For some reason, she had not expected an outright apology straight away. Nor such a pretty one. Nor had she expected his gloveless hand to be so warm or his touch so reassuring. As if he had read her mind, his other hand came to rest on top of hers in what she assumed was meant as a friendly gesture, but in actuality made her feel a little odd. Not in an unpleasant way, but those large, gentle hands, combined with the way his unusual burnt-amber eyes locked and held with hers, set her pulse jumping.
She recognised the sensation from long ago. That frisson of awareness and excitement she remembered only too well from those initial heady days of her first and only Season, when a dashing new suitor showed an interest and flirted. Her former hopelessly romantic heart would begin to race as her vivid, naive imagination began to conjure up scenarios of a future with him. Because then, despite all the teachings of her sensible and hard-working parents, she had abandoned good sense for unrealistic dreams of romance and love. What a foolish girl she had been then!
Instinctively, she disentangled her hand and buried it with the other safely within the folds of her skirt. She watched his eyes dip to them before he smiled and her stupid pulse quickened further. She had never seen him smile. It suited him. ‘It was not my intention to cause you concern.’
‘What exactly was your intention?’ Annoyance at her own body’s reaction made her tone irritated and for that, at least, she was glad. She had fallen for pretty words once before and look where that had got her. Annoyed was decisive. Penny Henley was decisive.
He took a step back, but appeared perfectly content to stand. Uncharitably, Penny decided he was avoiding the chair on purpose to deny her the chance to take control and she instantly bristled. ‘I imagine, given our limited and professional acquaintance, my actions do seem a trifle odd, but believe me, they truly were well meant. After the Crown saw fit to render you homeless, I could not in all good conscience allow you and your innocent son to struggle.’
He considered Freddie? That was nice... Good grief, girl, grow a backbone! You used to have such a fine one. He took it upon himself to make a decision for you when he had no right. None whatsoever. She wasn’t a wife any longer. Not a chattel nor a charity case.
‘Do prosecution barristers regularly pay the household bills of defence witnesses?’ He blinked, the only sign her forthright words had been unexpected.
‘Under normal circumstances, the Crown would not take the archaic decision to strip a family of their title and assets.’ They agreed on that at least. Losing her home had ripped the floor from under her feet, hurting far more than losing her distasteful husband. ‘I was merely attempting to make some small amends for that travesty in my own ham-fisted and clumsy way.’
A plausible answer. A charming and disarming one. But not to her direct question and Penny felt her hackles rise further. He was being the unfazed and convincing lawyer she had seen every day at the Old Bailey, attempting to play her like a violin. She had seen him in action. He was charming and decisive. Used to commanding the ears and then the thoughts of those who found themselves listening to his clever arguments and well-chosen words. A man who had reluctantly come here today with one purpose. To justify having her put under surveillance for months and then anonymously settling her debts—apparently for her own good.
Despite all of Clarissa’s careful staging, he now thoroughly commanded the room. He had ignored the tiny chair. Avoided the sweltering fire. And instead of regally looking down her nose at him, Penny was forced to look up. A long way up. Another professional trick he had clearly done on purpose. She stood, hoping she appeared partially regal despite the vast difference in their heights, and allowed her irritation to show plainly on her face. Money aside, no matter which way one looked at it, having her followed was a gross invasion of her privacy, one she had every right to feel angry about.
‘Did the Crown also sanction the Runner you had spy on me?’
He blinked again, frowning slightly. ‘No. Of course they didn’t. My actions have nothing to do with the government or the Crown in any way.’
‘But you are such a noble man, such a seeker of justice, that you simply decided to right a wrong regardless? Or do you merely have a guilty conscience about what transpired?’
‘Not at all.’ He took another step back and his normally inscrutable expression dissolved briefly into one of outrage. ‘I had no part in their decision.’ The bland barrister’s mask slipped back in place. ‘If you must know, I petitioned the Attorney General on your behalf.’
That she knew. Clarissa and Seb had told her as much that dreadful night in their house in Grosvenor Square once she realised she no longer had a home to go back to. Those had been the darkest and most hopeless days of her life. The press had huddled outside the house like vultures, doing whatever they could to catch a glimpse of the traitor’s wife—soon to be traitor’s widow. No peer of the realm had been stripped of his title and his estates in decades. Neither had any peer been sentenced to death for any crime—let alone treason—since Lord Lovat after the Battle of Culloden two generations previously. Meanwhile, inside her friend’s house Penny had been too stunned, too broken down after years of her oppressive marriage, to do anything other than weep or stare, catatonic.
What was she going to do? What was to become of her son? Oh, woe is me!
When news came days later that her husband had escaped the hangman’s noose only because his criminal associates had decided it was safer to have him murdered in Newgate than risk having him make any deathbed confessions which might implicate them, an intrepid reporter had broken into Seb’s house. The intruder had successfully climbed three stairs before he was tackled and removed by the guards. Those had been three stairs too many for Penny and strangely galvanised her into action, awaking a part of her which had lain dormant for too many years. She was so tired of being the helpless victim.
Weeping and lamenting Oh, woe is me was not going to change a single thing and it certainly wasn’t going to protect her son. Only she could do both—yet could do neither while feeling pathetically sorry for herself when she only had herself to blame. The signs had been there from the outset. Clarissa had warned her. Even her father had offered to help her flee the church on the morning of her marriage despite spending a king’s ransom on the gown, the elaborate wedding breakfast and the marriage settlements, and despite knowing her mother would also be devastated to have encouraged the match. But blinded by the belief she was madly in love and madly loved in return by her handsome, titled, ardent suitor, she had positively floated down the aisle towards her groom, regardless of the niggling voice in her head which cautioned she was making a huge mistake.
It had been a revelation to finally accept the fact she had made her own bed, through her own foolish weaknesses, and now had to lie in it—and just because her new bed was hard and uncomfortable, it didn’t make it a bad bed. If anything, it was a significantly superior bed to the one she had been lying in. Only this time, she could make it exactly as she wanted.
The next day she had gone into hiding, in plain sight at Seb’s suggestion, to live independently for the first time in her twenty-four years and she had not looked back or wallowed in one drop of pointless self-pity since. Her new life had started and she found she rather enjoyed it. The past was the past. Done. Dead. She had come to terms with it all and was well shot of it. Didn’t allow herself to think upon it any more.
Yet now the past was back in the most unexpected and unforeseen way. Not from the press. Not from being recognised. But from the man still stood proudly in front of her. Too proudly when he was the one clearly in the wrong here. What gave him the right to assert change on her life when he’d had a professional hand in creating her current situation? Did he feel guilt at proving her husband guilty?
Perhaps that was the problem? That awful possibility had been niggling since she had learned the truth this morning. What if his guilt about the trial ran deeper than he was letting on? If so, then it kicked a veritable hornets’ nest she was only too content to leave well alone.
For five months, there had been no doubt in her mind