“Just because you are kind to me now, or do me favours, or think to help me.”
He gave a low bark of laughter, unable to help himself. Once, he had dreamed of her marrying him, but not anymore. He knew better than to hope for that now, even if he still preferred her over every single other woman he had met, infuriating habit for endangering herself and all.
“I would not have expected anything else,” he said dryly, and bowed.
“I have a large fortune now, you know. And I’m aware you’re in need of one.”
“Tell me, Louisa, is there anything I could do to induce you to marry me?”
Her chin lifted. “No.”
“As I suspected.” He stepped back, giving them both space. Her face was still upturned, and he longed to catch it between his hands and kiss her.
But she had made herself perfectly clear: she would never be his wife.
“What did you intend to achieve tonight?” she asked.
“I knew Knight was out and hoped to speak with him privately when he returned.”
“To say what?”
“Merely remind him that you are not friendless.”
Her nostrils flared, and she folded her arms across her chest. “You are not my friend, Henry. And I thank you to steer clear of my business. I don’t need your help.”
“You don’t have to like me to accept my help,” he said.
“I don’t trust your motives in offering it.”
He ground his teeth together. Frustrating, stubborn, infuriating woman. “Then consider it an apology of sorts.” He didn’t say for what, but he saw the way comprehension dawned across her face. He would never be able to articulate his regret that she had suffered at the hands of Bolton, but this, at least, he could do. And he would continue to help her so long as she was under threat.
Then, when he was done, he would marry Miss Winton and this portion of his life would be over.
“Very well,” she said after a long, pregnant pause. “Do as you please. But do not think it will earn my forgiveness.”
He bowed stiffly. “I know.”
She flicked something at him from the window of the carriage and tapped the roof. Henry caught the object reflexively, opening his palm to reveal the silver shilling as the carriage rattled away.
Louisa’s failure to forcibly remove the evidence from Knight’s house convinced her that such an endeavour was useless—at least while he was still living in it. The logical conclusion, therefore, was to remove him from London. If he was suspiciousof her, as she suspected he was, she thought it likely that he would take his evidence with him.
The trick would be to provide him with an offer good enough that he would not turn it down. An offer from someone occupying a notable position in theton.Knight aspired to be fully integrated into high society, and thus would not be able to resist an invitation from a leader of fashion.
What was more, that person had to be separate enough from her that Knight would not suspect her hand in it. Her first thought was Lord Sunderland, who since his marriage last summer had settled down a great deal from his rakish ways. But their names had been connected too many times, and she had even (once) taken him as a lover.
No, it would have to be someone different. One who would agree without asking too many questions. Annabelle, Sunderland’s wife, was now with child—it would be too much of an imposition to ask him.
George Comerford, on the other hand . . .
She had first met him as Henry’s particular friend, over a decade ago—and long before Knight had ever entered Polite Society. After Bolton died, they had rekindled their friendship, but it was not commonly known. Moreover, George was known for his lavish and extravagant parties, and he was commonly thought to be a leader of fashion.
The final nail in his coffin, so to speak, was that his ancestral home was in Yorkshire, sufficiently far enough from London that Knight could not conveniently travel between the two.
With her plan in mind, she went to call on him, and was immediately ushered into the drawing room. George came to meet her, and pressed her hand in welcome.
“This is a lovely surprise,” he said, leading her to the sofa. “To what do I owe this pleasure? Have you come to ask for my advice about Henry?”
“Henry?” She blinked, displeased. He had been distressingly on her mind after their chance encounter, although she still could not fully understand his motives. He’d had nine years to contend with any guilt he might feel; the fact that he was choosing to do so now suggested he had more on his mind than mere redemption.
