Hunt nodded.
He’d not fallen in love with a name, but with a real woman—with the woman who’d been prepared to risk her life for a small dog, the woman he’d spent hours getting to know, who’d laughed with him, listened to him.
And made love to him. With him.
He rubbed the back of his neck, more than a little heartsick.
“She had good reason, didn’t she?” he asked.
“There were.” Kingsley leaned forward. “Prissy didn’t have much of a choice but to do what she could to protect the school, and in the beginning, anyway, I don’t think she fully comprehended the consequences of her actions. Because she thought you only wanted funds for investment. She had no way of knowing you stood to be thrown into jail. Hell, I thought she was going to faint when I told her.” Kingsley shrugged. “But that’s her story to tell.”
She hadn’t comprehended the consequences because he’d never told her. Which had him asking, “But how did you know?”
“Mutual friends,” Kingsley answered. It was obvious that was all he’d divulge.
“It isn’t public?”
“No.” The earl stared at the small space between the benches and shook his head, allowing a faint chuckle to hover between them. “Damn, Hardwood. It’s no wonder you didn’t strangle her.”
“I wanted to,” Hunt breathed, feeling his chest loosen. “She did rather put a kink in my plans.” But then he exhaled a shaky breath. “I’ll replace all of it, of course. I’m grateful for the loan.” He’d make good on the debt, which would be easier accomplished outside the bars of Newgate.
“I’m not the one who coughed it up.” Kingsley was rather matter-of-fact. And watching him now, Hunt realized why the earl seemed familiar. Something in the planes of his face and the tilt of his head matched his sister’s.
“But she’s only a teacher….” Hunt trailed off. But she was also the daughter of an earl. It all made sense—her bearing, her grace—the dignity she’d shown under tremendous pressure. How had he—even for an instant—imagined she could have been raised by Mrs. Meadowbrook?
“A teacher with a dowry,” Kingsley pointed out.
For the first time since Hunt stepped out of his cell, he was beginning to see things clearly. “I’ll marry her, of course.” A thrill of possibility shot through him—unexpected. And not because of the money—or because her brother would demand it.
But Kingsley grimaced. “Again, you’ll have to speak with my sister. Last I heard, she was planning on moving to Paris.”
“To learn from the best chefs.” Hunt remembered her mentioning that.
A dream.
Priscilla Fellowes was more real than Allison Meadowbrook had ever been.
“I need to talk to her.”
“She didn’t settle the debt with any expectations. She said she needed to make amends.” Kingsley’s said, and then he muttered. “Stubborn girl.”
That didn’t’ mean her brother didn’t expect Hunt to do the honorable thing.
I need to see her.
Hunt moved to the edge of his seat, anxious at the thought of her leaving the country. And conviction shot through him. He’d travel to Paris if necessary.
But something in the other man’s expression gave Hunt reason to believe that wouldn’t be necessary.
“She’s here, isn’t she? In London? Will you take me to her?”
Kingsley narrowed his eyes as though reading Hunt's mind. “She’s at my Mayfair townhouse with my wife. But before you go to her, might I make a suggestion?”
“Of course.”
“Take a bath first, eh?” Kingsley covered his nose with a scowl. “And use lots of soap.”
* * *
