To understand him? William shut his eyes, letting the warmth of her wash over him. What was he doing, dwelling in the memories Lanora inadvertently dredged up? He was permitting the marquess to ruin even this, his chance to win the woman he loved.

He opened his eyes and saw her worry. He claimed her hands in his, rubbed his thumbs over smooth skin, reveled in the softness. “And I wish for you to understand, to know me. I came today to convince you I am the man I claim to be. I didn’t mean to become trapped in the past.”

She offered a tentative smile. “I shouldn’t have pried. It’s not my place.”

“It is. I want it to be.” He would lay every secret bare to her, even the ones he’d already sworn not to, if he could have her by his side. “I brought these.” He released her to pull out the letters. “You know Darington is my confidant. I have only his side of our conversations, but I think they will reassure you.”

She shook her head. “You don’t have to give them to me.”

“No, but I wish to. These are only the latest few. They talk of the home for displaced women.”

Her eyes dropped to the letters he proffered. She frowned. Snatching them from his hand, she brought one close, scrutinizing his address. “What is this?” She flipped it open, her eyes darting about the page. “Is this some mad game?” She looked up at him, angry.

William shook his head. He’d hardly recovered from the feelings she’d stirred, the bitter memories. Now, she was angry. He felt as if he stood in the ring, but couldn’t see the opponent who kept pummeling him. “I don’t understand.”

Lanora held up the open letter, Darington’s scrawl filling the page. “What is the meaning of this?”

“It’s a letter from Darington. I believe he speaks of the home for women, and his daughter, as well as some of his latest finds. There’s also an ongoing discussion on Euripides and the impact of Athenian culture on—”

“This is my father’s handwriting.”

William stared at her. “No, it’s Darington’s.”

She turned the letter back around. She shook her head. “It’s my father’s. I would know it anywhere.”

William had no idea what to make of her words. Had she gone mad?

“Wait here.” She jumped up. She was out of the room, his letters still in her hand, before he grasped her intent.

He looked about, bereft. He took several slow breaths to try to calm his roiling thoughts. Sitting there alone, he finally noted the details of the parlor. Before, he could see only Lanora. Now, he took in the fine furnishings. Elegant but outdated. Not from lack of funds, that was clear. From lack of anyone caring. Long dead family members looked down from the mantel, not Lanora’s mother or father.

His eyes fell on her book. Ancient Greek again. What woman read Ancient Greek?

One who’d gone mad and run off with his letters. Should he go after her? What was she playing at? Maybe this was the torment she’d devised for his imagined transgressions.

He shifted in the chair. His side throbbed. He’d suffered worse, but not many times. Cecilia had been an excruciating near half hour digging the bullet out. Not that he regretted the injury. Dodger was a good lad. William meant to see him brought up well, educated.

Where the devil was Lanora?

Rapid footsteps sounded in the hall. Though they were light, and alone, he braced himself. Only Lanora entered, bosom heaving from running. He forced his attention back to her face. This was not a time for distraction.

She perched on the edge of the sofa, crowding him, which he didn’t mind. He did mind the wild look in her green eyes. She dropped a stack of letters in her lap, waving one at him.

“You see?” Her voice was as animated as the rest of her. “This? This is a letter from my father.” She fluttered the letter he’d brought in her other hand. “This is your letter from Mr. Darington. What ridiculous thing have you done, William? Did you copy my father’s penmanship in some bid to make false letters appear more convincing?”

Reaching out, he captured her slender wrists. “I can’t see anything with you shaking them about.”

“Tell me what you’ve done. I believe you have a good heart. I really do. I’m sure you did this out of affection.”

“I haven’t done anything,” he said, scrutinizing the letters.

The handwriting was the same. Irrefutably so. An expert forger or…. Releasing her, he took the letters, turning them over and back. The same paper. They shared an office in Cairo. “A clerk?”

Lanora shook her head. “No, that is my father’s hand. I’ve seen it my whole life. I can bring you old letters, from years ago.”

