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“Mr. Lake,” she said. “Lovely to see you again.”

“Yes,” her brother drawled, his face screwed up in an unfriendly smile, “how lovely. Tell me, are you to star in tonight’s show?”

“William!” Caroline hissed.

“What? I daresay he’d make a rather dashing addition to the acting troupe.” Harclay turned back to Lake. “There’s something . . . thespianlike about the eye patch, don’t you think?”

Thespianlike.
Ha
bloody
ha
. Henry gritted his teeth against the impulse to sock his lordship in the face, so that he might be forced to sport an eye patch of his own.

“I think you’ve had too much of that dreadful punch,” Caroline replied, giving him a gentle tug. “Let’s go sit. Mr. Lake, my sincerest apologies.”

She didn’t look at him as she said it; nor did she offer him so much as a parting glance as she led her brother to the front of the box.

For a moment Henry stood by the curtains, the chill of embarrassment prickling his nape. It was the only thing that tempered his rising anger at the earl’s insult. Really, the man was insufferable; Henry felt sorry for Caroline, having a scalawag brother like that.

Henry passed the first show in brooding silence. It was a lewd comedy, something he would’ve typically enjoyed (along with Vauxhall’s infamously stout arrack punch) had a persistent feeling of unease not tightened inside his chest.

How was Caroline feeling? He understood her terror, he did. But did she not know he would protect her from Woodstock? He would die before he ever let the man touch her again. He’d never let him near her. His distress over these things was acute; she was suffering, and it was his fault.

And then there was the kiss they’d shared in the dark warmth
of her brother’s study. He wanted her to have enjoyed the kiss as much as he had, for reasons he didn’t entirely understand.

While everyone else took their seats at the front of the box, Henry lingered at the back, arms crossed about his chest. He tried to watch the show, really, he did. But his gaze kept landing on the slope of Caroline’s covered neck, and his thoughts returned again and again to the feel of her in his arms the night before.

Henry did not deserve her. He didn’t deserve much of anything after what he’d done to her, to his family. And the regret—the pain in his leg pulsed brightly as the familiar weight of his regret settled over his heart.

He should leave her be. He
would
leave her be, once he had the diamond in hand.

The diamond. He had to focus on the French Blue. If all went to plan, it would be his in a day or two, maybe less.

And then he could pay off Woodstock, and get the hell out of London. Leave her to her well-deserved peace.

The first act drew to a blessed end. Henry moved into the shadows put off by paper lanterns hung from the ceiling. The earl moved to speak with Lady Violet; Caroline, taking advantage of her momentary freedom, darted through the curtains and into the gallery outside the box.

He didn’t have to think. It was instinct; it was impulse. Henry darted after her.

Where was she going? He could only guess that his presence upset her; heavens, the woman had been nearly choked to death the night before on his account. He did not blame her for running.

Still, he had to make sure she was all right. He wanted to be the one to comfort her if she was not.

She moved quickly, urgently, as if the building were on fire. The crowd was thick and boisterous, but she made fast work of weaving through bodies, and only managed to trip, once, when she pummeled down the stairs.

Henry’s stomach lurched along with her, and he was about to leap through the crush when an elderly gentleman, red-faced, potbellied, caught her. His eyes raked hungrily over her as he righted Caroline on the landing.

So Henry wasn’t the only one aware of her quiet, exquisite loveliness.

His hands curled into fists at his sides.

She thanked the man, and continued her progress down the stairs. Henry followed her, aiming a black look at the potbellied gentleman as he passed. If he wasn’t so eager to get to Caroline, he would’ve done quite a bit more than that.

Lake drew up at the bottom of the stairs. Vauxhall Gardens stretched out before him, a wide expanse of green beneath a darkening bluebell sky. Lanterns dotted the landscape like stars blinking awake; down here the air was warm but fresh, the very best a London spring could offer.

People milled about the pathways that converged at the theater. Caroline moved through them with a bit more difficulty now, legs snapping unevenly as if her impatience had risen to panic.

Henry followed her more closely, his brow furrowed, pace less polite than before. He wanted to be close in case she fell.

He could smell the clean freshness of her perfume.

At last she stopped, placing a hand against the trunk of a nearby tree as she bent at the waist, the other hand on her stomach.

She exhaled sharply and her back collapsed with the release of whatever it was she’d been holding in.

Henry spoke at the same moment he reached for her.

“Caroline.”

Startled, her eyes flew to meet his. She was trying, hard, not to cry.

“Caroline,” he said again, his hands sliding around her wrist.

She pulled away from him, stumbling back from the tree. “I’m sorry,” she replied. “I can’t.”

Henry stepped around her, blocking her exit. He looked down at her and she backed away from him and his heart clenched at the idea that he was scaring her.

“Caroline, wait.” His voice was edged with panic. “What happened last night—I am sorry—if there is anything I can do, know I will keep you safe—”

She looked over his shoulder at a passing couple. Henry took her wrist once more in his hand and tugged her through the row of trees onto a narrow pathway, this one quieter, more secluded. Henry drew Caroline up before him, his hands on her elbows.

“Are you all right? Tell me what’s wrong. Now.”

She swallowed. Hesitated.

“Don’t force me to pull out your fingernails. I’ll do it, I swear,” he said.

A shadow of a smile crossed her lips, and then disappeared.

“We should get back,” she said. “William will notice we’re gone, and think the worst.”

“I don’t care what William thinks. Something is wrong, I see it in your eyes, and I know it’s about last night. Me. Us.”

Her gaze flashed as her eyes flicked up to meet his. “It doesn’t matter.”

She was wiping at her eye with the bottom knuckle of her thumb. He tried to reach out to help but she batted him away.

“Doesn’t matter?” He drew back. “Of course it matters.”

