“That is certainly a benefit,” she said, and laughed. “But it is not my primary purpose.”
“Then what is? I will not kiss you, Miss Picard.”
“No? I suppose we shall see.” The dance came to an end and she sank slowly into a curtsy. “Until we meet again, Lord Eynsham.”
Chapter Eight
PRESENT DAY
February 1815
Louisa swept into Mr Vincent Knight’s receiving room with every ounce of dignity she could summon. The carriage—a plain hackney—that had brought her here lingered around the corner from the large house, and she wore a pretty bonnet that had the advantage of concealing her face from view.
It would not do for news of this clandestine visit to reach the ears of theton.
This would not be the first time she had visited a gentleman’s house on her own. But this was not merely a visit of pleasure—after his threats, she needed to determine what proof he had, and how seriously she should take him as an enemy.
He had claimed to possess a letter from her husband that outlined the plan, but although Bolton had not been the cleverest man, he had not been that foolish. After all, hisreputation would also have been on the line. Perhaps he had boasted about his scheme while drunk and Knight had merely remembered it. In which case, she would not have to worry about his claims—no one would believe him.
That was the best-case scenario. But given the quiet confidence of his threat, she had the niggling suspicion that he had the means to be believed.
If so, she would have to think very carefully about how to proceed.
One thing was for certain: she would not allow this man to get the better of her.
As the minutes ticked by, she sank into the green-upholstered sofa and produced a pocket book of poetry from her reticule, which she had brought for this very purpose. As a result, she was deep in reading when he finally entered the room.
“Mr Knight,” she said, snapping the book shut. His gaze fell on it and irritation crossed his face. No doubt he had hoped to inconvenience her. “Thank you for meeting with me.”
He bowed. “I had no intention of turning you away. I presume this is about our conversation yesterday?”
“You cannot butter dung, sir,” she said sweetly. “Call it as it is: you threatened me.”
He inclined his head. “As you say.”
“But you are correct. I’m here to discuss the terms.”
He sat in the armchair opposite, a small smile playing on his lips. “I believe I made my terms perfectly clear.”
“Yes, in the event that I agree to them.” She lifted one shoulder in a shrug. “You can hardly expect me to proceed on the back of a threat alone.”
“Ah,” he drawled. “You would like to assess the quality of my evidence.”
Well, at least he wasn’t as stupid as Bolton had been. “You mentioned a letter. I must see it.”
“Not just a letter.” His unsettlingly cold gaze landed on her, and she resisted the urge to shiver. A fox indeed, sly and with large teeth. “Although that would be enough to get people talking.”
“Not enough to justify the sum you demanded.”
“Perhaps not,” he admitted. “Fortunately, I have more. Bolton’s letter merely illustrates the how—but I have the ear of your tutor, and he assures me that he would be able to identify your paintings if he were shown them.”
The floor wavered underfoot.
“My tutor?” She kept her voice cool.
“A Mr Thomas Hyatt. Perhaps you might recognise the name.”
“And he’s prepared to support your claims?”
