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“ Y ou cannot seriously be considering investing in that railway venture, Marchwood. The man’s a charlatan.”

Henry lifted his wine glass to his lips, allowing the conversation to flow around him without truly engaging.

The Marquess Southall had insisted on this dinner party, claiming it essential for cementing certain business relationships, but Henry found himself increasingly unable to muster enthusiasm for such gatherings.

“Perhaps,” he replied evenly, “but charlatans occasionally stumble upon profitable ventures despite themselves.”

The dinner party was precisely the sort of tedious affair he’d grown to despise—twenty couples seated around an enormous mahogany table, the conversation predictably shallow, and the company more interested in gossip than genuine discourse.

He’d positioned himself strategically to avoid certain individuals, but even from across the room, he could feel Miss Florentia Lytton’s expectant gaze boring into him.

“Speaking of ventures,” Lady Pemberton’s voice cut through the general chatter with the precision of a well-honed blade, “has anyone heard the latest whispers about the notorious Miss Lytton?”

Henry’s fingers tightened imperceptibly around his glass, though his expression remained perfectly neutral.

“Oh, do tell,” another woman tittered. “I heard she’s become quite the recluse since her latest scandal broke.”

“What scandal?” Lord Whitmore asked as he leaned forward with obvious interest.

“Nothing confirmed, of course,” Lady Pemberton continued with false delicacy, “but there are whispers that she’s been conducting herself rather inappropriately with a certain gentleman of elevated rank. Again.”

Henry felt something cold and dangerous unfurl in his chest. “I’m afraid I don’t follow your meaning, Lady Pemberton.”

She cleared her throat and lifted her chin defiantly as she said, “Oh, Your Grace. Surely you’ve heard the talk? People have seen her sneaking off in the shadows with another gentleman over the past few weeks. One would think she’d learn to conduct herself with more discretion.”

Henry clenched his free hand. So, even now, in a new brewing scandal, Annabelle was the only one taking the brunt of the gossip. How disgusting.

“Perhaps,” Henry said quietly, his voice carrying just enough edge to make the woman pause, “one might consider that gossip often bears little resemblance to truth. Miss Lytton has always struck me as a woman of impeccable character who has been rather unfairly maligned by those with too much time and too little kindness.”

The table fell silent. The weight of his words settled over the assembled company like a heavy blanket. Lady Pemberton’s face flushed crimson while several other guests suddenly found their wine glasses fascinating.

“Of course, Your Grace,” she stammered. “I meant no offense. I’m sure you’re quite right.”

The conversation limped forward to safer topics, but Henry noticed how carefully the other guests avoided his gaze for the remainder of the meal.

He’d made his position clear, perhaps more clearly than was wise, but he found he didn’t care.

The thought of Annabelle being subjected to such casual cruelty made his blood boil.

When the ladies withdrew after dinner, Henry found himself counting the minutes until he could make his escape. The gentlemen’s conversation had turned to politics, a subject that held even less interest for him in his current state of mind.

“Marchwood.” Everett appeared at his elbow. “A word?”

They stepped away from the main group and moved toward the tall windows that overlooked the garden.

“That was quite the defense you mounted for Miss Lytton,” Everett said. “Rather more pointed than your usual diplomatic responses.”

“The lady was being unnecessarily cruel.”

“Yes, she was. But your reaction will fuel more speculation, not less.” Everett’s tone was gentle but concerned. “Are you prepared for the problems this will cause, Miss Lytton?”

Henry opened his mouth to respond, but a footman approached with a silver salver, breaking the moment. “Your Grace? A message.”

Henry accepted the folded paper. He recognized the feminine handwriting immediately. His pulse quickened as he opened it, but the contents made his blood run cold.

Your Grace, I must speak with you at once. It concerns Anna and is of utmost urgency. Please meet me on the east terrace when you receive this. - F.L.

“What is it?” Everett asked, noting Henry’s expression.

“I’m not certain. An urgent matter requiring my attention.”

As Henry excused himself and made his way through the house, his mind raced with possibilities. What could be so urgent that Florentia would risk such a bold approach? His pulse hammered as he considered the implications. Had something happened to Annabelle?

The east terrace was shrouded in shadow, lit only by the pale moonlight filtering through the trees. He found Florentia standing near the balustrade, her pale evening gown making her appear almost ethereal in the darkness.

“Miss Florentia Lytton,” he called softly as he approached. “Your message mentioned urgent news about Miss Lytton. What’s happened? Is she unwell?”

She turned toward him, and even in the dim light, he could see something calculating in her expression that made his wariness spike.

“Henry.” Her voice was breathy and intimate in a way that made him recoil. “I’m so glad you came.”

“What about Annabelle?” he pressed, moving closer despite his growing unease. “Your note said there was urgent news.”

“There is,” she replied while taking a step toward him. “The urgent news is that she’s a fool to give up a man like you.”

Henry went very still. “What?”

“You heard me correctly.” Her voice dropped to a whisper as she moved closer still. She drew close enough that he could smell her perfume. It was heavy and cloying in the night air. “Anna has always been too proud for her own good, too stubborn to see what’s right in front of her.”

“Miss Florentia Lytton, I think there’s been some misunderstanding between?—”

“No misunderstanding at all.” She reached out.

Her fingers trailed along his lapel in a gesture that was unmistakably intimate.

“I’ve watched you these past weeks, seen how you suffer.

A man like you shouldn’t be alone, shouldn’t be wasting away for someone who doesn’t appreciate what she’s throwing away. ”

Henry caught her wrist and removed her hand from his jacket with firm politeness. “You’re mistaken if you think?—”

“Am I?” She pressed closer. Her voice took on a pleading quality. “I could make you forget her, Henry. I could make you forget all about my stubborn, foolish sister.”

He was thoroughly disgusted. The manipulation, the calculated seduction, and the complete disregard for her own sister’s feelings—it was more revolting than he could have imagined.

“You’re quite mistaken,” he said coldly as he took a deliberate step backward. “I think this conversation has gone far enough.”

But as he turned to leave, Florentia’s demeanor changed entirely. Her pleading expression transformed into something desperate and dangerous.

“Wait!” Her voice rose as she called out. “You cannot just?—”

She grabbed at his arm, and when he continued to pull away, she suddenly gripped the delicate sleeve of her gown and gave it a violent tear. The sound of ripping fabric echoed in the quiet night air.

“What the devil—!” Henry began, but she was already backing toward the terrace doors. Her face was a mask of theatrical distress.

“How dare you!” she cried, and her voice carried clearly through the open windows. “How dare you lay hands on me!”

Henry reacted with the speed of desperation, lunging forward to catch her wrist before she could retreat into the house and complete whatever mad scheme she’d concocted.

“What are you trying to achieve?” he demanded. “What game are you playing?”

“Game?” Her laugh was brittle and wild. “You’ve compromised me, Your Grace. Lured me out here under false pretenses and then?—”

“Enough.” The word cut through her theatrics. “I’ve had quite enough of your machinations, Miss Florentia Lytton. I believe I have been very courteous with you, but that ends now.”

She struggled against his grip. Her eyes were wild with a mixture of desperation and calculation. “You cannot simply?—”

“I can and I will.” Henry’s voice was ice-cold as he began to propel her toward the back of the terrace. They moved away from the lighted windows and potential witnesses. “You want to play games? Then let’s finish this properly.”