Lucy wished she could better view Henry’s face to see his reaction, and whether it was as baffled as hers. Though she could glimpse only the back of his head through the foliage, the crossing of his arms shed some light on the unseen.
“Does it matter?”
James growled. “Immensely. I had hoped you would convince Lady Margaret of the merits of selecting me. However, the presence of your Bow Street colleague tells me that you chose to hand her over to the law. Am I wrong?”
Lucy’s head spun and she nearly collapsed as her knees weakened. She clutched the plant to remain upright. Bow Street? The world paused in its spin as she waited for Henry’s response.
“I did tell Sir Hugh and the magistrate what happened at Shooter’s Hill, if for no other reason than to preserve her from you.”
She backed away from the corner in a daze. Henry had informed Bow Street of her actions at Shooter’s Hill? And brought Sir Hugh here to…to what?
“You would rather her hang than marry your brother? What a pity.”
Unable to stomach another word, she raced to her room and retched into the chamber pot before collapsing onto the floor in a heap. Henry had betrayed her! His every word of promise had been a lie. His every expression of faith in her success had been a fabrication. If he had stabbed her through the heart and left her for scavengers, he could not have inflicted a more fatal wound.
Chapter Twenty-Four
A single minute. That was all the time Lucy had to inhabit the misery of her betrayal before her Judas arrived with a knock on her door.
“Lucy? It is Henry.”
Prudence whispered that she remain silent until he left. Logic insisted that she ignore the knock altogether. However, prudence and logic lay buried beneath thirty feet of aggrievement. She spun to her feet, marched to the door, and yanked it open. Henry stood in wide-eyed astonishment with his fist still raised for another knock.
“You told Bow Street!”
Alarm replaced surprise. He cut a quick glance down the hall. “You heard us just now?”
She glared daggers through his eye sockets. “Every word.”
He backed away a step, seemingly ready to run from her. “I had no choice. My brother learned about Shooter’s Hill from one of Steadman’s gang.”
She moved a step nearer, flexing her fingers. “So, your brother told Bow Street?”
“No. I was the one.”
The grit of her teeth caused her jaw to tremble. “Now I know why Sir Hugh is here. So, what is your dastardly, traitorous plan? Did you bring enough rope for a high branch?”
“You don’t understand.”
“Of course I don’t understand! How could I possibly understand that the one person in this entire world whom I believed would protect me has instead stabbed me in the back?”
He held up both palms. “Listen. James told me to either deliver you to him or hand you over to Bow Street. As I said, I had no choice.”
She stabbed a finger into the metal menagerie dangling from his neck, driving him back another step. “That is where you and I differ, Mr. Almighty Beaumont. I believe that the choice is always mine, no matter the circumstances. You, on the other hand, allow yourself to be cast about by the winds of fate and console yourself with the lie that all choice is robbed of you.”
He winced at her accusation, regrettably the truth. Then he shook his head. “But there is more to explain. If you will but give me the chance.”
She withdrew her finger as her anger cooled into a refined blue flame. “There is no more to explain. You promised to keep my secret. You promised to help me. But I see now that your promises are like the ridiculous jewelry you wear now—gaudy and impressive but ultimately without meaning.”
“But Lucy…”
“Go now, Henry.” She spun on her heel to return to her chamber. “You have made your choice. Do what you must.”
The door slammed with what should have been a satisfying thud. However, her anger left room for only bitterness, regret, and worry for the end of all things.
…
Henry faced the door through which Lucy had disappeared, perhaps forever. She had accused him of the vilest of betrayals. And she was not wrong. Sir Hugh’s presence was a direct result of his actions. Without conscious thought, he found his feet moving swiftly through the guest wing and down the south hallway to escape the house. Sir Hugh intercepted him just short of the exit.
“Henry. Where are you going in such a—”
Henry brushed past him and burst through the door onto the front steps. He paused only long enough to determine how best to erase what he had done. His hand wandered up to grip the medal around his neck. He eyed it angrily. Empty, indeed. With a growl, he tore it from his neck and let it dangle for the space of several breaths. Then he set a course for the creek where he had kissed Lucy earlier, intent on throwing the blasted thing into the current. What had been a source of amusement for Lucy now symbolized his utterly vile character and his inability to halt his slide into darkness. Until now, he had blamed his steady fall on his association with the ward of a criminal, glibly finding Lucy at fault for his moral conflict. But now, he saw the truth as clear as a crystal reflection. She was not to blame. She was pure, and forthright, and trustworthy, and altogether wonderful. If anything, his association with her had lifted him to a higher plain. Despite that, he had become his grandfather. He had bowed to his brother and, after one pitiful attempt to convince Steadman to clear her name, had broken every promise he’d ever made to her. To his best friend. To the woman he had fallen in love with. He was no less a cutthroat than his legacy demanded.
As he approached the creek, he clenched the medal tightly in his grip. After coming to a halt, he hauled back his arm to heave it into the water. A hand gripping his wrist interrupted his intent.
“Henry! Stop, for God’s sake.” The voice belonged to Sir Hugh. His breath was ragged from apparently running to catch him. Over his shoulder, Lord Garvey was approaching with a sheaf of papers in his hands, hurrying as fast as a man his age could.
Henry pried Sir Hugh’s hand from his wrist. “Leave me alone.”
Sir Hugh held up a palm of restraint, his face a map of alarmed puzzlement. “Why would you throw away something so precious?”
“Precious?” Annoyance boiled over in Henry and he thrust the medal beneath the knight’s nose. “This is just a medal. Just an overwrought concoction of gold and silver as meaningless as the one who wears it.”
Sir Hugh clasped Henry’s clenched fist with a gentle hand and shook his head in disbelief. “You really don’t know what this is, do you?”
Sir Hugh’s bafflement infected Henry. He peered at his Bow Street associate with narrowed eyes as Lord Garvey arrived, breathing hard.