It seemed there was plenty of guilt to go around. Lionel handed his horse off to the groom and strode to the house. His ride had helped banish some of the darkness his conversation with Emmaline had wrought. But not all of it.

Then again, it seemed the darkness—the regret, the guilt, the despair—would always be with him. He just needed to find a way to live with it. He’d done it before, after the last duel with Addison, but this time was so very different.

This time, he had a constant reminder, in the form of his wife, of the wrong he’d done. How did you learn to live with that?

Entering the house, he went upstairs to change, intent on paying a call on the editor of the Post. Hennings was waiting for him with his clothing already laid out. “Did you have a good ride, my lord?”

Lionel stripped his coat away and handed it to the valet. “Yes.” He unbuttoned his waistcoat.

“May I saw how delighted I was to see you dining with Lady Axbridge this morning?”

Handing Hennings the waistcoat, Lionel grunted. “It didn’t end particularly well.” He unknotted his cravat and tugged it free, then sat down in a chair so Hennings could remove his boots.

“I’m sorry to hear that. Would you care to discuss it?”

Hennings was always eager to provide his ear and offer advice if it was warranted—whether Lionel wanted it or not. If he agreed to share information, he also agreed to listen to Hennings’s opinion. So far it had served him well, even if the man was occasionally frustrating. But then he supposed the best parents—or their surrogates—were.

“She told me about Townsend’s death. The doctor stitched his wound, then left him to sleep. She didn’t sit with him, and when the doctor returned, he found that Townsend had died.”

Hennings pulled Lionel’s stockings away with a wince. “How awful for her.”

“She blames herself.”

“I can see why, but that way lies madness.” He peered over at Lionel, who stood from the chair and pulled his shirt over his head. “I know you tire of hearing it, but you mustn’t blame yourself for Addison or for Townsend.”

Lionel was tired of hearing it, but only because he disagreed. Seeing Emmaline’s guilt and knowing it was misguided, he wondered if maybe he was wrong about his own. “It is hard not to,” he said quietly.

“Yes, but the fact that you aren’t telling me to go to the devil gives me hope.” Hennings’s eyes twinkled as he fetched a new shirt and gave it to Lionel.

Lionel drew the white lawn over his head, then shucked his riding breeches. He exchanged them with Hennings for a new pair.

“It was a distressing breakfast for another reason,” Lionel said. “She read a piece in the newspaper suggesting we’d perhaps plotted Townsend’s death so that we could marry.”

Hennings sucked in a breath. “Despicable.”

“Quite. I intend to pay a visit to the newspaper editor right now.” He tucked his shirt into his waistband and sat down to pull on his stockings and boots.

“It wasn’t the Post, was it?” Hennings asked.

“Indeed it was. Why?” Lionel finished with his stocking and took a boot from Hennings.

Hennings grimaced. “The editor is rather unscrupulous. He pays for information—some of it true and some of it not. I believe he also engages in extortion from time to time if the information is particularly salacious and about someone who may have funds.”

Lionel immediately thought of Marianne and Townsend. Had Townsend become involved with this editor? It seemed unlikely. It was more plausible that was he simply employing similar tactics. Still, Lionel found the similarity unsettling.

“How do you know this?” Lionel asked while donning the second boot.

“Servants talk, my lord,” he said wryly. “You know this.”

Lionel stood. “Yes, but mine don’t. Is that still the case?”

Hennings straightened, his eyes widening in offense.

“Not you, Hennings,” Lionel said. “Nor Tulk. I trust you both implicitly.”

Hennings’s shoulders relaxed. “I don’t believe anyone in your household would do that.”

No, of course they wouldn’t. Most of them had been on retainer even before his father had died. They were staunchly loyal.

Lionel went to grab his cravat, then drew it around his neck. Hennings offered him his waistcoat next, which Lionel pulled over his shoulders and began to button. “So I should be wary of this editor because he’s crooked.”

