Page 99 of What Angels Fear

Sebastian smiled grimly. “Unlike you, however, she was unaware of her husband’s French connections.”

Sebastian wasn’t expecting an apology from his father and he didn’t get one. Sebastian waited, instead, for the inevitable question.

Hendon cleared his throat. “It was Wilcox who took Lady Hendon’s affidavit from Rachel York’s body, I assume?”

“Yes. Although I gather from something he said it’s gone missing again. He thought I’d taken it.”

Hendon stood very still, beads of moisture showing on his temples, as if he were hot. “You don’t have it?”

“No.”

The Earl turned away, one hand scrubbing across his face as he struggled to absorb this. It was a moment before he said gruffly, “And the woman? I understand her injuries are serious.”

“She’s lost a lot of blood, but the doctor says nothing vital was hit. Barring infection, she should recover.”

Hendon worked his lower jaw back and forth in that way he had. “She told you, I presume, what passed between us six years ago.”

Sebastian stared at his father.

“I did what I thought was right at the time,” Hendon said, his voice brusque. “I still think it was right. Such a marriage would have ruined your life. Thank God she finally saw that herself.”

“How much, precisely, did you offer her?” Sebastian asked, his voice low and dangerous.

“Twenty thousand pounds. There aren’t many women who’d turn down a chance at that kind of money.”

“She turned you down?”

“Why, yes. You mean, she didn’t tell you?”

“No. No, she didn’t.”

Kat came awake slowly. The fiery pain she remembered from the night before had gone, leaving a dull ache that throbbed down her side.

The room with its dusky blue silken hangings and gilded furniture was unfamiliar, but she recognized the man in doeskin breeches and top boots who sat, arms crossed at his chest, in a tapestry-covered chair beside the bed. He must have sensed her gaze upon him because he turned, his hand reaching to cover hers on the counterpane.

“I knew you’d come for me,” she said, surprised to discover her throat raw, her voice husky from the fire.

Devlin’s hand tightened around hers. “Kat. Dear God. I am so sorry.”

She smiled, because it was so like him to blame himself for what had happened to her, to blame himself for having involved her in his struggle to make sense of Rachel’s death. And then her smile faded because he didn’t know—she hoped he would never know—how deeply she had been involved in the events surrounding Rachel’s death even before he came to her for help.

“I had a long talk with Hendon last night,” he said, his brows drawing together, his jaw held unexpectedly tight. “Why didn’t you tell me the truth?”

“Which truth is that?” She kept her voice even, although her heart had begun to thud uncomfortably in her chest. “There are many truths, more than a few of which are best not told.”

“The truth about what happened six years ago.”

“Ah. That one.” She laughed softly, hoping to turn away any more questions. But he continued to stare at her in that compelling way of his, and she knew he would demand an answer. She sought to frame it in the lightest terms possible. “Telling you would have been counterproductive. That sort of noble sacrifice only achieves its object when masked.”

One corner of his mouth lifted in a ghost of a smile. “You need to curb this unfortunate predilection of yours for martyrdom.”

Her hand twisted beneath his, held him tight. “He was right, you know. Your father. He said if I really loved you, I wouldn’t marry you.”

His eyes had always fascinated her. Wild and fiercely intelligent, they glittered now with anger and hurt. “And so you lied to me. For my own good.”

“Yes.”

“Damn you.” He pushed up from the chair and swung away, only to turn again, nostrils flaring, chest jerking with the passion of his breathing. “I would have made you my wife. You had no right to make that kind of decision without me.”

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