And then, when she was not found, it would be assumed that she’d run off. And after what had happened at the church, no one would think she’d left on her own.
She would be ruined. And so would everyone else.
“It is not a question of my own happiness,” she finally said, her voice quiet, almost broken. “Gregory, I beg of you, please don’t do this. This is not just about me. My family—We will be ruined, all of us.”
He walked to her side and sat. And then he said, simply, “Tell me.”
She did. He would not give in otherwise, of that she was certain.
She told him everything. About her father, and the written proof of his treason. She told him about the blackmail. She told him how she was the final payment and the only thing that would keep her brother from being stripped of his title.
Lucy stared straight ahead throughout the telling, and for that, Gregory was grateful. Because what she said—it shook him to his very core.
All day Gregory had been trying to imagine what terrible secret could possibly induce her to marry Haselby. He’d run twice through London, first to the church and then here, to Fennsworth House. He had had plenty of time to think, to wonder. But never—not once—had his imagination led him to this.
“So you see,” she said, “it is nothing so common as an illegitimate child, nothing so racy as an extramarital affair. My father—an earl of the realm—committed treason. Treason.” And then she laughed. Laughed.
The way people did when what they really wanted was to cry.
“It’s an ugly thing,” she finished, her voice low and resigned. “There is no escaping it.”
She turned to him for a response, but he had none.
Treason. Good God, he could not think of anything worse. There were many ways—many many ways—one could get oneself thrown out of society, but nothing was as unforgivable as treason. There wasn’t a man, woman, or child in Britain who had not lost someone to Napoleon. The wounds were still too fresh, and even if they weren’t . . .
It was treason.
A gentleman did not forsake his country.
It was ingrained in the soul of every man of Britain.
If the truth about Lucy’s father were known, the earldom of Fennsworth would be dissolved. Lucy’s brother would be left destitute. He and Hermione would almost certainly have to emigrate.
And Lucy would . . .
Well, Lucy would probably survive the scandal, especially if her surname was changed to Bridgerton, but she would never forgive herself. Of that, Gregory was certain.
And finally, he understood.
He looked at her. She was pale and drawn, and her hands were clenched tightly in her lap. “My family has been good and true,” she said, her voice shaking with emotion. “The Abernathys have been loyal to the crown since the first earl was invested in the fifteenth century. And my father has shamed us all. I cannot allow it to be revealed. I cannot.” She swallowed awkwardly and then sadly said, “You should see your face. Even you don’t want me now.”
“No,” he said, almost blurting out the word. “No. That is not true. That could never be true.” He took her hands, held them in his own, savoring the shape of them, the arch of her fingers and the delicate heat of her skin.
“I am sorry,” he said. “It should not have taken me so long to collect myself. I had not imagined treason.”
She shook her head. “How could you?”
“But it does not change how I feel.” He took her face in his hands, aching to kiss her but knowing he could not.
Not yet.
“What your father did— It is reprehensible. It is—” He swore under his breath. “I will be honest with you. It leaves me sick. But you—you, Lucy—you are innocent. You did nothing wrong, and you should not have to pay for his sins.”
“Neither should my brother,” she said quietly, “but if I do not complete my marriage to Haselby, Richard will—”
“Shhh.” Gregory pressed a finger to her lips. “Listen to me. I love you.”
Her eyes filled with tears.
“I love you,” he said again. “There is nothing in this world or the next that could ever make me stop loving you.”
“You felt that way about Hermione,” she whispered.
“No,” he said, almost smiling at how silly it all seemed now. “I had been waiting so long to fall in love that I wanted the love more than the woman. I never loved Hermione, just the idea of her. But with you . . . It’s different, Lucy. It’s deeper. It’s . . . it’s . . .”
He struggled for words, but there were none. Words simply did not exist to explain what he felt for her. “It’s me,” he finally said, appalled at the inelegance of it. “Without you, I . . . I am . . .”
“Gregory,” she whispered, “you don’t have to—”
“I am nothing,” he cut in, because he wasn’t going to allow her to tell him that he didn’t have to explain. “Without you, I am nothing.”
She smiled. It was a sad smile, but it was true, and it felt as if he’d been waiting years for that smile. “That’s not true,” she said. “You know that it’s not.”
He shook his head. “An exaggeration, perhaps, but that is all. You make me better, Lucy. You make me wish, and hope, and aspire. You make me want to do things.”
Tears began to trickle down her cheeks.
With the pads of his thumbs he brushed them away. “You are the finest person I know,” he said, “the most honorable human being I have ever met. You make me laugh. And you make me think. And I . . .” He took a deep breath. “I love you.”
And again. “I love you.”
And again. “I love you.” He shook his head helplessly. “I don’t know how else to say it.”
She turned away then, twisting her head so that his hands slid from her face to her shoulders, and finally, away from her body completely. Gregory could not see her face, but he could hear her—the quiet, broken sound of her breathing, the soft whimper in her voice.
