“Avery,” she said over her shoulder, “be so good as to have some refreshments brought. I think we will need them.”
“Very good, my lady.”
Knight approached, his eyes half-crazed. “I know you were behind it. Sending Eynsham to target Markham.”
The name was familiar, but it was a moment before she placed him as being the man whom they had followed to the tavern. Sothatwas why Henry had been drunk.
She tucked her hands behind her back. “You had better explain everything.”
“I arrived home a few hours ago to discover that your painting was missing, and the very man whom I had tasked with keeping it safe had been the one to gamble it away.”
“Cards?” she asked, interested.
“How should I know? Probably.” He paced in short, sharp circles. “Where is it?”
“You’re mistaken, sir. I did notsendLord Eynsham anywhere; anything he did, he did of his own volition. I had a different method of compelling your obedience.”
He curled a lip. “I will ruin you,my lady, if it’s the last thing I do.”
“I very much doubt you would succeed in your endeavour, however,” Louisa said, smiling at the maid who brought a tray of tea and cakes. “Thank you, Mary.”
Mary bobbed a curtsy and left. Louisa sat, doing her best to maintain an air of calm, and poured herself a cup of tea.
“If you ask me,” she said, “you would do well to hire more reliable retainers. So, you are deprived of the source of your best proof against me. I do hope you haven’t written to the Prince Regent already.” She gave a tight-lipped smile at the white lines forming around his mouth. “Ah, so you have? A shame. Perhaps that gentleman will honour you with a visit, in which case you will have to explain that the proof you offered no longer exists.”
“I still have the letters,” he hissed, hands clenched by his sides. If it were not for the presence of two footmen in the room—Louisa had judged it prudent—she thought it likely he would have already flown at her. “And your erotic work.”
“Peace, Mr Knight, and have some tea. Your lack of breeding is showing.” She took a bite of plum cake. “You may still have the letters and painting, but I’m positive you will find reason to burn them.”
He dropped into the chair beside her, eyes glowing with almost unhinged rage. “I will be showing them to everyoneI meet. Your husband was a foolish man; no doubt your acquaintances will believe you to be the true artist after a little persuasion.”
“I’m afraid Thomas Hyatt will not be so obliging as to back your claims,” she said, examining her nails. “I must say, threatening his daughter was a low blow, even for you.”
“Ah, so you’ve visited him, have you?” Knight sneered, tugging at his collar to loosen it. “You’ve been busy.”
“It was a very productive, and may I say illuminating, meeting.” She looked up and favoured him with a cold smile. “But that is not all. You see, I have been doing a little investigation of my own. The letter your sister sent you was pitiful indeed—I’ve heard Barbados can be unpleasant. All that heat.”
Knight’s face paled, blotchy and grey like stale oats. He swallowed and his gaze darted from the window to the door. The anger had left him, replaced by something that looked a little like fear.
When she had first read the letter, she had been certain that she wanted to exact revenge on Knight however possible, and if that involved making him suffer, then so be it.
Now, all she could think about was the lengths Henry had gone to in order to procure her painting.
“You thought I would not make investigations into your sister?” she asked, raising her brows at him. “I supposed her predicament to be your primary motivator, so I acted to remove it. Arabella Princely,” she mused. “An imprudent marriage, though she would not be the first. No doubt he would have made his fortune if he had not died.”
“I—” He swallowed. “How did you find her?” His knuckles were white around his coat, but his voice was quiet.
“I have many resources at my fingertips. Oh yes, you covered your tracks well, but your sister’s marriage was put in thepapers.” She placed her cup back in its saucer and laced her fingers together. “You do not have the painting. You do not have Hyatt in your pocket. All you have is one of Bolton’s current paintings—I assure you that you are not the only one—and a series of letters from my admittedly foolish husband claiming that I am the artist. You see now how these claims will not hold up against scrutiny? Especially when, if I am asked, I am sure to deny it.”
He swallowed a few times, his anger quite extinguished.
“Here is how this will happen. You will deliver the letters to my household by the end of the day, and they will be burnt. And you will say nothing of this to anyone. If Prinny responds to your letter, which I doubt, then you will swallow your pride and say that you’re mistaken. If ever you are tempted to exact revenge, you will think of your sister and her wellbeing, and you will resist the urge. Do you understand me?”
His eyes sparked defiance, but his mouth was a flat line, and after a few long seconds, he gave a curt nod.
“I advise you leave London for the time being,” she said. “I have the rather unflattering habit of holding grudges, and believe me when I say it would be unpleasant to be in my bad books. Do not stay unless you would like to know how it feels to have the world turned against you.”
“I was born the son of a tradesman,” he said, grey eyes bitter. “I know rejection well enough—I’ve had to fight for my place here. You were born to it.”
