Tommy turned his head against the velvet-covered wall, facing Bourne. “Call off your dogs.”

Asriel growled deep in his throat, and Bruno thumped Tommy into the wall. At his grunt, Bourne said, “Careful now, they do not take well to bad manners.”

One arm went high between his shoulders, and Tommy winced. “This isn’t their battle. It’s yours.”

Needham had likely warned Tommy of Bourne’s plans and their arrangement. There could be nothing else that would bring Langford’s son here to face Bourne and his anger. “What you seek is not here.”

“I hope to hell she isn’t.”

She.

And with that single word, it all fell into place.

Tommy hadn’t come for Needham’s document. Likely didn’t even know it existed.

He had come for Penelope.

He had come for Falconwell.

“Let him go.”

Once released, Tommy shrugged back into his coat and cast a loathing glance at the two men. “Thank you.” Bruno and Asriel stepped back but did not leave the small space, ready to leap to their employer’s aid should he need them.

Bourne spoke first. “I shall be very clear. I married Penelope this morning and, in doing so, made Falconwell mine. Neither you nor your father will touch it. Indeed, if I discover that either of you ever sets foot on the land again, I’ll have you arrested for trespassing.”

Tommy wiped one hand across a swollen lip and laughed, the sound hollow and humorless. “You think I didn’t know you’d come for it? I knew you’d do whatever was required to reclaim it the second it was out of my father’s hands. Why do you think I tried to marry her first?”

The words echoed through the small room, and Bourne was grateful for the dim light that hid his surprise.

Tommy was the fiancé.

He should have seen it, of course. Should have imagined that Thomas Alles was still in Penelope’s world. In her life. Should have expected that he would have angled for Falconwell the moment it was removed from his inheritance.

So he’d proposed to her, and she’d accepted, foolish girl, likely thinking that she loved him—the boy to whom she’d been a friend for so long. Wasn’t that what silly girls dreamed? To marry the boy they’d known since childhood? The simple, friendly companion, the safe friend who never demanded anything but laughter?

“Still bound by Papa’s purse strings, Tom? Had to run off and marry a girl to get yourself an estate? My estate?”

“It hasn’t been yours for a decade,” Tommy spat. “And you don’t deserve it. You don’t deserve her.”

A memory flashed. He, Tommy, and Penelope in a little boat on the middle of the lake at Falconwell, Tommy standing precariously on the bow of the craft, professing to be a great sea captain, Penelope laughing, her blond hair shining gold in the afternoon sunlight, all her attention on the other boy.

Watching her, Bourne had grasped the sides of the rowboat, rocking it once, twice, three times, and Tommy had lost his footing and fallen into the lake with a shout. Tommy! Penelope had cried, rushing to the edge of the boat as the boy came to the surface, laughing and gasping for air. She’d looked back, censure in her gaze, all her focus on Bourne. That was unkind.

He extinguished the memory, returning his attention to the present day, to toppling Tommy once more. He should be pleased that he’d snatched one more thing from Tommy’s grasp, but it was not pleasure that coursed through him; it was fury.

Fury that Tommy had nearly had what was Bourne’s. Falconwell. Penelope. His gaze narrowed. “Nonetheless, both the land and the lady are mine. You and your father are too late.”

Tommy took a step toward him, coming up to his full height, a match for Bourne. “This has nothing to do with Langford.”

“Don’t fool yourself. This has everything to do with Langford. You think he did not expect me to come after Falconwell the moment Needham won it? Of course he did. And he must also know that I will not stop until I’ve ruined him.” He paused, considering this man who had once been his friend. “And ruined you, in the process.”

Something flashed in Tommy’s gaze, something close to understanding. “You will take pleasure in it, I have no doubt. Pleasure in destroying her, as well.”

Bourne crossed his arms over his chest. “My goals are clear—Falconwell and revenge on your father. That you and Penelope stand in the way of those things is unfortunate indeed.”

“I shan’t let you hurt her.”

“How noble of you. What will you do, ferret her away? Guinevere to your Lancelot? Tell me, was he born on the wrong side of the blanket as well?”

Tommy went still at the words. “So that is your plan; you destroy my father by destroying me.”

Bourne raised a brow. “His legacy for mine. His son for my father’s.”

“You’ve a faulty memory if you think he ever thought of me as a son of his heart.” The words rang true—in all of their youth, Langford had never had a kind word for Tommy. He’d been a cold, hard man.

Bourne no longer cared. “It matters not what he thought. What matters is what the world thinks. Without you, he has nothing.”

Tommy rocked back on one heel, his jaw setting square, a quiet echo of the boy he’d once been. “You’re a scoundrel; I’m a gentleman. They’ll never believe you.”

“They will when I show them proof.”

Tommy’s brows knitted together. “There is no proof.”

“You are welcome to test that theory.”