“I should say so. I also doubt he’ll reveal his sources. Others have tried, from what I’ve heard. However, you are the Duke of Danger. Perhaps you will have better luck.” At Lionel’s wince, Hennings apologized. “I didn’t mean to offend you. However, you do possess a certain reputation, and if it will garner the results you wish, why not use it?”

Lionel adjusted the cravat around his collar. Hennings came forward and tied it, creating an artful knot that Lionel could never accomplish.

“I’ll consider your advice,” Lionel said.

Hennings inclined his head and stepped back to fetch his coat. He held it open as Lionel turned, then brought it up over his shoulders, smoothing the fabric.

Lionel walked to the glass and made a few adjustments. “It’s difficult to use my notoriety when I’d just as soon bury it. This morning, I—mistakenly—thought that Emmaline assumed I would threaten the editor. It seemed natural she would think that, given what she knows.”

“And what does she know?” Hennings asked softly. “Does she know you’re a man of honor? That you’ve fought duels to defend your father’s name, a friend’s secret, and a child? Is she aware of the depth of your generosity and kindness? She must be. You found her horse and gave it back to her. You settled her husband’s debts and gave her your name. You’ve been supportive and patient. Your father would be exceedingly proud.”

Lionel turned from the glass. “How can you be so sure?”

“I knew him very well, as well as I know you. You are a man of distinct honor and profound benevolence. You have a deep-seated notion of morality and can’t stand to the side while others suffer, especially those you care about. And I can see you care about Lady Axbridge a great deal.”

He did. “Thank you, Hennings.” He turned and left, making his way downstairs where the coach was waiting to convey him to the offices of the Post in the Strand.

A short while later, he stalked through the doorway. It took him a few minutes to find the editor, who sat in an office behind a large desk with papers spread before him. He looked up as Lionel entered.

“Good afternoon,” Lionel said smoothly. “Are you the editor?”

The man stood. “I am. My name is Hodge.”

“I am Axbridge.” The man’s nostrils flared. “You would know who I am, of course, since you printed that disgusting piece of nonsense in your newspaper this morning.”

“I don’t think I know what you’re referring to, my lord.”

Now the similarities between him and Townsend were too close. The viscount had responded with a nearly identical statement. “I’m sure you do, and I’m not here to quibble over that. I’m here to ask why you would print something so nasty. My wife is most upset. I don’t like to see her upset.”

Hodge’s gaze turned wary. “I should think not. We publish things of interest. I apologize if you took offense.”

“I could perhaps accuse you of libel.”

Hodge’s eyes popped wide with fright. “I didn’t print your name.”

Lionel wrinkled his nose. “Nasty all the same. Did you come up with this nonsense on your own, or did you obtain it from one of your informants?”

The editor blanched. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Exhaling, Lionel walked slowly around the desk to where the man stood. Hodge barely reached Lionel’s shoulder.

“I think we’ve established when you say that, you’re lying,” said Lionel. “At least, I’ve come to that conclusion, and I do believe I’m right. I know you pay people, such as servants, for scandals and secrets.” He leaned forward slightly, towering over the smaller man. “Who did you pay for this one?”

“There’s a woman who brings me tidbits somewhat regularly,” he squeaked.

“What is her name?”

“I don’t know.” Perspiration dotted his brow, and he wiped his hand over his face. “She’s a governess, I think. She’s a bit thick through the middle, with dark hair. Oh! And a nose like a raven’s beak.”

Lionel’s heart skipped a beat. He turned from the man and walked back around the desk. “If you print anything else about me or my wife—even without our names—I will charge you with libel.”

“You can’t if it’s true. She told me this bit—about you and your wife—was true.”

Allowing his lip to curl in an icy sneer, Lionel pivoted. “It is unequivocally false. Should I reconsider my charges of libel in this instance?”

Hodge’s eyes widened once more, and he shook his head. “No, my lord.”

“I shall look forward to what you print tomorrow—something saying how fortunate Lady Axbridge and I are to have found each other amidst extraordinary circumstances.” He walked to the doorway, but paused before leaving. “You said this woman visits you regularly. What other information has she given you?”