“Your secrets,” she said. “I can’t stop thinking about them.”

He raked a hand through his hair. “I never meant—you know I never meant to hurt you, Caroline. Not when I left. Not when I told you everything last night.”

“I know. But these secrets—the time we’ve lost—” She looked away.

When he’d torn himself from her life, Henry had been comforted by the idea that a girl so lovely and lively and
good
would surely be scooped up by the season’s most eligible bachelor.

Of course, he’d never imagined that eligible bachelor would end up being his best friend. But that was beside the point.

Twelve years, they’d lived this way. The pain lived on in them both.

“They are secrets no longer,” Henry said. “Now you know. You know everything. You know about Woodstock. You know the mistake I made. You know why I left.”

She shook her head. “But for so many years, I thought you’d lied to me. I used to think you were a scalawag, a scoundrel. All that time I leaned on the only friend I had. My husband, Osbourne—it comforted me to know at least someone was honest with me.”

Hurt, tinged a shade darker by his anger, by jealousy, tightened inside his chest. Before he could think better of it his fingers were tightening around the soft flesh of her arms and he was holding her against him, his face inches from hers.

“Honest?” he lashed out. “I’m no saint, I’ll admit that. What I did was unforgivable. I’ll never forgive myself, Caroline. And you shouldn’t, either. I wasn’t honest then, yes—I
couldn’t be, not with men like Woodstock on the loose—but neither were you. We betrayed each other.”

She drew back. “How did I ever betray you?”

The words came before he could stop them. “Were you in love with him? The whole time we were together—did you love him?”

“Who?” Her eyes widened. “Osbourne? My hu—”

“Yes, Caroline,” Henry spat. “Your
husband
. You married him less than two
months
after I left. How could you marry someone so quickly, if you weren’t in love with him before?”

Her face contracted, a wince of pain, as if she were anticipating a blow to the face.
Why are you doing this?
he screamed at himself.
Stop, you idiot, stop! She’s been through enough; she’s lost enough on your account.

But he couldn’t stop. He needed to know.

“Is that what you think?” she said softly.

“I don’t know what to think,” he replied. His breath was coming in short, hot spurts. “You married my best friend, Caroline. In practically a fortnight—”

“It was longer than that.”

“Not much. If I didn’t know better, I would say you were relieved to have me out of the way.”

She was weeping now, silent tears seeping from the corners of her eyes. He felt each one as a nail struck through his breastbone. He hadn’t meant to ask these questions, not here, not now.

But he couldn’t trust himself when it came to Caroline. And so the questions came.

“I can’t stop thinking about your secrets,” she said, “because I keep one of my own. I had to marry him, Henry.” There was a desperate edge to her voice. “I knew him, our families approved. He lived close by.”

“You didn’t have to marry him so quickly.”

“Yes,” she looked up at him. “I did.”

“Your father? Did he find out about—about what we’d done?”

“No.”

“Then why?” he said forcefully. “Why did you have to marry Osbourne so quickly? When you were already married to me.”

“Because, Henry,” she replied, her voice rising. “I was with child.
Your
child.”

Nineteen

H
enry’s eye unfurled with understanding. His grip loosened on her arms. The high color of his anger faded, replaced by a pallor that shone in the yellow light of a lantern above.

His brows unhooked; the grooves in his forehead loosened. His lips parted and came back together, as if he had a hundred questions, and didn’t know which to ask first.

Caroline looked away. She’d never meant to tell him. What did it matter now? And this wound—opening it again was too much to bear.

But he’d shared his secrets, and so she felt compelled to reveal her own.

She closed her eyes against the sting of her tears.

“It was a girl,” Caroline said. “She died before she was born, a month too early.”

“Oh, God,” he said. He pulled her against him, as if he might embrace her.

She stepped back. “Please don’t.”

“Oh, God,” he repeated. “Caroline, I’m—I’m so sorry. I don’t know what to say—Christ. I’m sorry you had to do that. Do it alone.”

A beat.

“Did you”—his voice was threadbare—“get to see her?”

She scoffed, splattering her tears as she shook her head. “Red hair, just like yours. She was beautiful. Tiny, these little bones, like a kitten’s.”

Another beat. And then he said: “I wish I could have seen her.”

Caroline looked up at him. “I wish that, too.”

His grip tightened on her arms now.

“Caroline,” he said. “I had—I didn’t know. I had no idea. If—”

“Osbourne knew,” she nodded. “He knew all along. Knew when I married him. He did it for you, you know. He loved you, and didn’t want your child born . . . to parents who weren’t married.”

Henry’s grip tightened again. Her skin pinched in protest.

He looked down at her. His eye was wet, but no tears fell.

“I didn’t want this for us,” he whispered. “We were—I was so young, I didn’t know what I was doing. I should’ve been more careful when we—when it—”

“You wouldn’t be so regretful if you saw her face.” Caroline bit her lip. “I would’ve wished for better circumstances, yes. But she was perfect. I’ll never regret her.”

She looked away. She couldn’t bear the hurt she saw in his eye.

“Did she have a name?” he asked.

Caroline closed her eyes again. Her throat tightened.

“Yes,” she said, and shook her head.

Yes, she had a name
. But Caroline hadn’t the strength to speak it. Not tonight.

They both looked up at the sound of approaching footsteps. A woman with a strangely broad chin and the shadow of a moustache came into view. She took one look at Caroline and stopped dead in her tracks; her eyes moved to Henry, whose face hardened with recognition.

He looked down at Caroline. “I’m sorry—I—”

“Go.” Caroline stepped back, eyes trained on her hands.

He hesitated.

“Go.”

Henry dipped his head. “This conversation is not over,” he murmured in her ear.