Perhaps he was, a bit. At least, he was when it came to Hattie. “I had dozens of letters from her. No, hundreds. I kept them locked in my desk, but one night after drinking until the wee hours of the morning at White’s, Egerton joined me at my townhouse for a glass of brandy. I fell asleep.”
“Go on.”
“When I woke I found Egerton sitting in my chair, his feet on my desk, happily reading through the letters Lady Harriet had sent me.”
Hayward shot upright. “You mean to say he went through your private papers?”
“Yes. The letters were locked in my desk, but I’d carelessly left the key out, and he helped himself to it. He was vastly entertained by the letters. He even congratulated me on, as he put it, having ‘a bird in the hand.’”
“That bloody villain! Was he…wait. Were the letters signed? Does Egerton know Lady Harriet is the one who?—”
“No. She signed them with a childhood nickname. Egerton doesn’t know Lady Harriet is the lady who wrote to me, but if he should ever find out?—”
“He’ll use it against her, as sure as we’re both sitting here. The man has no conscience.”
“None whatsoever. To make matters worse, Egerton’s gaming has caught up to him. He’s on the verge of ruin. He’s come to London for the season because he must marry, and he must marry well.”
“And here’s Lady Harriet—sweet, beautiful, richly-dowered and innocent to the ways of London. Christ, Egerton must be salivating to get his hands on her. Do you think he would?—”
“Use the letters to try and force her to marry him? I’m certain of it.”
“But surely Lady Harriet wouldn’t agree to?—”
“She would if she believed it would affect her sisters’ prospects if her own reputation was damaged.” Hattie would never permit Margaret and Sarah to suffer for any action of hers. “Whatever else happens, Egerton can’t ever find out Lady Harriet is the lady from my letters.”
“We’ll make certain of it, Windham. I promise it. Is there anything else?”
“No. That’s the whole of it.”
Or nearly the whole of it. He’d held one thing back. Something he couldn’t bring himself to say aloud, not even to Hayward.
He hadn’t wanted to stop writing to Hattie. It had nearly killed him to do it, but the day after Egerton had found those letters, he’d promised himself he’d cut all ties with her.
He wasn’t good for Hattie. If the disaster with Egerton proved nothing else, it proved that. She hadn’t been to London for years, yet her association with him had still put her reputation at risk.
It wouldn’t happen a second time.
Hattie was the one pure, bright spot in a lifetime of excess and vice.
She was the only thing he’d ever done right.
He wouldn’t see her hurt. Not by Egerton, and especially not by himself.