Hodge’s color went a bit gray. “That you were having an affair with Lady Richland.”

“And yet I was so in love with my wife that I’d plotted murder. Which is it? Good God, man, if you’re going to print lies, at least ensure they make sense.” Lionel gave him a good, long glower before taking his leave.

He stalked from the building and instructed his groom to drive to Marianne’s. He climbed into the coach and stared out the window, brooding. By the time he reached his destination, he was teeming with questions.

Marianne’s butler, Arnold, showed him to the drawing room. He paced while he waited, which was thankfully not too long.

Marianne swept into the room, lavender skirts brushing her ankles. “Lionel, how lovely to see you.”

He frowned. “I wish I were here under happier circumstances.”

She flinched. “Oh no, whatever’s the matter?”

“Let us sit.” He gestured to the settee and waited for her to drop onto the cushion before he joined her. “I’ve learned that Freddy’s nurse has been selling information to the Post. I wondered, if she would do that, perhaps she also gave—or sold—information to Townsend for an extortion plot.”

Marianne gasped and covered her mouth with her hand. “This is… I can scarcely imagine her doing that. She’s so wonderful with Freddy.” She dropped her hand to her lap. “I don’t know how she would’ve known about him. She only joined the household late last spring, and I never confided it to her. My maid is the only person here who knows, and that’s because she was with me then.”

“Is it possible she told the nurse?” Lionel asked.

“I would be shocked, but I think I have to ask her. I’ll have Arnold fetch her.” She stood and left the drawing room for a moment. When she returned, she came back to the settee. “This is a disaster.”

He briefly touched her arm. “We’ll get to the heart of things.”

She nodded and smiled. A moment later, she regarded him with concern. “I read the Post this morning.”

“I assume you’re referring to that dreadful piece about Emmaline and me?”

“No one will believe it. She eloped with her husband—they were quite in love.”

Her words cut deep. But he couldn’t erase the facts, no matter how much they ate at him. “I spoke to the editor—that’s how I learned about your nurse. She sold him that information and told him it was true.”

Anger flashed in Marianne’s eyes. “Why would she do that?”

“I would guess money. Sometimes the simplest motive is the truest.”

Marianne’s maid entered then. She dipped into a curtsey. “My lord.” She was maybe in her mid-twenties and quite attractive.

“Clarkson, did you share the secret of Freddy’s parentage with anyone?”

The maid’s color faded to a dull gray. “No, my lady.” Her answer was so soft, Lionel had to strain to hear it.

“Forgive me, Clarkson.” Lionel tried to inject warmth into his tone lest he frighten her. “It looks as though you may not be telling the entire truth. Please, we need to know.”

She burst into tears, and Marianne jumped up, rushing to her side. She put her arm around the young retainer and squeezed her tight. “It’s all right, Clarkson. I am not upset with you.”

It took a minute for the maid to rein in her emotions. She wiped her cheeks, but her lip still trembled. “Sometimes I drink with Deborah—the nurse. She likes to imbibe, and then she asks me things. I think I may have said some things I shouldn’t have.”

“Such as the question of Freddy’s parentage and the nature of my marriage,” Lionel said.

Clarkson’s tears started again in earnest. Her cheeks flushed bright red as her shoulders shook. She tried to speak, but Lionel had no idea what she was saying.

After taking several deep breaths, she composed herself once more. “She asked about you, my lord, and whether there was anything between you and her ladyship.” She inclined her head toward Marianne. “I said there used to be.” She turned apologetic eyes overflowing with tears toward her mistress. “Please forgive me.”

“It’s all right,” Marianne soothed. “Why don’t you go down to the kitchens and have Cook give you some warm milk? That will settle you down.”

“Am I—” Clarkson hiccupped. “Will I be dismissed from my post?”

“No.” Marianne gave her a kind smile and urged her toward the door.

Clarkson’s whimpers faded as she trailed from the room.

“You’re overly kind to keep her in your employ.”