“I love you,” she finally answered, still not looking at him. “You know that I do. I will not demean us both by lying about it. And if it were only me, I would do anything—anything for that love. I would risk poverty, ruin. I would move to America, I would move to darkest Africa if that were the only way to be with you.”
She let out a long, shaky breath. “I cannot be so selfish as to bring down the two people who have loved me so well and for so long.”
“Lucy . . .” He had no idea what he wanted to tell her, just that he didn’t want her to finish. He knew he did not want to hear what she had to say.
But she cut him off with—“Don’t, Gregory. Please. I’m sorry. I cannot do it, and if you love me as you say you do, you will bring me back now, before Lord Davenport realizes I’ve gone missing.”
Gregory squeezed his fingers into fists, then flexed them wide and straight. He knew what he should do. He should release her, let her run downstairs to the party. He should sneak back out the servants’ door and vow never to approach her again.
She had promised to love, honor, and obey another man. She was supposed to forsake all others.
Surely, he fell under that aegis.
And yet he couldn’t give up.
Not yet.
“One hour,” he said, moving into a crouching position beside her. “Just give me one hour.”
She turned, her eyes doubtful and astonished and maybe—maybe—just a little bit hopeful as well. “One hour?” she echoed. “What do you think you can—”
“I don’t know,” he said honestly. “But I will promise you this. If I cannot find a way to free you from this blackmail in one hour, I will return for you. And I will release you.”
“To return to Haselby?” she whispered, and she sounded—
Did she sound disappointed? Even a little?
“Yes,” he said. Because in truth it was the only thing he could say. Much as he wished to throw caution to the wind, he knew that he could not steal her away. She would be
respectable, as he would marry her as soon as Haselby agreed to the annulment, but she would never be happy.
And he knew that he could not live with himself.
“You will not be ruined if you go missing for one hour,” he said to her. “You can simply tell people you were overset. You wished to take a nap. I am sure that Hermione will corroborate your story if you ask her to.”
Lucy nodded. “Will you release my bindings?”
He gave his head a tiny shake and stood. “I would trust you with my life, Lucy, but not with your own. You’re far too honorable for your own good.”
“Gregory!”
He shrugged as he walked to the door. “Your conscience will get the better of you. You know that it will.”
“What if I promise—”
“Sorry.” One corner of his mouth stretched into a not quite apologetic expression. “I won’t believe you.”
He took one last look at her before he left. And he had to smile, which seemed ludicrous, given that he had one hour to neutralize the blackmail threat against Lucy’s family and extract her from her marriage. During her wedding reception.
By comparison, moving heaven and earth seemed a far better prospect.
But when he turned to Lucy, and saw her sitting there, on the floor, she looked . . .
Like herself again.
“Gregory,” she said, “you cannot leave me here. What if someone finds you and removes you from the house? Who will know I am here? And what if . . . and what if . . . and then what if . . .”
He smiled, enjoying her officiousness too much to actually listen to her words. She was definitely herself again.
“When this is all over,” he said, “I shall bring you a sandwich.”
That stopped her short. “A sandwich? A sandwich?”
He twisted the doorknob but didn’t yet pull. “You want a sandwich, don’t you? You always want a sandwich.”
“You’ve gone mad,” she said.
He couldn’t believe she’d only just come to the conclusion. “Don’t yell,” he warned.
“You know I can’t,” she muttered.
It was true. The last thing she wanted was to be found. If Gregory was not successful, she would need to be able to slip back into the party with as little fuss as possible.
“Goodbye, Lucy,” he said. “I love you.”
She looked up. And she whispered, “One hour. Do you really think you can do it?”
He nodded. It was what she needed to see, and it was what he needed to pretend.
And as he closed the door behind him, he could have sworn he heard her murmur, “Good luck.”
He paused for one deep breath before heading for the stairs. He was going to need more than luck; he was going to need a bloody miracle.
The odds were against him. The odds were extremely against him. But Gregory had always been one to cheer for the underdog. And if there was any sense of justice in the world, any existential fairness floating through the air . . . If Do unto others offered any sort of payback, surely he was due.
Love existed.
He knew that it did. And he would be damned if it did not exist for him.
Gregory’s first stop was Lucy’s bedchamber, on the second floor. He couldn’t very well stroll into the ballroom and request an audience with one of the guests, but he thought there was a chance that someone had noticed Lucy’s absence and gone off looking for her. God willing it would be someone sympathetic to their cause, someone who actually cared about Lucy’s happiness.
But when Gregory slipped inside the room, all was exactly as he’d left it. “Damn,” he muttered, striding back to the door. Now he was going to have to figure out how to speak to her brother—or Haselby, he supposed—without attracting attention.
He placed his hand on the knob and yanked, but the weight of the door was all wrong, and Gregory wasn’t certain which happened first—the feminine shriek of surprise or the soft, warm body tumbling into his.
“You!”
“You!” he said in return. “Thank God.”
It was Hermione. The one person he knew cared for Lucy’s happiness above all else.
“What are you doing here?” she hissed. But she closed the door to the corridor, surely a good sign.
“I had to talk to Lucy.”
“She married Lord Haselby.”
