It was such an easy friendship.
Clenching his jaw, Stephen shoved the memories away. Now wasn’t the time. He mourned the death of their friendship a long time ago. The Harry he remembered was gone, or perhaps he’d just never existed.
He turned into a wide, dark alleyway, fringed with heavy old trees. The alleyway was a shortcut, he remembered, one of the many ways to reach the old St. Louis manor house.
What is Harry’s aim? What will he do?
There was no easy answer, nothing that eased the panic in his stomach. There were too many unanswered questions, and he worried the answers would be worse than the questions themselves.
Suddenly, a shadow flew out of the darkness, almost noiselessly, and cannoned into him. He grabbed reflexively at the shadow, and she let out a terrified squeak.
The noise echoed through him, instantly familiar. Gripping her waist, he stared down into her face.
“There you are,” he breathed. “I was looking for you, Amelia.”
In the weak moonlight, he saw her eyes widen. Her face was pale, and he could hear her breathing, labored from running.
Running from whom?
“He’s right behind me,” she gasped. “I didn’t get much of a head start, not after I climbed out of the window.”
There was no need to ask whohewas.
Stephen pushed her away, just in time to step between her and the furious shadow that pursued her.
Harry had never been much of a runner, but it appeared that fury had given him extra strength. He skidded to a halt when he saw Stephen, cold panic flashing in his eyes.
Stephen faced him grimly. “Harry.”
He was vaguely aware of Amelia shifting behind him, her boots scraping against the rough ground. Was she backing away?
He wasn’t willing to turn his back on Harry, not even for a second.
“Be careful,” she whispered shakily. “He has a knife. He wanted me to kill myself with it. He said it would be less scandalous.”
White-hot anger shot up Stephen’s spine. He met Harry’s gaze in the gloom and then let his own drop to the glittering blade in his hand.
“I would put the knife down if I were you,” he heard himself say, voice cool and detached. “It won’t do you any good.”
“Don’t you dare tell me what’s good for me,” Harry hissed. His gaze slid over Stephen’s shoulder, no doubt landing on Amelia. Stephen shifted, blocking his view. “She doesn’t trust you anymore, not after what she heard.”
Amelia sucked in a breath.
“What did she hear?” Stephen demanded, narrowing his eyes.
“You,” Amelia whispered, her voice drifting from behind. “You and the maid, Jane, in your rooms. I stood at the door. I heard…” she trailed off.
Stephen clenched his jaw. “Whatever you heard did not include me,” he murmured. “I was not in my room, and I can prove it. This was a ploy. A lie. It’s over, Harry. Don’t look at her. She won’t help you. It’s only you and me, now.”
Harry eyed him, his breathing gradually returning to normal. His knuckles stood out white as he gripped the handle of the knife.
“You had something to do with Jane, didn’t you?” Stephen hazarded.
How could his old friend have changed so much? He looked so thin, so drawn, so mucholderthan he was. There was a hollow look in his eyes that hadn’t been there before.
The passing years had given Stephen strength and steel. The years of hardship had built him up. In Harry’s case, the years had torn him down.
“You should hire better servants, I think,” Harry said. There was a rasp in his voice, a tired old croak that, in Stephen’sexperience, came from poor living and too much liquor. “The maid only required a kiss and some coin to do as I asked. It was her idea to have Amelia overhear something rather compromising. She was quite sure that Amelia wouldn’t barge into the room to see for herself, and she was right about that. I suppose Amelia already suspected you could never be faithful, and needed little evidence to support her theory.”