“Do you know how hard it is to find a good maid? She made a mistake. I daresay she won’t be doing that again, and I’ll make sure of it.” Marianne’s brows pitched to a V over her narrowed eyes. “She’s not the real villain here. I’ll send for the nurse.” She left again, and Lionel got up from the settee to ease the agitation tensing his frame.

He walked to the window and stared out. Marianne returned and offered him whiskey, but he declined. She said she planned to have a glass as soon as they were finished.

A few minutes later, the nurse came in. Lionel studied her features to see if she was perhaps related to Mullens, the tailor. They shared the same nose, but then so did that woman at the musicale the other night.

The nurse bobbed a curtsey to Lionel as the maid had done. She was a bit older than the maid and more plain. She possessed kind eyes and a softness to her expression that Lionel supposed made her appealing as a nurse. She certainly didn’t look like the sort of woman who would sell secrets for money. Not that Lionel had any idea what that sort of woman should look like.

Marianne faced the nurse. “It has come to my attention that you have sold information about me and my friend”—she glanced toward Lionel—“to the Post for publication. I’m not asking if it’s true, because I know that it is. Do you have anything to say for yourself?”

The nurse began to tremble, but she didn’t dissolve into a fit of hysterics as the maid had done. “It seems you’ve already come to your own conclusion. I can only say that I wouldn’t betray you, my lady.”

“And yet you did,” Lionel said, walking toward her but stopping a few feet away. “Don’t bother denying it. You sold information about my marriage—false information that qualifies as libel—to Mr. Hodge. The only way to save yourself here is to tell us what else you’ve disclosed and to whom.”

Her lip quivered, but her eyes were dry. She turned her attention to Marianne. “I am so sorry, my lady. I knew Mr. Hodge bought information, and I needed money to help my mother. She’s quite ill.”

“I didn’t realize you had a mother,” Marianne said. “I wish you would have come to me.”

Lionel wasn’t convinced. “So you made this up?”

She nodded. “I’d read the day before that you and the marchioness seemed very affectionate at the Clare musicale.” Her gaze fell to the carpet. “I’d also read about the speculation regarding your marriage and how odd it was that she married you, the man who killed her husband.” She looked at him then, and he swore there was ice in the depths of her stare.

“You are quite a storyteller,” Marianne said, sounding disgusted. “Did you also sell information about my son?”

“I did not, my lady. I swear it.” She looked Marianne square in the eye, and Lionel almost believed her.

“I will have to let you go from your post, and I’m afraid I can’t provide a reference.”

The nurse’s jaw dropped. “You wouldn’t do that.”

Marianne pressed her lips together. “Unfortunately, I must.”

“But, my mother—”

“I’m sad to hear of her troubles, but you should have spoken to me. I can’t recommend you to someone else in these circumstances.” She moved to the door and beckoned Arnold to come into the drawing room. “Please see that the nurse packs her things and is gone within the hour. And make sure she doesn’t speak to Freddy again.”

The nurse turned, her shoulders slumping.

“One more thing,” Lionel said.

She turned, but only partway, and she said nothing. Her vacant stare bore into Lionel, making him slightly uncomfortable.

“I saw you walking into a tailor’s shop in Savile Row recently. What business did you have there?”

She blinked. “You’re mistaken, my lord.” She pivoted and left the room with Arnold trailing just behind her.

Lionel frowned as he watched her go. He didn’t believe her, and it seemed she wouldn’t tell him the truth. But if that had been her and she had a connection to Mullens, who in turn had a connection to Townsend… It was simply too coincidental to ignore.

And yet, he didn’t know how to investigate the matter further. What’s more, why should he?

Because it would be good to put the entire matter surrounding the duel to rest. Why? So he could happily move on with Emmaline as if he hadn’t killed her husband?

Marianne came toward him and surprised him with an embrace. She slid her arms around his waist and laid her head against his chest. “Thank you. To think that woman was so close to my son…” She shuddered, and he skimmed his hand along her back.