“Could Darington dictate to your father for some reason?” But why dictate letters for so many years, and why would Lord Solworth play the role of scribe?

“You lived with him in Egypt. Don’t you know if this is his handwriting?”

William dropped his gaze. Lanora was dangerously near the truth. Did he dare tell her? Moments ago, he’d vowed to, but that was before the handwriting. Now, he didn’t know what to think. Good God, what if she and her father were conspiring with the marquess? But to what end?

That was the answer. The marquess. The old man would know the truth.

William folded Lord Solworth’s letter. “May I borrow this? I will take it to the marquess and demand an explanation.”

“That’s your answer to me? That you know nothing and must leave?” Her look was incredulous.

“It is. Give me an hour. Perhaps two. I will return with the truth.” All of it, if she wasn’t part of this.

Lanora threw up her hands. “Do as you will, but do not fail to return with some explanation. I believe you, William. I am taking you at your word about who you are, and what you know of this.” Her green eyes were luminous, beseeching. “Please don’t break my trust.”

The need to kiss her was nearly insurmountable, as if this might be his final chance. Refusing to believe that, he tucked the letters into his coat and stood. “By your leave.” With a nod, he left.

William strode from the townhouse, wincing as he jogged down the steps. “Take me to the old man,” he ordered his driver, and climbed into the carriage. It wasn’t until he set out that he realized he’d left the bulk of Darington’s letters behind.

Hooves clattered on cobblestone. William winced with each bounce. He hadn’t told his man to hurry. Evidently, his attitude had been enough.

They reached the old man’s townhouse in record time. William took the steps at a quick pace, giving the butler the barest nod as he shouldered open the door and hurried by. To his surprise, footsteps sounded behind him.

“My lord.”

The butler never spoke without being addressed. William halted, turned.

“My lord, the marquess is not in his office.”

“He’s not?” William pulled out his watch. The old man was always in his office at this time of day.

“He’s above stairs. In bed.”

William tucked the watch away. He eyed the staircase. He hadn’t entered the private areas of the house in nearly a decade. “I see.”

Steeling himself, he went up. To reach the marquess’s room, he must walk past his own, Charles’s, and the room where three marchionesses, including his mother, had suffered at the hands of the marquess. Jaw clenched, William made the march. Unlike Cecilia’s home, where the walls were blessedly bare, here they were lined with ancestors. Grim eyes followed William down the hall.

The old man was indeed abed. He lay propped on pillows, shadowed in the vast canopied bed. The only light was his eyes, glinting evilly in the dark.

William strode across the room and yanked open the curtains to let in light. The window followed, for a fetid smell lurked in the perfume-soaked air.

“You heard I was dying and came to gloat.” The voice was wheezing, thin.

“I did not. I should rather never have laid eyes on you again.” Bracing himself, Willian went to the bedside.

The old man smiled, his skin stretched thin and translucent. “That’s my boy. I have made you over well. No sentiment to weaken you.”

“Not where you’re concerned, old man.”

“Not anywhere. Even gave up your mistress, when she made a fuss over you marrying. Good lad.”

William shook his head. Yes, that’s the conclusion the marquess would come to. He’d known as much when he wrote to Lethbridge about it.

A skeletal hand reached out, plucking at the bedcovers. “Can’t marry Solworth’s chit, though. I forbid it. They say you love her. Love is weakness, boy. When will you learn? You never learn.”

“I will marry whomever I please.”

“You won’t. I sent Lethbridge to get the will. I want your word you won’t marry the chit or I’ll sign it. No heir of mine is marrying for love.”

“That’s odd, because I am your heir and I shall.” He enjoyed the fury that sparked in the old man’s eyes. “Sign a new will if you like, if you’ve the strength left. It matters little to me.”

