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C
aroline’s breath caught in her throat. Inside her chest her lungs burned.

It was impossible to tell what shocked Caroline more: the content of their conversation, Henry stripped of his secrets by this silver-tongued stranger, or the fact that Henry had left her not because he didn’t love her, but because he loved her too much.

The mistake he’d made, why he’d left her. Twelve years ago he left her because he
had
to. Because he’d accidentally killed this man’s wife, and he feared the same might happen to her.

Henry’s leaving had nothing—and everything—to do with Caroline. He did not leave because he got what he came for (a toss—well, several tosses—in the sheets); he did not leave because he found her dull or ugly or unworthy of his handsome enormity.

He left because he loved her. Because he would give up everything, his family and his name and future, to keep her safe.

He loved her then, as ardently as she’d loved him. All the time they’d lost, the misunderstandings, the secrets, the pain—it was almost too much to bear.

And now here he was, offering up a priceless jewel in exchange for her life.

It made her feel like weeping.

And she would have wept, had a stranger not been threatening her at gunpoint inside her bedchamber.

“The French Blue,” Henry repeated. “It’s yours, if you leave her in peace.”

“You have it?”

“I—”

A hesitation. Slight, hardly noticeable.

Except Woodstock noticed.

Again he clucked his tongue. “You were going to lie to me, Mr. Lake. Good thing you did not.”

“I can get it. I
will
get it. I swear to you, Woodstock—”

“When?”

Henry hesitated. Caroline thought her heart might burst. “Soon. Give me a chance to get it. The diamond. And then I’ll give it to you.”

More silence.

Please
, she prayed. Please, Henry, don’t get shot.

As if he had control over Woodstock’s gun.

She did not dare reach out herself, try to wrest the gun from Woodstock; she’d read enough novels to know startling a man with a pistol usually ended in blood. A very dramatic amount of blood.

Caroline nearly jumped when Woodstock let out a little laugh. He stepped back, removed the gun from her head, loosened his grip on her throat. She gasped for air. “What have I to lose? Surely you are not foolish enough to attempt to kill me before all of London, and during the season at that! I know where you live. I know where
she
lives. And you aren’t going anywhere until you find that gem. Soon, then. I’ll be watching you.”

Henry’s words were a rush of relief. “Good. Thank you.”

“Remember you swore,” Woodstock said, teasingly.

“I did. And in return you must swear not to harm her. Lady Caroline. You are not to go near her, or this house. She is—”

“Not yours.”

“No.” Henry ran a hand through his hair. “She’s not yours, either. So stay away from her, or I’ll kill you.”

Caroline looked away. The savageness of Henry’s threat sent a shiver down her spine.

Woodstock sighed. She could practically hear him rolling
his eyes. “Fine, fine, I’ll stay away from her. But know this, Mr. Lake. You don’t find the French Blue, and
soon
—well, I’m afraid the terms of our little arrangement shall no longer stand.”

“I’ll find it,” Henry ground out.

A pause. “What will you do?” Woodstock asked.

“About what?” Henry said.

“The blood on your hands? The thousands of men—good men, innocent men—who will die because you choose her over them? I know you mean to use the French Blue as leverage against the French. You won’t be able to negotiate for the lives of your men if you don’t have the stone.”

Caroline’s heart skipped a beat. So that’s what Henry had been talking about—doing a favor for old St. George. He meant to trade the diamond for the lives of his soldiers on the Continent.

He would not be able to make such a trade if he gave the jewel to Woodstock.

He would choose her life over the lives of his men.

“Let me worry about that,” Henry replied.

“The diamond,” Woodstock said calmly. “Or Caroline. Your choice. I get one or the other. Don’t keep me waiting.”

*   *   *

O
nly when the last of Woodstock’s footfalls faded into the blackness beyond her window did Caroline resume breathing. She gulped at the air, thirstily, like she’d been held under water these last minutes; the sudden onslaught of sensation made her dizzy, bright dots blurring her vision.

And then Henry was folding her into his enormous arms, holding her against him as he smoothed her hair, pressed his lips to her forehead, asking if she was all right, was her throat all right, could she breathe all right? His heart beat furiously, violently, against her ear. She closed her eyes, listened as her heart began to beat in time to his.

She buried her face in his chest, stifling the sound of her grief; she couldn’t hold back, couldn’t stop if she wanted.

Years of unshed tears, of unspoken heartache and unrequited affection burst from the dark places where she’d hidden them and inundated her being. She was powerless against the onslaught. She let herself drown in it.

All this time she assumed the worst of Henry. That he never loved her, that he’d been in love with someone else. That he used her, abused her trust, thought she was strange, repulsive even.

Her affection hadn’t been unrequited, after all. He’d been in love with her, ardently, those years and years ago. The kind of ardent love she felt for him, once.

And felt again now, witnessing him forsake everything so that her life might be spared.
Henry
chose her
. Turned his back on his men and chose her life over theirs. One life in exchange for thousands.

The fact that he’d chosen her—without hesitation, without a second thought—made her heart swell in the most wonderful, most hopelessly painful, way.

There were a thousand questions she wanted to ask him, a thousand things she wanted to say. I
wish you’d told me. I wish
you’d taken me with you. I understand why you left, but it hurts—knowing your reasons
.