“I hope you’ll have a lengthy discussion with your maid, or consider replacing her.”

“I will.” She tipped her head back and looked up at him. “You are the kindest of men.” She reached up and stroked his jaw. Her hand curled around the side of his neck and she stood on her toes…

He stepped back from her until they no longer touched. “Marianne.”

“What’s wrong?” She moved toward him, her lips parted.

“I am a married man.”

“I was a married woman when we had our affair.”

The truth sliced through his gut, and he felt a staggering regret. Now that he was married, infidelity seemed a horrible transgression. What a hypocrite he’d become. “Nonetheless, I take my vows quite seriously, and I will remain faithful to my wife.”

Marianne’s eyes darkened with confusion. “But it’s a sham.”

He shook his head. “It isn’t. Not to me. Emmaline deserves my utter devotion.”

“That’s your guilt talking.”

Maybe, but it was also his emotion. He was falling in love with his wife. “She may never love me, but I will spend my life trying to deserve it. Perhaps that is my penance.” Loving a woman who would never love him in return.

She shook her head. “You have changed.”

Killing two men would do that.

He realized then that his friendship with Marianne had come to an end. “I will always help you if you need it, but I must say good-bye.”

He went to her and kissed her forehead. She leaned into him, and he let her rest against him for a moment. Then he walked away.

“And I will always be here for you, Lionel. Always.”

He didn’t respond, but picked up speed as he left her house, anxious to begin the next chapter of his life.

* * *

The door to the shop slammed, causing Adam Mullens to slosh his tea onto his waistcoat. He swore. Nothing infuriated him more than an adverse effect on his clothing. Well, nothing save plans that went awry. That positively enraged him.

He set his cup down and walked into the main room. His older sister, Deborah, dropped her valise to the floor. Her eyes were dark and furious, her lips practically nonexistent in her agitation.

Taking a deep breath, he moved forward. “What seems to be the matter?”

She kicked at her valise. “Isn’t it obvious? I’ve been let go.”

Well, fuck. “Come and tell me all about it.” He picked up her case and led her to the back. “I’ll get you some tea.”

“Tea?” she shrilled from behind him. “How can you be so calm?”

He pushed through the curtain to the back room and set her valise near the narrow stairs that led up to the apartment she’d apparently now share with him—at least until she found new employment. “You’ll find another position. You’re an excellent nurse. Or governess. Whatever is necessary.” He went to the sideboard and poured her a cup of tea. “In fact, this is fortuitous. You can find something in a larger household that’s more prominent in Society, one with access to more information we can use.”

She took the teacup from him and gave him an overly sweet smile that set his teeth on edge. “You don’t understand. There is no reference. I won’t be able to find another position, not like the one I had with Lady Richland.”

No reference. Anger stirred in his gut, but he kept it at bay. For now. “Tell me what happened.” He gestured for her to sit and took his own chair near the draped doorway to the shop.

“Lord Axbridge somehow learned I’ve been selling information to Hodge.”

Adam’s lip curled. He hadn’t met the newspaper editor, but everything Deb had told him indicated he was a weak-minded sot. “I take it Hodge spilled this information to the marquess?”

Deb nodded. “Axbridge informed her ladyship, and somehow they were able to deduce that her maid was telling me things. It wasn’t a leap for them to realize I’m the one who leaked the secret about her son.” Deb bit her lip and took a sip of tea, seeming reflective for a moment. “I did care for that boy.”

“As if that matters,” Adam said, growing irritated with her. He stood and paced the room a few times. “So they knew you were selling information to the Post.” She’d made a decent sum selling gossip about Axbridge’s marriage that she’d gleaned through her position. They’d cooked up the rumors together—first, that Axbridge had married for convenience and was conducting a liaison with Lady Richland and then, a second time, that his marriage was, in fact, a love match between him and Lady Townsend who’d plotted her husband’s murder. Actually, Adam had thought of that one himself, and even now, it made him smile.

“Why are you grinning?” Deb asked sullenly. “We’re ruined.”

