The young man's chin trembled. Then, slowly, he nodded.
"Go with Thompson now. You are safe here."
When George had been led away, Christina sat down heavily. His story confirmed everything she and Lord Coventry hadsuspected. The evidence, once George wrote it down, would be here — Pennington's instructions described clearly, the payments documented, the forgery of the letters acknowledged. It was not irrefutable in a court of law, but it was enough to convince anyone of reasonable mind.
Her first instinct was to send word to Lord Coventry at once. She rang for her writing desk and began composing a note — but then she paused, her pen hovering over the paper.
If she sent word tonight, Isaac would come immediately. He would want to act — to confront Pennington, to use this evidence. She knew him well enough now to predict the fire that would blaze in his grey eyes, the set of his jaw, the barely contained fury that Pennington's cruelty kindled in him.
And that was precisely what she feared. George was here, under her roof, trembling and exhausted. If Isaac confronted Pennington tomorrow — before George was safely away, before they had planned their approach — Pennington would know George had talked. The frightened young man who had risked everything would pay the price.
Christina set down her pen.
She would tell Isaac about the testimony. Of course she would. But not tonight. Tonight, her duty was to the man she had promised to protect. Tomorrow, once George was safely on his way to the country, she would share everything.
It was the right decision. She was sure of it.
She closed her writing desk, extinguished the candles, and went to bed. She did not sleep well, but she slept better than George, whose muffled footsteps she could hear pacing the floor above her for most of the night.
14
The last of the candles had guttered an hour before dawn, and Christina sat at the breakfast table with eyes that felt too wide for her face and a mind too restless for the small white plate before her. George’s testimony — four close-written pages in his careful, cramped hand — lay folded in the locked drawer of her writing desk in the next room. She had read it three times in the small hours while George paced the floor above her and the house held its breath around them both.
The ball at Lord and Lady Southport’s seemed a lifetime ago rather than only the evening before. She could still feel the warm spill of light from the ballroom doors, the scent of climbing roses heavy in the summer air, the weight of Isaac’s hand at her back as they had turned beneath the trellis.It was always real,she had whispered, and he had looked at her as though committing the moment to memory. It had been, she thought now, the last wholly happy quarter of an hour she would have before George’s knock at the servants’ door and the grave, trembling story that had followed.
She was still at breakfast, the tea gone cold in the cup beside her, when Thompson appeared in the doorway.
“Lord Coventry, my lady.”
She had barely time to rise before Isaac was in the room — his coat still buttoned to the throat, his hair in some disarray from the ride, his expression taut with a worry that admitted no polite preamble.
“I received word from my valet’s contact that George’s lodging house was disturbed yesterday. Someone came looking for him.” His eyes searched her face. “Christina, if Pennington has found George — ”
“George is here.”
Isaac went very still. “What?”
“He came to the house last night. He was frightened and had nowhere else to go.” She kept her voice steady, though her heart was not. “He told me everything — that Pennington had a hold on him through his gambling debts, paid him to leave your employ for ours, and used him to deliver the forged letters. He gave me the one I thought was from you with his own hand. I had him write it all down overnight. His testimony is in my desk.”
“When last night?”
“Very late — well after midnight. He came to the servants’ door.”
“And you did not send word to me?”
The question was quiet, but it carried an edge that Christina had not heard from him before. She straightened in her chair. “George was exhausted and terrified. My first concern was his safety. I planned to tell you this morning, once he was settled.”
“While Pennington was potentially searching for him through the night.” Isaac’s jaw tightened. “Christina, I could have come immediately. I could have arranged for George’s removal to Kinsley’s estate last night. Instead, he has been sitting in your household — where Pennington is known to call — for half the night and all the morning.”
“My servants are perfectly capable — ”
“Your servants do not know who Pennington is or what he is capable of.” Isaac ran a hand through his hair, the gesture sharp with frustration. “He is a man who forged letters, bribed servants, and has been threatening you with ruin. You cannot treat him as if he observes the normal rules of conduct. Granton cornered me last night at the ball — he has been cataloguing our walks in the park, every card party, every glance I have given you. He is gathering currency against us. These are not theoretical dangers.”
Christina stood. Her cheeks were warm, but her voice was level. “I was not treating him as anything. I was protecting a frightened young man who came to me for help and who needed shelter before he needed strategy.”
“Strategy is what protects people, Christina.”
“Compassion is what convinced him to help us in the first place.”
