Not the Dukes Darling by Hoyt, Elizabeth (10)

Despite having been married once before, Christopher had never proposed. That was because his last engagement had been a fait accompli by the time he was informed of it. The entire thing had been arranged by his father and Sophy’s mother. Even her brother hadn’t heard until he was called home from London to attend the hasty wedding.

So Christopher had never before contemplated how best to propose to a woman. Though if he had, he would’ve acknowledged that a hasty, forced-by-circumstances proposal probably wasn’t the ideal option—especially for a woman such as Freya.

After all, she’d not only challenged him to a duel, she’d won.

Still, even knowing she wouldn’t be happy about his proposal, he wasn’t entirely prepared for outright refusal.

“Are you insane?” Her green-gold eyes blazed at him as fiercely as if he’d suggested running nude through the sitting room.

He blinked, nonplussed. “I—”

“No,” Freya said calmly, if a bit lethally, “I won’t marry you, Kester.”

He tried to rein in his irritation. Did everything have to be difficult with this woman?

“We spent the night together, Freya,” he said through gritted teeth. “Even if nothing truly happened, the tale will get out. If you don’t marry me, people will talk about you. I don’t want that.”

“You’re concerned that people will talk about me?” she replied mockingly. “Don’t you think they might talk if a duke marries a penniless companion?”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” he snapped. “Wonder at a formally disgraced lady marrying a duke is not at all the same as speculation that I seduced and abandoned you.”

“This sounds very much as if you’re worried over your own name,” she drawled. “You needn’t fret. Most couldn’t care less about a poor companion.”

Try though he did, he felt his own ire rise. “Damn it, Freya. You aren’t a companion. When you marry me you can resume your true name and your place in society.”

Her eyes went wide, and for a fraction of a second he thought his logic had prevailed.

Then her upper lip lifted, revealing perfect white teeth that bit out, “You presume to know what I want. Has it never occurred to you that I’m perfectly happy as I am? That I don’t want to take back my name and position?”

“No,” he growled back, “because that’s ridiculous. You’re the daughter of a duke. Why the hell would you want to continue serving those inferior to you in rank?”

“You don’t know me, Christopher Renshaw.”

“Don’t I?” For some reason those words made his irritation boil over into anger. He braced his hands on the arms of the chair she sat in and leaned into her, staring into those gorgeous eyes. “I know your family and where you grew up, Freya de Moray. I know that your tongue is sharp enough to cut to ribbons any man so foolish as to cross you. I know you hide a tender side under your thorny exterior, because you spent all night in my arms just to calm me. And, Freya, I know what you taste like when I kiss you.”

He suited action to word by leaning forward and catching her lips in a brief, hard kiss.

She didn’t protest, but she didn’t actively return his passion.

Which should’ve been a warning to him.

When he pulled away, she was lounging back in the chair, as cool and unmoved as a queen about to pronounce sentence upon some filthy peasant.

“You think embracing me is the same thing as knowing me?” she whispered. “What of my wishes, my fears, my dreams? You don’t know anything true about me, Harlowe. That’s proved by the very fact that you think I’d want to marry you because of social mores.”

And now she’d regressed to calling him by his title. How could he desire such a contrary woman?

Because she challenged him. Because when her anger rose so did her passion. Because he’d caught a sweet light in her eyes more than once when she gazed at him.

Because beneath all those sharp thorns lay an intelligent, warm woman. He inhaled, trying to calm himself. “I don’t want to marry you only because of society—”

“Would you have proposed had we not been locked in the well house?” she interrupted sweetly.

“You know damned well I wouldn’t have!”

She raised haughty brows. “Then I think this discussion over.”

He took a deep breath, trying to reclaim reason. He had to protect her. “Freya, I’ve compromised you.”

“I won’t marry merely because you feel guilty.” She stood, making him rise as well and give her room. “Frankly, your guilt is not my problem.”

He closed his eyes. He hadn’t slept last night, not really, and had spent most of the hours in a state of high tension because of the dark and the cramped little house.

He was exhausted.

Christopher opened his eyes and looked at her. “I failed your brother. I failed Sophy. I will not fail you.”

Her lips were trembling now. She was no doubt as tired and irritable as he. “Not marrying me isn’t failing me. If it makes you feel better, I very much doubt that even Lady Holland truly expects you to marry me.”

He took a step forward, standing close enough that he could smell the faint traces of her honeysuckle perfume, and said desperately, “I am not proposing for Lady Holland or anyone else. I want you as my wife because of who you are.”

