Page 32 of One Night of Scandal
“Then how do you explain this letter?”
He glanced down at the paper in his hand. “The rantings of a lunatic? Or a coward? The author didn’t even sign his name. Clearly, someone wants to implicate me in the attack.”
“You think someone wants me to write a story saying you instigated the attack on the prince?”
Who would do that? Many people, unfortunately. He had plenty of political enemies. But to think that any of them would go to these lengths made him sick. And angry.
“I can’t think of any other explanation,” he said quietly.
“Is it possible this person is mistaken? They saw you at the Crown and Anchor and assumed you were the MP who organized the attack?”
“Who’s to say there was ever an MP involved at all?” If the closet weren’t so damn small, he would have paced. “Perhaps the whole thing is a fabrication. Was there ever an MP who worked with the radicals, or was this simply an enterprise to discredit me?”
“Discredit you?” She stared at him. “This would see you imprisoned.”
Probably—at least in the current climate. “There is no actual evidence,” he said, hating that she’d doubted him. “There would be no conviction becauseI haven’t done anything.”
He crumpled the edge of the letter in his grip as fury raged through him. When he found the person behind this… He lifted his gaze to hers. She was still pressed against the door, her blue eyes wary.
“You don’t believe me.” His tone was flat, his emotions deflating until he wasn’t sure he felt anything.
“I…want to. I don’t know what to believe. You are somewhat radical in your beliefs.”
“As are you. Would you attempt to kill the Prince Regent? Perhaps I should ask what you were doing on that evening in January.”
She sucked in a breath, and he immediately regretted what he’d said.
“I know you didn’t have anything to do with it,” he whispered. “I just wish you thought the same of me.”
It was a long moment before she exhaled and responded. “You’ve repeatedly told me to be careful. I’m trying to be careful.”
He could understand that. He looked at her intently, moving toward her, but not getting too close. “Then I’ll prove my innocence to you. We’ll go to the Crown and Anchor, and I’ll introduce you to the men I met that night so they can tell you what we discussed.”
Her gaze flickered with surprise. “Are they radicals?”
“They’re Spencean Philanthropists. We discussed the upcoming trials of the men arrested for the Spa Fields riots. A friend of mine is defending one of them.”
Her eyes widened, and her lips parted. “Oh.” She tipped her head to the side. “Did you ask them about the attack? Perhaps they know what really happened.”
“No, I didn’t.” He could almost hear her outrage.
“As a reporter, it is my duty to follow wherever my inquiries lead. You withheld pertinent information from me.”
He had anger of his own—she didn’t understand the danger of the situation. “I was trying to protect you. They are a radical organization, Viola. Some of them are in prison awaiting trial fortreason.”
Her eyes narrowed. “You are not responsible for protecting me. You are not my brother nor are you my husband.” Her tone was a devastating mixture of furious heat and derisive cold.
They stood there staring at each other a moment. He handed the letter back to her. “Tomorrow, we’ll go to the Crown and Anchor instead of the coffeehouse.”
She visibly relaxed, her jaw loosening and her shoulders dropping. “Should we go in the evening?”
He shook his head. That would be infinitely more dangerous. “Same time we’d planned to meet at the coffeehouse. I’ll make the arrangements. And I’ll pick you up in a hack at the edge of Berkeley Square.”
She nodded, then finally pushed away from the door. This brought them closer than they’d been the entire time they’d been in the closet.
The idea that she’d wanted to get him alone to kiss him again seemed woefully ludicrous now. The other night in the hack had been a wild, singular event. He had to stop hoping it would happen again.
He reached for the door, and she moved to the side. “See you tomorrow.”
