“Stop talking nonsense,” Trem spat out. “She’s not a toy, Hartley, she’s a woman and she didn’t choose you.”
“Does he know? Does he know?” Hartley asked the room but gesturing towards John with his free hand. He turned to speak to John. “I tupped her first and then this—this bastard took her from me. She was supposed to marry me.”
Trem watched as John looked between himself and Hartley and Henrietta. And then he saw something much like understanding dawn on his best friend’s face. His mouth set in a resolute line and, somehow, Trem knew he himself wasn’t about to be on the receiving end of his wrath.
“My sister can do what she pleases, Hartley,” John said, slowly. “She can do what she pleases with whomever she pleases. She is not my possession or anyone else’s. And what she did or did not do with you or anyone else doesn’t tarnish her in my eyes. I am certainly not going to insist that she marry you because of what may or may not have happened between you. And I’m certainly not going to insist that she marry you over a man who loves her and whom she loves in return.”
Henrietta had turned scarlet, but she hadn’t lowered her chin an inch.
“I love her,” Hartley said, near tears.
“Put down the pistol, man,” Trem urged. He didn’t want to have to hurt this idiot but he was rapidly realizing he might be forced to do so. Unfortunately, he had no weapon of his own and Hartley had a loaded pistol. Of course, if he, John, Leith, Montaigne, and Sebastian all rushed the man, they would bring him down—but one of them might get shot. Not a risk he wanted to take. After all, he had a keen awareness of how that particular experience felt.
And then Trem realized he did have a weapon. His father’s penknife. The one that Henrietta insisted that he carry in his pocket today.
He knew what he needed to do. He just had to wait for the right moment. But he would need Henrietta’s cooperation.
He looked at Henrietta and she was already looking at him, her eyes wide with fear. He gave her a small nod, to try and comfort her, and she returned it. Then he tipped his head at Hartley. She looked at him quizzically and he tipped his head again. Then he mouthed, as covertly as he could, distract him.
“What are you saying to each other?” Hartley protested, seeing the eye contact between him and Henrietta.
“Justin,” Henrietta said and, from those two syllables, Trem knew that Henrietta had understood his message. Her voice was softer and sweeter than it had been before. “Please be reasonable.”
Just as Trem had hoped, Henrietta’s softness caused Hartley to turn his head towards her. Which gave him the opportunity to look at John. Trem knew he couldn’t move himself without risking Hartley seeing him, but John was standing within arm’s reach of one of the orange trees.
“The only way I will be reasonable is if you come with me,” Hartley whined. “How could what we had mean nothing to you?”
Trem nudged John. When John looked at him, Trem could see the depth of his fear for his sister—whereas Trem felt resolute and focused, he could see that John felt paralyzed. With his expression, Trem tried to communicate that he had the situation in hand. But he needed John to help him.
“It didn’t mean nothing,” Henrietta said. “We were so close. I know that.”
Good, Trem thought. Henrietta was really quite the actress, he thought. He should remember that, for the future. No wonder Hartley now had his gaze completely on her.
Trem looked back to John and tilted his head towards the orange tree. John looked confused.
Bollocks. He dropped his voice as low as he could and turned to John. “Hand me an orange.”
“What are you saying?” Hartley snapped his head around.
“Justin,” Henrietta urged, her timing perfect. “I’ll go with you—if you make me one promise.”
At these words, Hartley turned his head back to Henrietta.
Trem looked back at John and he nodded. He understood now.
“You’d come with me?”
“Yes,” Henrietta said. “But I need you to do something for me.”
Hartley’s entire attention was on Henrietta. As someone who was currently in thrall to the woman himself, Trem could recognize it another.
“Now,” Trem whispered.
John reached up and, quickly, plucked one of the oranges from the tree. And then he passed it to Trem. Trem looked over and saw that, blessedly, Hartley hadn’t noticed.
It was only May so the orange was still quite small. It fit neatly in the palm of his hand. But it would do. He just needed Hartley to lose his focus.
“What do you need?” Hartley said. “I’d give anything—as long as you come with me.”