She cocked her head. “And who do you think I am?”

“Lady Freya de Moray,” he replied, quietly, but with heat, for his patience was wearing thin. “The daughter and sister of the Duke of Ayr. A lady of considerable heritage. A lady who deserves to be married when she is compromised. I want what is best for you.”

Her sweet mouth flattened almost as if she were hurt. “If you wanted what was best for me, you would not insult me by proposing for society’s sake.”

“I am proposing because it’s what’s right,” he said helplessly. Their conversation was unraveling in his hands and he had no idea how to put it back together again. He didn’t know the words to convince her. “I’m proposing because if I did not, I would no longer be an honorable gentleman. Can’t you see that?”

Her eyes went wide, and for a fraction of a second he thought he saw tears in her eyes.

Then she turned away, hiding her face. “Perhaps,” she said as she swept from the room, “you should worry less about your honor and more about my feelings.”

That night Freya took a deep breath before tapping softly on Messalina’s door.

Messalina immediately opened it and beckoned her inside.

Freya walked in and turned, feeling nervous.

The strange thing was that Messalina seemed nervous as well, her smile tentative as she gestured to a chair and a settee by the small fireplace. “Will you sit?”

Freya lowered herself to one of the chairs. Messalina was wearing a lovely jade silk wrapper embroidered with cranes. Her hair was in a single smooth braid. Freya felt a pang as she remembered all the times when as children they were allowed to sleep at each other’s home. Messalina had always had glossy, straight black hair—hair easily tamed into a smooth braid for sleeping, unlike Freya’s own wild curly hair.

Freya inhaled and looked at her dearest childhood friend. “I think I need to begin by apologizing to you.”

“What?” She appeared to have caught Messalina by surprise. Her eyes widened as she sat on the very edge of her chair. “Why?”

“For the way I’ve treated you for the last fifteen years. I’m sorry.” Freya gripped her hands together. “I think when it happened, I was in shock. We feared that Ran might die, you see, and then with Papa’s death…”

“I understand,” Messalina interjected. “Truly I do. You don’t have to go on.”

“But I think I do,” Freya said softly. “I need to tell you that I’m sorry—so very sorry—that Aurelia died. I’ve never believed that Ran killed her, but that doesn’t stop me from mourning her. I need to tell you all this so that there won’t be any more lies or hurt or confusion between the two of us.”

Messalina half smiled. “Can we really do away with all hurt between us?”

Freya answered her smile with her own. “We can try, I think. I can look at you and understand that none of this was your fault—any more than it was my fault. We both suffered. We both lost family members. But when I should’ve gone to you for comfort I turned away instead. I thought that you must have taken the side of your brother and uncle. That you were my enemy now.”

Messalina sighed. “I’ve never been your enemy—even if I still love my brother Julian.”

“And I’m not your enemy, even if I still love Ran,” Freya said softly. “I’m sorry for being scared. For assuming instead of talking to you.”

Messalina blinked rapidly, her eyes shining. “Well, I think I can forgive you if you promise to talk to me in the future.”

“Yes,” Freya said, her voice wobbling. “Yes, I can do that.”

Freya didn’t know how she came to be standing, but Messalina had her arms wrapped around her neck and they were hugging as if they were still girls, their hair down, running over the Scottish hills, and it was good, so very good to know that Messalina was her friend again.

Freya felt tears sliding down her cheeks, which was simply silly. She didn’t know when she’d last been so happy.

When Messalina finally let her go, she drew Freya down to sit on the settee close beside her. “Oh, I’ve missed you so! What has your life been like? Why are you acting as a paid companion, and why the name Miss Stewart? I confess I’ve been dying to ask for the last four years.”

Freya looked at her and opened her mouth to tell her the usual lies, but instead what came out was, “I’m a Wise Woman.”

It was such a relief to say it aloud that she grinned.

Though, of course, her statement led to an explanation that took nearly an hour.

“Good Lord,” Messalina said after Freya finally ran out of words. She was lounging on the settee. She’d produced a bottle of wine sometime in the last half hour and was now sipping from a tiny, delicate wineglass. “I had heard the rumors, of course. One can hardly grow up on the border and not hear whispers about Wise Women, but for them to be true.” She shook her head. “And you say that’s why you were locked in the well house? Because of a Dunkelder in our midst?”

“It must be,” Freya said, swallowing a mouthful of wine. “I think it was a warning to me.”

“Who do you suppose it is?” Messalina mused. “Have you a guest in mind? I’d point to Lord Rookewoode myself. That man is far too handsome for his own good.”

