Bourne’s gaze narrowed on the paper, registered the Langford seal. He raised his eyes to his future father-in-law. His heart began to pound, something frighteningly akin to hope in his chest. He didn’t like the way he hung on the silence that swirled between them. Willed himself calm. “You think to tempt me with some ancient letter?”

“You want this letter, Bourne. It’s worth a dozen of your famous files. And it’s yours, assuming you keep my girls’ names out of your dirt.”

The marquess had never been one to pull his punches. He said precisely what he thought, whenever he thought it—the product of holding two of the more venerable titles in the peerage—and Bourne couldn’t help but admire the man for his straightforwardness. He knew what he wanted, aimed for it.

What the marquess did not know was that his eldest daughter had negotiated these precise terms the evening before. That document, whatever it was, would not require additional payment.

But Needham deserved his own punishment—punishment for ignoring Langford’s behavior all those years ago. Punishment for using Falconwell on the marriage mart.

Punishment that Bourne was more than willing to mete out. “You are a fool if you think I will agree without knowing what is inside. I built my fortune on scandal, thieved it from pockets of sin. I shall be the judge of whether that document is worth my effort.”

Needham opened the letter, laid it on the table, slowly. Turned it to face Bourne and held it down with one finger. Bourne couldn’t help himself. He leaned forward more quickly than he would have liked, his eyes scanning the page.

Dear God.

He looked up, met Needham’s knowing gaze. “It’s real?”

The older man nodded once. Twice.

Bourne reread the lines. Took in the scrawl across the bottom of the paper, unmistakably Langford’s, though the paper was thirty years old.

Twenty-nine.

“Why would you share this? Why give it to me?”

“You give me little choice.” Needham hedged. “I like the boy . . . I kept this close at hand because I thought that Penelope would marry him eventually, and he’d require protection. Now my girls need that protection. A father does what he must. You make sure that Penelope’s reputation is unblemished by this match and that the others’ are worthy of decent matches, and it is yours.”

Bourne turned his glass in a slow circle, watching the way it caught the candlelight of the pub for a long moment before lifting his gaze to Needham. “I shan’t wait for the girls’ weddings.”

Needham dipped his head, suddenly gracious. “I shall settle for betrothals.”

“No. Betrothals are dangerous indeed when it comes to your daughters, I hear.”

“I should walk away from you right now,” Needham threatened.

“But you won’t. We are strange bedfellows, you and I.” He sat back in his chair, tasting victory. “I want the other daughters in town as quickly as possible. I’ll get them courted. They’ll not be tarnished by their sister’s marriage.”

“Courted by decent men,” Needham qualified. “No one with half his estate in hock to The Angel.”

“Get them to town. I find I am no longer willing to wait for my revenge.”

Needham’s gaze narrowed. “I shall regret marrying her to you.”

Bourne tossed back his drink and turned the glass upside down on the wooden table. “It is unfortunate, then, that you haven’t a choice.”

Chapter Seven

Dear M—

I’ve just seen you off, and I came inside straightaway to write.

I haven’t anything to say, really, nothing that every other person in Surrey hasn’t already said. It seems silly to say, “I am sorry,” doesn’t it? Of course, everyone is sorry. It’s horrible, what’s happened.

I am not only sorry for your loss, however; I am sorry that we were not able to talk when you were home. I am sorry that I could not attend the funeral . . . it’s a stupid rule, and I wish I had been born a male so I could have been there (I plan to have a chat with Vicar Compton regarding that idiocy). I am sorry I could not be—more of a friend.

I am here now, on the page, where girls are allowed. Please write when you have time. Or inclination.

Your friend—P

Needham Manor, April 1816

No reply

Surely there had never been a longer carriage ride than this—four interminable, deathly silent hours from Surrey to London. Penelope would rather have been trapped in a mail coach with Olivia and a collection of ladies’ magazines.

She slid a glance across the wide, dark interior of the conveyance, taking in her hours-old husband, leaning back against his seat, long legs extended, eyes closed, corpse-still, and attempted to quiet her rioting thoughts, which seemed to be focused on a handful of extraordinarily disquieting things. Namely:

She was married.

Which led to,

She was the Marchioness of Bourne.

Which explained why,

She was traveling in a conveyance that was stuffed to the gills with her possessions and would soon be in London, where she would live, with her new husband.

Which brought her to,

Michael was her new husband.

Which meant,

She would share her wedding night with Michael.

Perhaps he’d kiss her again. Touch her again.

More.

One would think he’d have to, wouldn’t he? If they were married. It was what husbands and wives did, after all.

She hoped.

Oh, dear.

The thought was enough to make her wish she had the courage to throw open the door to the carriage and toss herself right out of the vehicle.