Chapter Fifteen

      Matthew stood in the shadows of King Street, opposite the house where his life had changed for ever. It looked smaller, somehow, and seedier than he remembered. Or was it the enthusiasm of youth that had coloured the place as glamorous and alluring? The sight of excitable young bucks, in twos and threes, swaggering along the street before lifting the knocker and gaining admittance, was profoundly depressing. Nothing changes. Young men...their bravado...seeking thrills...believing themselves up to any and every trick in the book.

      If only they knew...

      Thud...chest about to explode...king of hearts, fluttering to the floor... Henson, accusing, face dark, fists clenched...thud, thud...stammered denial, hands shaking, mouth sucked dry...faces, in and out of vision, disbelieving, sneering...voice hoarse, trying to be heard...needing to be believed...failing...alone...thud, thud, thud...anger, fury boiling over, challenging Henson...challenge accepted...men turning from him...no one willing to stand as second.

      His breath juddered as he hauled it in and he was aware of sweat coating his brow and upper lip. He reached for his handkerchief, and passed it over his face. So real. He had sworn never to return. Why had he come?

      A pair of large, tawny eyes materialised in his mind’s eye. He had handed Eleanor his address as he took his leave of her and, for the first time in days, her outer shell of bravado had cracked. He had glimpsed the frightened girl inside, belying her rejection of his help. He had itched to take her in his arms and soothe away her fears. He would never have that right, but she needed protection and he could not deny that urge deep in his gut, no matter how hard he tried. He must find out who was trying to kill her. It was his duty to keep her safe, even if it meant facing his worst fear.

      When he’d arrived from India, nigh on a month ago now, he would have cut his eyes out rather than start probing this old sore. Henson had been stabbed and robbed that same night, before their duel, snatching away Matthew’s chance to fight for his honour and to clear his name.

      Dishonourable conduct. He could not allow his scandal to taint Eleanor by association, which it would surely do once his true identity became known. He must—somehow—prove his innocence. A lead weight settled in the pit of his stomach as he pictured Eleanor’s growing trust of him turn to scorn when she discovered the truth of his exile to India.

      He would gain nothing by going inside the house opposite. All these hells were crooked—in favour of the house, of course—but it was not the house that had falsely accused him of cheating all those years ago, nor the house that had believed him responsible for attacking Henson shortly afterwards. The old resentment curdled his stomach. His own father. His own family. They had believed him capable of both charges. They had washed their hands of him. And now, if he was to protect Eleanor, he would—inevitably—be recognised. Remembered. Accused all over again.

       Henson.

      Where to begin to look? Matthew ran through the names of the men round the table that night—names branded in his memory.

      Henson, both Alastairs—Lady Rothley’s sons, Silverdale, Hartlebury, Perivale.

      He would have to hope some of them were in London for the Season. The older of the two Alastairs, Lucas—now the Marquis of Rothley—was not in town. That was no loss; he and Henson had been thick as thieves. But the younger brother, Hugo...he might be a good place to start.

      He must prove his innocence. Deep in his gut, he believed others around that table must know the accusation to be false. They just hadn’t spoken up against Henson—older, worldly-wise, a man the young bucks admired and wished to emulate. Maybe now, as more mature and, hopefully, responsible adults, they would take the opportunity to clear their consciences.

      Matthew turned abruptly on his heel and strode away.

      * * *

      Three days after their arrival in town, Pacey opened the front door for Eleanor and Matthew was on the doorstep. Rendered temporarily speechless, she was grateful Aunt Lucy took charge.

      ‘Mr Thomas! Why, what a pleasant surprise. How do you do?’

      Matthew removed his hat and bowed, his blond hair glinting in the early afternoon sunlight.

      ‘Good afternoon, Lady Rothley.’ He bowed and then his blue gaze rested on Eleanor’s face and her heart kicked into a gallop. ‘Your servant, Lady Ashby. I am very well, thank you. Have I called at an inconvenient time?’

      ‘Yes,’ Eleanor said. ‘We are—’

      ‘No,’ Aunt Lucy said. ‘Your timing is perfect. We are going to call on Eleanor’s cousin, James. Would you care to accompany us?’

      ‘Aunt! I don’t think... I beg your pardon, Mr Thomas, but—’

      ‘I should be honoured,’ Matthew said. ‘Are you planning to walk?’

      ‘Yes,’ Aunt Lucy said. ‘It is not very far, but it will be pleasant to have a gentleman’s arm to lean on. Come, Ellie. Peter and William can still accompany us.’

      Eleanor straightened her bonnet and sailed past Matthew on to the pavement. She could think of nothing worse than Matthew being present when she and James had their first meeting. Her irritation that James had not even had the courtesy to call on her in the three days since her arrival was bound to reveal itself and she was loath to give Matthew another reason to think ill of her cousin.

      Eleanor winced inwardly at the spectacle they must present: it was bad enough having two burly footmen dogging her footsteps wherever they went but, now, to be seen in the company of... Eleanor looked beyond Aunt Lucy to Mr Thomas, strolling nonchalantly along the pavement, cane swinging. A cane? His blue superfine coat was well tailored, his tall hat set at a jaunty angle and—although he still presented a rugged and slightly dangerous appearance—no one would doubt him a gentleman. Mayhap he was wealthier than she had assumed.