Lord Henderville.
Standing at the far end of the ballroom, his beady eyes sweeping the crowd, his mouth curled into its usual smirk.
Her stomach turned as she watched him accept a glass of wine from a passing footman, his bony fingers clutching the cup like a bird of prey.
Georgie sipped her own champagne, then began slowly weaving her way toward him, her skirts whispering over the polished floor.
When she passed behind him, she didn’t stop, only murmured quietly as she moved past, “Salon. A quarter hour.”
She didn’t look back, but she felt his gaze follow her regardless.
The salon was quiet when she slipped in, the din of the ball muffled by the heavy oak door.
Jason was already there, leaning against the mantel, his dark green coat catching the light of the fire. His jaw was tight, his eyes bright with something dangerous.
She drew in a breath, her pulse calming slightly at the sight of him.
When the door creaked open, Lord Henderville shuffled in, his cane tapping against the rug.
At first he froze, his gaze bouncing from Georgie to Jason, confusion flickering in his watery eyes. Then he straightened, his lips curling into something smug.
“Well,” he drawled, “I see. Very clever. I assume we’re here to…negotiate the terms then? Finally decided to be reasonable, have you, Pembroke?”
Jason’s jaw ticked visibly, but he didn’t move from the mantel. “And what,” he asked coldly, “do you believe the terms are?”
Henderville gave a little shrug, his face oily with satisfaction. “I thought we’d start with a sum of…oh, ten thousand, and of course”—his eyes swept to Georgiana, making her skin crawl—“one night. With her. Just to even the score.”
Jason straightened slowly, his expression almost calm…almost.
But Georgie, standing slightly behind him, could see his hands flexing at his sides, see the muscle in his jaw jump.
“You,” Jason said at last, his voice quiet but sharp enough to cut glass, “can go straight to hell.”
Henderville blinked. “I—what?”
Jason’s lips curled into something that wasn’t remotely a smile. “I wouldn’t negotiate with you if you were the last man on earth. And if you so much as touch my wife’s hand, I will put you in the ground myself.”
For the first time, Henderville’s smirk faltered. He straightened, his bony fingers tightening on his cane. “You obviously don’t understand,” he stammered. “Didn’t she tell you? The French shipping?—”
“I got your letter,” Jason cut in, his voice low and full of steel. “And I tossed it in the rubbish heap where it belongs.”
Henderville’s jaw worked soundlessly, his brow furrowing.
Jason stepped closer, his tall frame eclipsing the older man as he loomed over him. “Now,” he said quietly, “allow me to give you a few facts that I’ve become aware of.”
Henderville’s eyes darted between them, a flicker of fear starting to creep in at the edges.
Jason’s smile was cold and humorless. “Half Moon Street,” he began softly. “A discreet house. Specialized clientele. You’ve been visiting there for years, haven’t you?”
Henderville’s face drained of color.
Jason pressed on. “Three young women paid off. One of them back in London now. And I hear she has a rather damning diary in her possession.”
The marquess took a staggering half-step back, clutching his chest, his breath rasping audibly. “Who…who told you that?” he wheezed, his voice cracking. “How do you know any of that?”
Jason straightened to his full height, his gaze sharp enough to flay skin. “I don’t just know it,” he said quietly. “I have proof. In the form of the diary itself. And make no mistake, every word of it can be corroborated.”
Henderville let out a strangled noise, his face gray now, his hands trembling.
