“Yes, you hate him. You always have. How could you marry me? How could you even consider it?”
“I can’t worry about your father or what he did with my mother. I’m not even sure of what actually occurred between them, and I can’t keep holding on to my animosity. It’s been eating me alive; I have to let it go.”
He took her hand and clasped it in both of his own, then he dropped to one knee.
“I have many faults.”
She laughed miserably. “I won’t argue the point.”
“I’ve been horrid to you. I’ve bullied and cheated and tricked you.”
“Yes you have, but deep down inside, you’re such a good person. Why must you act so badly?”
“Because I didn’t know how to make you stay with me—unless I forced you to remain.”
“You are insane.”
“Yes, I am. Insane with wanting you by my side. Forever. Say that you’ll have me.”
“What about Miranda?”
“Tristan is sending her away. Today.”
“And as soon as she leaves, you would wed me?”
“I would wed you this very second, if only you’d agree.”
She couldn’t bear to see him prostrate before her, and she pulled him to his feet.
“Get up,” she said, “get up.”
“I swear to you, Helen, that I will always watch over you, that I will support you and keep you and your sister safe. You’ll never have to work again. You’ll never have to struggle or fret.”
Behind them, the door opened, and Phillip entered. He studied them, huddled together in an obvious emotional conversation, and his frown was lethal.
“Westwood,” he seethed, “you better tell me that you’re proposing marriage.”
“I am proposing. However, I can’t persuade her to give me the response I seek.”
Harriet and Fanny came in too, and Helen peered over at Harriet, at her new-found brother and sister.
“I don’t know what to do,” she told them.
“What do you want to do?” Fanny asked.
“I just want to be happy,” Helen said.
“Are you in love with him?” Harriet inquired.
Helen stared at Westwood, and she recollected the terrible times: when he’d been awful to her, when he’d been a boor and a tyrant. But she recollected other times, too: when he was kind, when he was thoughtful and concerned and loyal.
“Yes,” she affirmed, “I love him.”
“Then the answer is easy,” Harriet replied. “Tell him yes. Right now.”
Helen reflected on how alone she’d been, on how she’d sweated and toiled for so many years. But when she’d resided in his home, she’d been ecstatic merely to hear his tread on the stair.
She’d given up everything for him, and it dawned on her that, in a heartbeat, she would do it all again.
If she refused him, how would she carry on? If she said no, he would go away, and she would never see him again. It was the worst conclusion imaginable.
Despite Miranda’s treachery, despite Nigel’s scheming, he’d dared all and come to her. Couldn’t she dare a bit, too? How could she send him away?
“I want to be happy”—she smiled at him—“and you will make me happy.”
“I know I will.”
“Yes!” she emphatically declared. “Yes, James Harcourt, I say it here in front of my family. I want to marry you. I want to spend the rest of my life with you.”
There was a stunned pause, as if they were all waiting for her to retract the words, or perhaps to grin and claim she’d been joking.
“Do you mean it?” he asked.
“Of course I mean it.”
“I won’t let you change your mind.”
“I won’t change my mind.”
“With me, it’s all or nothing. With me, it’s forever.”
“Yes, James. Forevermore.”
“Then I am the luckiest man alive.”
He drew her into a tight hug and kissed her as her siblings looked on.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
“Don’t move a muscle or you’re a dead man.”
“What do you want?”
Bentley Struthers was frozen in place, a knife pressed to his throat. He thought he recognized his attacker’s voice, and he was anxious to peek over his shoulder to discover who had accosted him, but it was very late, the night pitch black, so he couldn’t see anything.
He’d just stepped from his carriage and was about to enter his home. His driver had continued on to the stable, and the butler hadn’t yet opened the door.
If he was murdered on his own stoop, there would be no witnesses.
“Don’t kill me!” he begged. “Please.”
“Perhaps I want to kill you. Perhaps I would enjoy it.”
“What is it you seek? Is it cash? My purse is full. Take it! Take it! If it’s not enough, there’s more inside.”
