She stared at him. “You still don’t believe me.”
“I believe,” he said slowly, “that you are dangerous. If Harston falls, he’ll try to pull you down with him. And if you fall, Winston goes after you. My job is to see he doesn’t break his neck on the way.”
“And I’m…in the way.”
“You’re in the center of it,” he said. “Which is worse.”
He pushed off from the window. “He means to stand between you and Harston. It’s his nature. But if this is a game played at his expense, I’ll see it ended before it costs him more than the wound it already has.”
“What wound?” she whispered.
“The one in his face when I asked if he wanted to marry you,” Lord Duskwood said flatly. “He didn’t answer. He didn’t need to.” He glowered at her. “Don’t pretend you haven’t seen it.”
She thought of the vicarage hearth, of Winston’s hand on hers in the carriage, of the spring on the hill. A recollection flew to her mind. So many weeks ago, before they had given themselves one another, she had told Winston she would not simply be his mistress. She had laid the sentiment bare. And now…Now, what did she expect to happen next?
Adeline’s cheeks burned. “I never asked for…”
“I know,” Oswald cut in. “That’s what makes it worse. Intentions don’t matter much once the world starts talking.”
He moved toward the door, then paused. “I did not come to condemn you, Lady Adeline. If you mean what you say, then God help you, because Harston won’t. But until this is settled, my first loyalty is to Winston. Remember that.”
He left her there, the little room suddenly too small for breath. She sat down hard on Cordelia’s abandoned chair and pressed her fingers to her temples.
Trap Winston into marriage? Pay my father’s debts?
The words didn’t sound real, but the doubt in Lord Duskwood’s eyes had been.
Is that what Winston believes?
The thought lodged like a splinter. Winston had said he believed her. Had held her, had spoken of Louisa needing a mother, of standing with her when Harston came. But Oswald’s words chafed.
He’d be a fool not to consider it. Winston is no fool.
How long before consideration became conviction? How long before Harston’s lies, Pike’s whispers, Bow Street’s interest turned suspicion into something harder? She could sit here, safe under a Duke’s roof, and let Winston fight for her. Or she coulddo what she should have done from the day she left Harston House. Return and face the place where it had begun.
Not him. Not my father. I have no wish to stand in his presence. But the house. There may be someone there who saw what I saw. Who knows what I know. A witness to stand beside me.
If she could persuade one of them to speak, write a statement, put their name to what they’d seen, Harston’s accusations would look like what they were. A man’s revenge.
She stood abruptly. The room swam for a moment and steadied.
She would not wait for the world to decide her fate. She would not hide behind Winston’s title and let him be bloodied for her. If she could bring him proof, even a start of it, he could use it with whatever runner Lord Duskwood had found. Together, they could build something solid. She took a breath and opened the small drawer in Cordelia’s writing table. There was paper there, and ink. For a moment, she thought of leaving a note.
Forgive me. I must go. I’m trying to help.
But any note could be found by the wrong hands. Read in the wrong light. Used against them. She closed the drawer without writing. Upstairs, in the small chamber off Louisa’s, she packed what she could into her old, scuffed valise. One spare gown, clean linen, and her small purse with what remained of her wages. She took the plainest cloak she owned and the bonnet most like a governess’s.
She paused only once, looking at Louisa’s bed. The coverlet was already turned back for the evening with the doll propped in its usual place.
“I will come back,” she whispered. “One way or another.”
Then she slipped out by the service stairs. The yard was busy enough not to notice one more figure. A boy was sweeping near the kitchen door while a groom led a horse from the stable. Adeline kept to the shadows of the wall and went not to the carriage house but to the lane, where local carts sometimes paused to deliver produce. Luck or providence sent one within minutes. It was a small farmer’s cart, half-empty of sacks. The man had the look of someone more inclined to mind his own business than ask questions.
“I need to get as near Harston Hall as you go,” she said quietly, drawing a coin from her purse. “I can’t pay a full fare, but I can pay something. I’ll ride in the back.”
He looked her over, saw the plain cloak, the tight jaw. “You running to something or from it?” he asked.
She managed a thin smile. “Both.”