He shook his head. “It has not been consummated.”
Her mouth quite literally fell open. “Good God, you don’t mean to—”
“I will be honest with you,” he cut in. “I don’t know what I mean to do, other than find a way to free her.”
Hermione stared at him for several seconds. And then, seemingly out of nowhere, she said, “She loves you.”
“She told you that?”
She shook her head. “No, but it’s obvious. Or at least with hindsight it is.” She paced the room, then turned suddenly around. “Then why did she marry Lord Haselby? I know she feels strongly about honoring commitments, but surely she could have ended it before today.”
“She is being blackmailed,” Gregory said grimly.
Hermione’s eyes grew very large. “With what?”
“I can’t tell you.”
To her credit, she did not waste time protesting. Instead, she looked up at him, her eyes sharp and steady. “What can I do to help?”
Five minutes later, Gregory found himself in the company of both Lord Haselby and Lucy’s brother. He would have preferred to have done without the latter, who looked as if he might cheerfully decapitate Gregory were it not for the presence of his wife.
Who had his arm in a viselike grip.
“Where is Lucy?” Richard demanded.
“She is safe,” Gregory replied.
“Pardon me if I am not reassured,” Richard retorted.
“Richard, stop,” Hermione cut in, forcibly pulling him back. “Mr. Bridgerton is not going to hurt her. He has her best interests at heart.”
“Oh, really?” Richard drawled.
Hermione glared at him with more animation than Gregory had ever seen on her pretty face. “He loves her,” she declared.
“Indeed.”
All eyes turned to Lord Haselby, who had been standing by the door, watching the scene with a strange expression of amusement.
No one seemed to know what to say.
“Well, he certainly made it clear this morning,” Haselby continued, settling into a chair with remarkably easy grace. “Wouldn’t you agree?”
“Er, yes?” Richard answered, and Gregory couldn’t really blame him for his uncertain tone. Haselby did seem to be taking this in a most uncommon manner. Calm. So calm that Gregory’s pulse seemed to feel the need to race twice as fast, if only to make up for Haselby’s shortcomings.
“She loves me,” Gregory told him, balling his hand into a fist behind his back—not in preparation for violence, but rather because if he didn’t move some part of his body, he was liable to jump out of his skin. “I’m sorry to say it, but—”
“No, no, not at all,” Haselby said with a wave. “I’m quite aware she doesn’t love me. Which is really for the best, as I’m sure we can all agree.”
Gregory wasn’t sure whether he was meant to answer that. Richard was flushing madly, and Hermione looked completely confused.
“Will you release her?” Gregory asked. He did not have time to dance around the subject.
“If I weren’t willing to do that, do you really think I’d be standing here speaking with you in the same tones I use to discuss the weather?”
“Er . . . no?”
Haselby smiled. Slightly. “My father will not be pleased. A state of affairs which normally brings me great joy, to be sure, but it does present a host of difficulties. We shall have to proceed with caution.”
“Shouldn’t Lucy be here?” Hermione asked.
Richard resumed his glaring. “Where is my sister?”
“Upstairs,” Gregory said curtly. That narrowed it down to only thirty-odd rooms.
>
“Upstairs where?” Richard ground out.
Gregory ignored the question. It really wasn’t the best time to reveal that she was presently tied to a water closet.
He turned back to Haselby, who was still seated, one leg crossed casually over the other. He was examining his fingernails.
Gregory felt ready to climb the walls. How could the bloody man sit there so calmly? This was the single most critical conversation either of them would ever have, and all he could do was inspect his manicure?
“Will you release her?” Gregory ground out.
Haselby looked up at him and blinked. “I said I would.”
“But will you reveal her secrets?”
At that, Haselby’s entire demeanor changed. His body seemed to tighten, and his eyes grew deadly sharp. “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” he said, each word crisp and precise.
“Nor do I,” Richard added, stepping close.
Gregory turned briefly in his direction. “She is being blackmailed.”
“Not,” Haselby said sharply, “by me.”
“My apologies,” Gregory said quietly. Blackmail was an ugly thing. “I did not mean to imply.”
“I always wondered why she agreed to marry me,” Haselby said softly.
“It was arranged by her uncle,” Hermione put in. Then, when everyone turned to her in mild surprise, she added, “Well, you know Lucy. She’s not the sort to rebel. She likes order.”
“All the same,” Haselby said, “she did have a rather dramatic opportunity to get out of it.” He paused, cocking his head to the side. “It’s my father, isn’t it?”
Gregory’s chin jerked in a single, grim nod.
“That is not surprising. He is rather eager to have me married. Well, then—” Haselby brought his hands together, twining his fingers and squeezing them down. “What shall we do? Call his bluff, I imagine.”
Gregory shook his head. “We can’t.”
“Oh, come now. It can’t be that bad. What on earth could Lady Lucinda have done?”
“We really should get her,” Hermione said again. And then, when the three men turned to her again, she added, “How would you like your fate to be discussed in your absence?”
Richard stepped in front of Gregory. “Tell me,” he said.