“We’re not. But you are, apparently. Until we change your name and fabricate some references from somewhere far away.”

Deb seemed to relax slightly. “Yes.” She sipped her tea again. “What are you going to do about Axbridge?”

“Nothing.” Yet. Which didn’t mean he wouldn’t keep an eye on him. Adam was already quite angry with him for ruining his scheme with Townsend, but then Lady Axbridge had been kind enough to provide him with the money he should’ve earned from Townsend extorting Lady Richland.

“He continues to cause us trouble,” Deb groused. “I can’t believe you don’t have a plan. You always have a plan. Since we were children, you’ve manipulated people and situations to your advantage.”

“I didn’t say I didn’t have a plan. I simply don’t need to execute it yet.” But it was in motion. Sir Duncan Thayer had recently become a client, due to Adam’s careful solicitation, and he hated Axbridge even more than Adam did. Sir Duncan had already contemplated challenging Axbridge to a duel. Adam knew it would be easy to push him into doing just that. And since Sir Duncan was an excellent swordsman—and Axbridge was not—Adam had every expectation that the baronet would take care of the matter. “The marquess will likely not be a problem much longer, dear sister.”

Her lips curved into a smile. “You never fail to amaze me, Adam. As I’ve said many a time, I’m so glad I’m not your enemy.”

Adam was glad too, because if she were, he wouldn’t let their shared blood impede him from removing her if it became necessary. He was on his way to establishing himself both in name and wealth, and nothing was going to stop him from reaching the top.

* * *

Even a long, invigorating ride on Pearl hadn’t settled Emmaline’s mind. Her conversation with Lionel that morning weighed heavily on her. The rumor she’d read in the paper made her ill. But the despair she’d seen in his eyes before he’d left the sitting room had devastated her.

She hadn’t meant to tell him about Geoffrey’s death, but the words had tumbled forth, and it had felt good to release them. His reaction, however, had made her wish she hadn’t bared her soul.

Of course he would feel guilty. Hadn’t she blamed him for Geoffrey’s death, even while knowing she possibly could have prevented it?

Her gut churned, and she tried to refocus on the letter she was writing to her sister in Northumberland. Once a month, she dutifully wrote letters to her siblings, and they dutifully responded. Over the years, they’d grown to know each other, at least in print, and Emmaline was grateful for the connection, even if it was fragile.

“My lady, you have a visitor.”

Tulk’s voice interrupted her as she was about to put her pen to the parchment.

She turned in the chair. “Who is it?”

“Lady Richland. She’s in the drawing room. Should I tell her you are not accepting callers?”

Lionel’s former paramour. What on earth could she be doing here? Emmaline wanted to find out. “No, I’ll see her, thank you.” Emmaline stood and smoothed her skirt.

Tulk stepped to the side and let her precede him. As she descended the stairs, she steeled her nerves, wondering what this woman could want.

She walked into the drawing room with a not entirely genuine smile. “Good afternoon, Lady Richland.”

The woman turned from the window where she’d been looking out at the street. She was quite beautiful, with gold-brown eyes and a soft, serene smile. Her dark hair carried a hint of red and was swept into an elegant style. She held her bonnet in her gloved hands.

“Good afternoon, Lady Axbridge. I’m a friend of your husband’s.”

Jealousy sparked through Emmaline even as she reminded herself that she and Lionel were not lovers. But they had been. The thought turned her stomach. “To what do I owe the pleasure of your visit?” She didn’t sit nor did she invite the woman to make herself comfortable. She didn’t want to make this any longer than it needed to be.

“I prefer to be direct, so I hope you’ll forgive me. I’m a good friend of Lionel’s.” Her use of his Christian name made Emmaline’s clench her teeth. “We’ve known each other quite some time. I understand the circumstances of your marriage are quite…odd.”

He’d told her about their marriage? Anger flared in her chest, and she dropped her hands to her sides. “I wouldn’t characterize them that way. In fact, I would say our marriage is progressing quite well. I would even say it is mutually satisfying.” She stressed the last word to hopefully convey her meaning—that they enjoyed the physical aspects of marriage.