Freya laughed. It was so nice to be able to discuss this with someone else. To discuss it with Messalina. “I’ve wondered about Lord Stanhope—he seems so dour and disapproving. But Lord Lovejoy actually talked about witches and he at least is from the area.”

“Of course it could be Christopher,” Messalina said innocently.

Freya shot her a baleful look.

“No, I suppose not.” Messalina grinned. “Whatever is going on between the two of you?”

“Nothing,” Freya said, attempting to sound innocent.

Messalina arched a disbelieving eyebrow.

Freya wrinkled her nose. She’d never been able to pretend with Messalina. “He proposed.”

“No!”

“Yes.” Freya shrugged and sipped her wine to cover her sudden pang of sadness.

“And I take it you refused.” Messalina seemed thoughtful.

“Why do you say that?” Freya hedged.

It was Messalina’s turn for the look. “One, because you’re as stubborn as a mule. Two, because Christopher would’ve announced the engagement at dinner had you accepted, and instead he spent the meal glaring at his peas, poor man.”

“I see you’ve already taken his side,” Freya grumbled.

“Not at all.” Messalina waved her wineglass rather recklessly. “I merely feel sorry for him because he should’ve known that asking for your hand out of a sense of duty was guaranteed to make you decline—even if you truly were interested in him.”

Freya felt heat mount her cheeks. “Who says I’m interested in Harlowe?”

“I do because of the way you stare at him when you think no one is looking,” Messalina said slyly. “When I first arrived, your stares were nearly all angry. Lately they’ve revealed an entirely different emotion.”

“I don’t know what you mean,” Freya said, though her face felt as if it were burning now. Was it true? Was she betraying herself every time she glanced at Harlowe? Because she knew that Messalina was right in one respect: she no longer hated him.

And if he’d asked her to marry him without the threat of scandal hanging over her head? Well, she wouldn’t have accepted him, of course.

But she might’ve told him so in less harsh terms.

Freya cleared her throat. “We’ve rather gotten off the subject of the Dunkelder and my mission for the Wise Women.”

“Mission?” Messalina cocked her head inquisitively. “What mission is that?”

Freya bit her lip, but she’d already told Messalina everything else. “When Parliament reconvenes in the autumn, some members intend to propose an act making witch-hunting not just legal again, but encouraged.” Her mouth twisted. “The Witch Act that Lord Stanhope mentioned the other day at breakfast. It’s meant as a morality measure—eradicating the ungodly from Britain. That sort of thing. In the past, though, the Dunkelders have made no distinction between witches and Wise Women. They believe we are witches—evil worshippers of the devil. Obviously, I can’t let that act be passed.”

Messalina sat up a little straighter. “How do you intend to stop it?”

Freya leaned forward. “The man spearheading the act is Lord Elliot Randolph. If I can find something to hold over the man, I’m hoping I can prevent him from proposing the act.” She sat back. “I think Lord Randolph killed his wife, and I want to prove it.”

Messalina’s eyes grew wide. “Eleanor Randolph?”

“Yes?” Freya said warily.

Messalina jumped up and went to her dressing table to rummage in a box holding her toiletries. “Ah. Here it is.” She turned and thrust a letter into Freya’s hands. “Read it.”

Freya bent to the letter, rapidly scanning the page and then reading it again more slowly. The letter was from Eleanor Randolph, stating that she wished to leave Lord Randolph.

She stared at Messalina. “When did you receive this?”

“Only weeks before Eleanor died.”

Freya folded the letter, thinking. “I walked to the estate the first day here and talked to the gamekeeper. He said that Eleanor had run into the stable yard at night wearing only her chemise. Of course everyone thought she was mad…but what if she wasn’t?”

Messalina nodded, looking fierce. “She could’ve been trying to escape from Lord Randolph.” Her face fell. “But how can we prove it?”

“Someone in the house must’ve known,” Freya said. She wasn’t quite as confident as she hoped her voice sounded, but she had to think there was some possibility of revealing Lord Randolph as a murderer. “I tried talking to the housekeeper, but no one would answer the door there.”

Messalina was frowning. “We tried to find Eleanor’s lady’s maid, but she was dismissed before Eleanor died.”

Freya blinked. “We?”

“Jane and I,” Messalina said. “She’s a good friend and very practical. Enlisting her help was the first thing I did when I came.”

“Do you know where the lady’s maid went when she was dismissed?” Freya asked. “Perhaps she returned to London.”

