Page 152 of The Earl She Once Saved

“How long have you been mooning after another man’s wife like a lovesick boy? Did it begin before you came home, or only when you saw what she had made the estate worth?”

Verity rose. “Give it back.”

Roland continued to look at the drawing. “I should be curious to know when you found time for this. You have been so busy presenting yourself as her champion.”

“It is hers,” Rafe echoed.

“Yes, you mentioned that.”

Roland turned the portrait toward them. For an instant, Verity saw her own face in the window light. Then he took the sheet between both hands and tore it down the middle.

The sound was small and dry. It seemed to pass through her.

He placed the halves together and tore them once more. Four pieces fell to the carpet near his shoes.

Rafe moved. Verity saw the step he took, the change in his face, and knew Roland saw it, too. Roland had been waiting for one of them to show him where the blow had landed. Rafe’s hand closed at his side.

“Rafe.”

He stopped because she had spoken, though he did not take his eyes from his brother. Verity walked round the table. She would not have them come to blows here, with Roland ready to name her the cause of it. She could feel Rafe close behind her as she bent to pick up the first piece of paper.

A corner had folded beneath Roland’s shoe. She eased it free. The other pieces lay scattered by the window, one holding her shoulder, another the curve of her mouth. Her hands remained steady. She gathered each part, matched the torn edges and folded them together with the blank sides out.

Roland watched her. She had seen him wait for tears before: once when he sold a bracelet her mother had left her, and again when he announced that the last of her inheritance was gone. She had given him the satisfaction both times. She would not give it now.

“You have finished with it?” she asked.

A muscle moved in his cheek. “Such composure.”

“I have the pieces.”

“Keep them, then.”

“I mean to.”

She held the folded paper at her side. She could feel the ridges where the tears no longer met cleanly. The hurt would come when she was alone, but already it pressed beneath her ribs.

“You should be careful,” Roland told her. “You are not so well as you once were. People are beginning to notice.”

The room seemed to grow colder. He said it with the ease of a man passing on a neighbor’s concern. Verity remembered the things he had said the night before and the quiet places where he said a wife might be sent. Rafe came to stand beside her. She could see that he understood.

Roland gave them both a measured look and left. The latch settled without a sound. For several moments Verity held the paper so tightly that it began to bend.

Rafe looked at the portrait in her hand. She turned it over and found the fragment with her eyes upon it. He reached toward the paper, then let his hand fall.

“It can be mended,” he said.

“Yes.” Verity drew a breath.

She had spent years repairing things Roland damaged: accounts, roofs, the trust of people who had seen his creditors at their doors. Some repairs held so well their seams disappeared, while others required living with the mark.

“I shall keep it,” she whispered.

Rafe met her eyes. She meant him to understand that his gift remained a gift, though Roland handled it. His expression softened with a gratitude that made her look down.

“I would like to speak to you about his threat,” he urged. “I have sent for Henshaw.”

“Will a solicitor’s visit stop him?”