Lady Richland pressed her lips tighter. “I’m glad to hear it. However, you’re torturing him. Being married to you is a constant reminder of the duels he fought, of the lives he took. Do you understand what that did to him, how he struggles every day?”

Every day? That morning, he’d frightened her with the depth of his response.

“Perhaps you haven’t known him long enough to see it.” Her condescending tone burned Emmaline’s insides. “He falls into melancholy, occasionally taking to his bed.”

Was that what had happened the other day when he’d been “ill”? She wanted to crumple under the weight of her ignorance.

“For some reason, he thinks he has a chance at a happy marriage with you. I came here today to ask you to tell him the truth. Let him go so that he may find love.”

Emmaline swallowed past the knot in her throat and choked out, “With you, I presume?”

“Yes. I love him. We share a past, and I can help him. I have helped him. Who do you think he came to see after Addison?”

Who was Addison? Emmaline couldn’t bring herself to ask. “Do you expect me to divorce him?”

Lady Richland shrugged. “That would be difficult but not impossible. Just release him from his duty. Allow him to be free.”

“How do I know he even wants that?”

Lady Richland pursed her lips briefly, and her cheeks flushed a delicate pink. “Because he cares for me. We’ve been through a great deal together. He dueled your husband for me.”

Nothing she said could’ve hurt more. Emmaline wished she had been sitting. Her knees turned to jelly, and she fought to keep her equilibrium.

“He didn’t tell you that.” Her tone of satisfaction was like acid pouring into Emmaline’s wound.

“He did not,” Emmaline answered tightly. “He wanted to protect you—his honor is incredibly important to him.”

“Yes, it is, which is why he can’t truly be happy unless you release him from his marital duty.” She took a step toward Emmaline, her gaze sympathetic. “I’m truly sorry for your loss, and that your husband was involved in something so horrid. Oh, but you wouldn’t know because Lionel wouldn’t have told you. Because of his honor.” She smiled placidly. “Your husband tried to extort money from me. He said he would publicize the fact that my husband didn’t father my son, that Lionel was his father.”

Emmaline was wrong. There was something that could hurt more. “Is he?” The question came out small and strained. It sounded like it came from someone else.

Lady Richland’s hesitation spoke volumes. At last, she glanced away from Emmaline and said, “No.”

Realizing she’d been holding her breath, Emmaline exhaled sharply.

Lady Richland refocused on her with triumph in her gaze. “But it hasn’t stopped him from helping me when I needed it, from ensuring that my husband, who was ill, didn’t learn the truth about the boy he believed to be his son.” She looked back at Emmaline, her eyes wide and full of emotion. “Do you see why I love him? Why I want to take care of him?”

She did. So much. “I understand. However, he is my husband, and I’ll take care of him. I appreciate your concern. Good day.”

Emmaline turned and left, passing Tulk in the hall. “Please show Lady Richland out.” She made her way up the stairs, her legs shaking from the encounter.

Instead of returning to the sitting room, she went into her chamber. Perching on the edge of her bed, she stared straight ahead but saw nothing.

Now she knew why Lionel had challenged Geoffrey. And now she knew how despicably Geoffrey had behaved. She didn’t doubt that he’d threatened Lady Richland. With his erratic behavior and the amount of debt she now knew he’d carried, he’d been desperate enough to do that. Her heart ached as she thought of how tortured—to use Lady Richland’s word—Lionel was.

The rest of the things she’d said repeated over and over in Emmaline’s mind until she couldn’t think anymore. Did he want Marianne? He’d told Emmaline he didn’t, but if she couldn’t love him, wasn’t it kinder to tell him so?

If she couldn’t love him.

Her emotions had definitely changed toward him. But love? She’d done that, with great failure. She wasn’t sure if she could allow herself to take that risk again.

Then she had to tell him so and let him decide if what she could offer him was enough.