Messalina shook her head. “She was a local girl—she shouldn’t have gone far.”

“But if she knows anything, she’s probably too frightened to speak out.” Freya worried her lip for a moment, thinking. “What we need is someone from the area, someone she might trust, to look for her and approach her.” She glanced at Messalina. “Are any of Lady Lovejoy’s servants locals?”

“I’ll ask her.” Messalina looked at Freya. “Then we are investigating Eleanor’s death together?”

Freya nodded. “Together.”

Messalina’s face lit with a broad smile. “Oh, good.”

Christopher woke the next morning with the realization that he’d slept peacefully through the night.

Without any nightmares.

Strange. He’d thought that after the night in the well house his night fears—his aversion to the dark and small spaces—would worsen. He’d fully expected a restless, nightmare-filled sleep.

Instead he was more refreshed than he had been in years.

He very much doubted that he was entirely cured of his affliction, but he was certainly glad that it hadn’t worsened. Was this because Freya had been with him in the well house? Because she distracted him with conversation and her very presence?

If so, he owed her a debt of gratitude.

Tess nosed his hand.

He turned and saw her sitting patiently by the side of his bed.

Well, not so patiently—she backed up and barked, once and sharply, when she saw that he was awake.

“Did you want something?” he inquired politely.

Tess spun in a circle, then bowed to him.

“Oh, all right.”

He rose and quickly dressed, then led the way out of the room and down the stairs, Tess padding behind.

They stepped out of the house and into the gentle morning sunshine. Tess ran ahead as they headed for the garden.

Christopher had had quite enough of the woods the day before.

He pondered Freya as he strolled behind Tess’s loping form. He wanted her as his wife—and not merely because marrying her was the honorable thing to do. He wanted to spend his life arguing with her, watching her lips twitch when she baited him, feeling the thrill go through his chest when he provoked her laugh.

She wasn’t an easy woman, but she made him feel alive. More, she made him want to live.

And she saw him as a man—not a son, employer, husband, rich relative, or duke. He was Kester to her.

Plain and simple.

He longed for that—to be a human again. To be intimate with another person again.

To be intimate with Freya.

Which meant he needed to somehow learn Freya—both who she was as a woman and what she wanted in order to agree to become his wife.

But first he needed to confront Plimpton and be done with that matter, because he’d never met with the man the night before. Somehow Plimpton had made sure to avoid him.

No more.

Christopher whistled for Tess and turned toward the house.

Late that morning the entire house party set out on horseback for a picnic alfresco.

The horse Freya was given to ride to the picnic was so old she could practically hear its bones creaking. She’d tried to nudge the mare into a trot, but the poor thing kept lapsing back into a steady walk. She trailed the rest of the party by quite a bit.

Which suited her just fine. She’d finally had to break the news to Lady Holland just this morning that she hadn’t accepted Harlowe.

Lady Holland had shaken her head, looking as if she had too many things to say all at once.

Thankfully, Lady Lovejoy had chosen that moment to announce the picnic, and Freya had made a hasty escape to change into her riding costume.

Now Freya sighed and watched Arabella riding ahead of her. Arabella was beside young Mr. Lovejoy, who wasn’t a very good horseman but made up for it by not taking himself terribly seriously.

Lady Holland was on the other side of Mr. Lovejoy and smiling benignly. Freya concurred—really that would be a good match. Not as good as with a titled gentleman, of course, but Mr. Lovejoy was nice, especially when it came to Arabella. He didn’t seem the sort to ride roughshod over his wife’s opinions. He was a good listener, and Freya had the feeling he would truly respect Arabella.

When one came right down to it, nice was a very good thing in a gentleman.

The thought made Freya’s gaze slide to Harlowe, who was riding a bit ahead of the three in front of her. He wasn’t nice. He was stubbornly certain that he knew what was best for her—and, more, that he would save her even if she didn’t want saving.

She ought to be well done with the man.

On the other hand, she herself was not a nice woman. Freya’s lips quirked at the thought. She enjoyed arguing with Harlowe. Enjoyed knowing she could say exactly what she thought and he wouldn’t pull his conversational punches with her.

Enjoyed kissing Harlowe.

Perhaps…even if she had no wish to marry the man, perhaps she could kiss and argue with him some more.

Maybe even do more than kissing.

She was so busy thinking on the matter that she nearly missed the party’s turning off the track to stop at a pretty clearing.

The servants had been sent ahead to lay out their “rustic” picnic: colorful cloths and cushions were artfully placed on the ground in groups, and the footmen were busy setting out the food and wine.