“Thank you. You’re most generous.”
The assailant reached down, clasped Bentley’s purse, and easily snapped the chain that had secured it to his waist.
Assuming the robbery ended, Bentley relaxed, but the dastardly criminal simply tightened his grip.
“You have your money,” Bentley complained, “now leave me be.”
“You don’t think you’ll get off this cheaply, do you?” The swine gestured to the house. “Let’s have a look in your safe.”
Bentley was dragged into the foyer, and a sleepy footman watched the desperate event, but if the boy was shocked at espying his master in the clutches of a madman, he gave no sign.
“You saw nothing,” Bentley’s assailant warned the boy. “Go to bed, and don’t come back downstairs.”
The footman scurried off, and when Bentley bellowed in vain for him to return and assist, the tip of the knife dug into Bentley’s throat. He could feel blood trickling down his neck.
“It appears,” the felon murmured, “that your servants aren’t all that loyal. Can you imagine them not liking you?”
They went to Bentley’s library, heading directly toward it as if the thief was familiar with Bentley’s residence. Bentley was shoved in first, and he staggered, then whipped around to find Captain Harcourt observing him with a cold grin.
“What are you doing, Harcourt?”
“What does it look like? I’m robbing you. And if you sufficiently annoy me, I’ll murder you, too.”
“You wouldn’t dare,” Bentley insisted, but from the dangerous gleam in Harcourt’s eye, he wasn’t so sure.
Harcourt was an experienced seaman and marksman. If provoked, what might such a rough fellow do?
“Open the safe,” Harcourt ordered.
“I won’t!” Bentley refused.
“Really?”
In a flash, Harcourt grasped Bentley’s hand and pressed it to the top of the desk, palm flat, the sharp blade of the knife slashing across Bentley’s index finger.
“You can open it now,” Harcourt casually stated, “or I can cut off your fingers—one by one—until you decide to do as I’ve asked.”
“Cut off my fingers? Are you insane?”
“Yes. So wouldn’t it be easier to simply comply without all the fuss?”
Bentley couldn’t move, couldn’t reply. Frantically, he calculated the angles. Would Harcourt proceed as he’d threatened? Was he that crazed? That brave?
Bentley scoffed. “You won’t hurt me.”
Harcourt started to slice with the blade, and quickly, it was through flesh and touching bone. Bentley shrieked with pain; his knees buckled.
“All right! All right!”
He stumbled to the wall, lifted the painting that concealed the safe, then spun the knob.
“Would you hurry?” Harcourt admonished. “I’m in a bit of a rush.”
Bentley was shaking with terror, blood dripping and making his hand slippery, so it took several tries to get the combination to work. Finally, the door was tugged wide to reveal jewelry, stock certificates, deeds, and gold coins.
“What is it you want?” he inquired.
“I’ll take a thousand pounds,” Harcourt said.
“I don’t have that much here.”
“Then I’ll take all the gold and the jewelry.”
“But...but...it’s my mother’s. She’ll be very upset.”
“I don’t care. You’re a menace to society, and she raised you to be the despicable cur that you are. She’ll get no sympathy from me.”
Harcourt held out a bag, and once again, Bentley considered the odds. Could he push Harcourt aside and escape? Could he scream for help before Harcourt stabbed him to death? After having watched the footman race for the stairs, what were the chances that a servant would come to his aid?
He reached into the safe and grabbed all the valuables, dropping them into Harcourt’s pouch as if they were worthless rocks instead of irreplaceable gemstones. When he finished, Harcourt peered inside the safe himself, riffling around to be certain that Bentley hadn’t omitted anything.
“Are you satisfied?” Bentley sneered.
“Yes,” Harcourt responded. “Very satisfied.”
“You rich pig,” Bentley spat, “barging in and stealing from my poor mother.”
“Oh, it’s not for me. Have I failed to mention why I’m doing this?”
“Bloody right, you failed to mention it.”