The marquess attempted a wheezing, unintelligible protest, which William didn’t bother to decipher. Lethbridge may very well have designs on Madelina, as Cecelia suspected, but Lethbridge was going to jail. William would find enough evidence against him. Madelina would become William’s ward, and he would protect her. Nor would his goal of bettering the poorest parts of London suffer. Lanora would have all the funds they required to aid the poor. It was clear to him now that she would be an ally in the task.

William stared with loathing at the form lying in the bed. There was only one thing he required from the marquess. Not his fortune. Not his approval. Only an answer. He pulled the letters from his coat.

“What is the meaning of this?”

The marquess coughed. Blood flecked his lips. “They’re letters, boy.”

“One of them is from Lord Solworth to his daughter, the other from Mr. Darington to me. Why are they in the same hand?”

The marquess’s cackling laugh ended in another fit of coughing. He fell back, eyes closed.

William watched him breathe, jaw clenched. He folded the letters and put them away. Reaching out, he shook the old man by his boney shoulders. “I asked you a question.”

Dark eyes flickered open. Old yellowed teeth, blood tinged, grinned at him. “Shaking a dying man? That’s my boy.”

William resisted the urge to shake him harder. He pulled his hands away and dusted them on his pants, as if he’d touched something foul. “Answer me.”

“They are the same. There is no Darington. Solworth invented him.”

William took a half step back, stunned. Darington had exploits. Adventures. He was reported about in the paper and co-wrote learned articles with Lord Solworth. William and Darington had corresponded since William was fourteen. “How? Why?”

“His wife died. He wished to escape. Love makes a man weak.”

That part of the story William knew. “What has that to do with you, or me?”

The marquess drew in several wheezing breaths. “Solworth had no money. His father wouldn’t fund Egypt. He’d only begot the girl, after all. I needed an excuse for your absence, your ill manners.”

William stared at the gasping form on the bed. “You funded Solworth, not Darington. You paid for his first expedition in exchange for him inventing an alibi for my years with Mother.”

The marquess cackled again, gleeful. “You look up to him, and it’s a lie. Twelve years of lies. I prayed I would live to see the look on your face when you found out.”

The old man’s laughter turned into another coughing fit. He gasped for air. Blood red spittle ran down his chin. His face began to turn purple. His eyes flew wide. William stayed where he was, making no effort to help, though he didn’t know how one would. The marquess stilled. Silence fell. The body on the bed moved no more, would never stir again.

William closed his eyes for a long moment, then drew in a slow breath and strode from the room. He didn’t bother to close the door. He went downstairs, out of that place, and into his carriage. His coachman came to the window.

“Where to, my lord?”

“Back to Solworth House. No need to hurry.”

His words sounded far away. He must have looked a sight, for his coachman eyed him a long moment before he nodded and disappeared. The carriage dipped, then started forward.

William took out the letters, dimly seen in the interior of the carriage. A lie. Twelve years of lies.

No. He shook his head. He couldn’t believe that. The name, yes. The existence of his confidant, yes. Lies. The words, never. William was not so poor a judge of other men as that. Darington’s…that was, Solworth’s words were real. One need simply change out the name and the remainder was real.

And Lady Lanora was Darington’s daughter. Lanora was the free, kind, caring creature he’d grown up reading about. That’s why the letters never named her, why all attempts at finding Mr. Darington’s daughter had failed. It was Lanora. It had always been her.

Lightness filled him. He wasn’t giving up the dream of Darington’s daughter by falling in love with Lanora. He was realizing it. Was it any wonder he was more drawn to her every day? He’d already loved her for years.

The carriage came to a stop. William stuffed the letters back in his coat. He jumped down from the carriage, forgetting his stitches in his joy to see Lanora, to tell her all.

Before he could take the steps, the door flew open. Grace ran out. He grabbed her by the shoulders as she all but fell down the steps, steadying her.

“My lord, thank Heaven you’ve come,” Grace cried. “She’s gone off to that evil attorney. She said she must know the truth. I couldn’t stop her.”