaps even murder, and worst of all, there had been one troubling letter which had suggested he had somehow been involved with houses of ill repute.
“Oh, Pippa.” Answering tears of anguish swam in Tilly’s eyes. “What shall you do?”
“If there is justice which needs to be pursued, then it must be done,” she said, knowing it was the truth. “If anyone involved in his machinations is still committing these same crimes, and worse, I shall never forgive myself. I must give the letters to someone who can examine them and attempt to make sense of what transpired.”
“The Duke of Northwich,” Tilly suggested.
At the same moment, Pippa said, “Not the Duke of Northwich.”
“I do not understand your dislike of him,” Tilly said softly. “What happened between the two of you?”
What indeed?
“I do not wish to return to that time,” she said carefully. “Please, Tilly. Do not ask.”
“Northwich can get the letters into Stone’s hands. He has already given him the correspondence Adrian and I discovered.”
Of course he had. Likely immediately after her visit. Why did he insist upon inserting himself into the situation? Could he not have pity on her? Could he not leave her in peace?
Not that she had peace. No longer. For one year, she had been without her husband, and life with Charlotte had returned to a semblance of normalcy. Their days were filled with distraction and routine. She had been as happy as she was capable of being.
Only, now it seemed she had been deceived. Complacent.
Stupid.
“No,” she bit out, shaking her head. “I do not want him to be a part of this. I will take the letters to Scotland Yard myself if I must.”
“If that is what you wish,” her friend agreed, “that is what you shall do. But I will accompany you. Do you have them with you now?”
They were in her carriage, awaiting her, having been too plentiful to comfortably stuff into her reticule.