She didn’t know where to begin.

But she knew, in that moment, what had to be done.

“You can’t do it, you know,” she whispered.

“What’s that?” he said.

“Give that man the French Blue. I won’t let you.”

Henry’s shoulders fell. He turned his head and looked out the window, revealing the chiseled architecture of his throat and jaw.

His gaze returned to her. “Your patriotism is inspiring, Caroline, really, but I’m afraid you don’t have much choice in the matter.”

“Choice?” She lifted her chin. “But there’s no choice to be made.”

The look in his eye changed, loosened. “My point exactly.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

“I know what you meant.”

“One life in exchange for the possible slaughter of thousands?” she said. “That guilt will weigh on us both.”

He cocked a brow. “Do you always go to bed in so Shakespearean a mood?”

“Only on Thursdays.”

“Well then, Lady Macbeth, you might take your perfumes
of Arabia and go to sleep. I hope you wake in a less suicidal disposition.”

She bit her lip, let out a scoff. “I’m not going to let you do it.”

“I know you won’t,” he said softly. “But I’m going to do it anyway. Who knows, we might win the war in the meantime, and then it won’t mean anything to lose the jewel to Woodstock.”

“It means something to Thomas Hope, and Lady Violet. They’ll lose everything. Perhaps we might outwit Woodstock together. Defeat him so you don’t have to give up the diamond. We can do it together—”

“I’m sorry, Caroline,” he whispered. “I won’t put you in danger. Not if I can help it. I’m sorry.”

“I know,” she replied. “What you did for me—it’s extraordinary. Let me return the favor. Let me help you. I’ll tell William everything; if he knows we’re in danger, he’ll give back the diamond, you can take it to the French—”

“And let Woodstock have you?” Henry untangled her from his arms. He looked down and met her gaze. “Considering the things I just confessed to you, Caroline, do you really think I’d let that happen? I’ll handle Woodstock on my own. It’s too dangerous, you being involved. I won’t see you hurt. Besides, I don’t trust your brother. If he knows Woodstock threatened you, he might confront him, try to kill him on his own. Woodstock is a well-trained agent, and deadly; your brother, despite his bravado, doesn’t stand a chance. Which is why I can’t pay the marquess a call tomorrow and take care of him myself. He’ll be watching our every move. No, it’s better if we keep the earl out of this for the time being.”

A beat of silence passed between them.

At last Henry looked away, tugged a hand through his hair. “I have a plan in place to loosen the jewel from your brother’s grasp. Once I have the French Blue—”

“You’ll do what you think is right.” Caroline offered him a small, tight smile. “Just like you did twelve years ago.”

He met her eyes. “Do you not think I made the right choice then?”

It was her turn to look away. “There was no right choice, Henry.”

There was no right choice now.

Seventeen

O
nce Henry had gone and the house was quiet, Caroline flung the counterpane aside and scurried to the door. She listened; not a sound.

She snuck out into the hall, wincing as she stubbed her toe on a sinisterly placed chair. Hopping to her brother’s door, she ducked to peek inside the keyhole.

The room was dim, lit by a pair of candelabra.

And it was empty. No doubt William was out somewhere peeling off Violet’s clothes. In his carriage, perhaps, or maybe the stables. The way they were looking at one another tonight at dinner—heavens, it was a miracle the box hadn’t burst into flames.

She let out a sigh of relief. At least William had not heard the exchange between Woodstock and Henry.

At least their secret was safe. For now.

Caroline crept into the bedchamber and closed the door softly behind her. Even with the windows open, the room smelled just like his chamber from childhood: like
boy
. A close, slightly musky, slightly sour smell that made her smile—he’d been so cute as a boy, and so naughty!—as she moved across its carpeted expanse.

With shaking hands, she plucked a taper from the candelabra. Its light sputtered and flashed in her unsteady grasp. She opened a narrow door at the far end of the room and stepped into William’s dressing room. Rows upon rows of drawers neatly lined the walls; their mahogany surface shimmered in the candle’s wavering light.

Caroline turned to a wide drawer, a little above waist height. Its copper pull was the only hardware in the room marked with fingerprints.

Perfect. It was
the
drawer.

For as long as she could remember, William had hidden his most treasured possessions in a top drawer amid his stockings and socks. When they were little, it had been a drawer in his ancient bureau that had to be tugged, quite viciously, to get open. Back then he’d hidden money, biscuits, and bugs in his not-so-secret drawer. Caroline would dig through it every Monday after luncheon, when William was at his shooting lessons. Sometimes she’d steal the biscuits; most times, the bugs.

She’d take them back with her to the garden, where they belonged.

As he got older, he’d hide slightly less innocent objects in the drawer of his bedside table here at their father’s London house. A copy of
Fanny Hill
, read so many times its pages were limp with fatigue; a flask; a girl’s garter, festooned with tiny pink ribbons.

Caroline had been so tempted to ask about that garter. But then William would’ve known she’d been snooping about his drawer, and moved his secrets elsewhere. And she liked knowing his secrets.

Holding the taper aloft, Caroline clasped the cold metal pull and slid open the drawer. Neat stacks of silk stockings sat shoulder to shoulder, each pile an alternating color: first white, then black, cream, and navy, white again.