“Oh, how lovely!” Lady Holland exclaimed as a groom helped her dismount.

It was rather enchanting, Freya had to admit.

She guided her mare to the side and dismounted by herself, careful of her old riding habit’s skirts. She was handing her reins to a groom when she was hailed.

“Miss Stewart,” Regina called. “Come dine with us.”

Freya turned. Regina had already chosen a pile of cushions and was sitting with Messalina, who gave Freya a small nod.

Early that morning Messalina and Lady Lovejoy had introduced her to James, a young redheaded footman from the area. Freya had already explained that she’d been friends with Lady Randolph and, like Messalina, wanted to discover what had happened to Eleanor. Lady Lovejoy had assured her that James had been in her employ for several years—starting as a bootblack in the kitchens—and was to be trusted. Freya had liked James’s levelheaded demeanor. She’d given him careful instructions on what she wanted—to locate and question Lady Randolph’s lady’s maid—and the man had simply nodded and said it might take him several days.

He seemed competent, if a man of few words.

“This wine is quite good,” Regina was saying as Freya neared. “What a wonderful idea of Lady Lovejoy’s, to plan this picnic. Don’t you think so, Miss Greycourt?”

“Yes, indeed,” Messalina replied as Freya took a seat. “But please call me Messalina.”

“Oh, and you should call me Regina,” the other replied with a happy little bounce. “I feel as if we’ll be great friends.”

“I think so, too,” Messalina said. She turned to Freya with a devilish gleam in her gray eyes. It was the same look she used to wear when she was about to dare Freya to do something quite stupid with her. Such as swim in the loch wearing only their chemises. In November. “And you, Miss Stewart? Surely you have a Christian name as well?”

Regina giggled. “Do you know, Miss Stewart has been with us since I was sixteen, and yet I don’t think I’ve ever heard her Christian name.”

“Of course I have a Christian name,” Freya said, widening her eyes innocently. Messalina really ought to realize that she couldn’t catch Freya out.

“And?” Messalina prompted, her lips twitching.

“Aethelreda,” Freya replied with a perfectly benign smile.

Regina paused with her wineglass halfway to her lips, her eyes wide. “Truly?”

Messalina coughed. “What an…interesting name.”

“I think so.”

When they’d been girls there had been a painting at Greycourt of an old, rather irritable-looking lady. No one seemed to know who she was—the best guess was that she’d been a relative of someone who married into the family. But Messalina and Freya had been fascinated—and a little frightened—by her wrinkled visage. They’d named her Aethelreda, which had been the most hilarious name they could think up.

Actually, Freya still found the name rather funny.

Apparently Messalina did, too—she was quite obviously trying not to laugh.

Freya wanted to grin, but really that wouldn’t do.

She was still a companion, after all, and it would be very hard at this late date at the party to explain that she’d been childhood friends with Messalina.

“Why is Mama glaring at you?” Regina asked, looking over Freya’s shoulder.

Freya winced. “I’m afraid I’ve been quite the coward and have been avoiding Her Ladyship.”

“Why?” asked Messalina.

“Because I declined His Grace’s proposal.”

“What?” Regina exclaimed, much too loudly.

“Oh my goodness, Aethelreda,” Messalina murmured, and Freya thought she was enjoying Freya’s embarrassment far too much.

“He was only offering because of the well house,” Freya muttered.

“Really?” Messalina turned to look at Harlowe. “And I suppose that’s why he’s staring at you now?”

“Is he?” Regina said, craning her neck.

“If you’ll excuse me,” Freya said with what remaining dignity she had. “I believe I should talk to Lady Holland.”

She rose before either Regina or Messalina could protest.

She’d walked only a half dozen steps, though, when a hand caught her.

“Come sit here, Miss Stewart,” Harlowe said, far too loudly.

“What are you doing?” she hissed at him.

He widened his wicked blue eyes—as if anyone could think him innocent. “Why, I’m about to partake of some very fine roast beef and cheese.”

“You’re drawing attention to us,” she snapped as she reluctantly yielded to the tug of his hand. She sat on a large purple pillow, tucking her feet under her skirts.

Tess, who had been circling the mound of pillows and fabric, collapsed with a groan next to her.

Freya absently petted the dog’s soft ears.

“The only thing that might draw attention to us is your squawking. Look around. Everyone else is busy flirting.” Harlowe lounged back on a pile of multicolored silk pillows looking like some barbarian king. “Besides, I was under the impression that you hardly cared what the rest of the party thought of us.”

“There is no us,” she retorted rather lamely.

He shook his head as if saddened by the rejoinder. “I’m afraid that there you are wrong. It was made quite plain to me at breakfast that everyone knows I attempted to propose to you and that you swiftly turned me down.”

“Gossips, the lot of them.”

“Oh, quite.”

Freya sighed irritably and glanced around, only to find the viscount staring at her in disapproval. “Mr. Stanhope certainly isn’t flirting.”

“No,” Harlowe replied, handing her a glass of wine. “I’m beginning to think the man is a monk. But I have other matters to discuss with you,” he continued, watching her far too intently. “I realized this morning that I never thanked you for what you did in the well house.”

She looked at him in surprise. “There’s no need.”

“There’s every need,” he replied seriously. “I nearly lost my mind in there. Your voice and presence were a balm on my fevered brain. I should’ve been comforting you, and yet it was you who were forced to comfort me. Thank you.”

She stared at him. Really it was rather hard to continue to be angry at him when he was thanking her so graciously.

The bastard.

“You’re welcome,” she muttered, and then confessed, “I’m glad that I was there with you.”

“Truly?” He smiled doubtfully. “I was half out of my mind, you missed your supper, and it was cold.”

“Yes,” she said simply, because it was true. She was glad she’d been with him. Judging by his panic when the door had shut, he might not have made it through the night alone without injuring himself. Or worse. The thought made her restive. She didn’t want Harlowe hurt by anyone save herself.

And she was no longer sure she really wanted to hurt him.

“You’re a remarkable woman,” he said now softly. “Had I the choice of all the people in the world, I would’ve chosen you to go through that ordeal with me.”

She looked away, feeling her cheeks warm, and sipped her wine—which was very good, she had to admit.

“I hope you’ve had no ill effects from that night?” He snapped his fingers at one of the footmen and gestured for a plate of food.

“No.” She glanced at him feeling almost shy—not a usual emotion for her at all. “And you? How are you?”

He flashed a smile at her, making him look ridiculously boyish. “I’ve fully recovered. Thank you for asking.” The footman brought him two filled plates, one of which Harlowe immediately handed to her. “That was not the only reason I wanted to talk to you.”

“Oh?” Tess raised her head to take an interested sniff at the nearby food.

“Have you seen Mr. Plimpton?”

“No.” She knitted her brows at the luscious strawberries on her plate. “Not since yesterday morning, I think.”

He nodded. “Plimpton’s gone.”

“What?” She stared at him. “Are you sure?”

“He wasn’t at supper last night, and this morning when I went to confront him, he would not answer. I had Lovejoy open his room,” Harlowe said. “He wasn’t there and most of his things were missing, including the letters.” His mouth twisted. “If he ever had them here at all. The only thing I can think is that he panicked after locking us in the well house and ran.”

Freya paused. She’d been so sure that the Dunkelder—whoever he was—had been behind locking them in the well house. The witch’s mark had seemed to confirm it. But now she realized that all during that long night she’d never discussed the matter with Harlowe. “How do you know it was Mr. Plimpton?”

He raised his eyebrows. “He sent the note. He fled. Who else could it be?”

“I don’t know,” she said slowly, not even sure why she was arguing the matter with him. But if the Dunkelder hadn’t locked them in, then he must still not be aware of her identity. The problem was, she couldn’t tell Harlowe why she might suspect someone other than Mr. Plimpton. “You said you weren’t entirely sure the note was from Mr. Plimpton. Why would Mr. Plimpton go to the trouble of locking us in the well house when he wanted your money?”

He eyed her thoughtfully. “Do you have another candidate?”

She hesitated for a fraction of a second. “No.”

He took a sip of his wine, watching her, before carefully setting the wineglass down. “I hope that you would tell me if you had any information about this business.”

Freya busied herself tearing her bread into increasingly smaller pieces. Absently she fed one to Tess. The bizarre thing was, she wanted to tell him. It was as if, having finally confided in Messalina after five years of hiding, she’d uncorked a bottle. All her secrets and lies were pouring out, and she couldn’t put them back in any more than she could grasp wine with her fingers.

Harlowe’s warm hand covered her own, stilling her restless fingers. “Tell me.”

She looked up and saw his cerulean eyes. He was watching her, his face intent, focused only on her, and she had a sudden overwhelming urge to tell him.

To let him in.

But she couldn’t.

“There’s nothing to tell,” she whispered, and that lie—one of a thousand she’d told—was like a needle driven into her own skin.