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“And given to our mother.” Matthew shoved his hand behind him, forcing Dara to stand in his shadow. The dogs yapped noisily, but made no attempt to attack them.
“No.” The denial was weak, the truth was sinking in as quickly as his breathing. Slowly, he lowered the blade. “You have been with him in your fine frocks,” he addressed Dara. “Did you give him the jewels?”
She stuck her face out from behind Matthew’s arm. “Yes. I love him. And no, you know the jewels are in the house. You can have them back if you like.”
The interlude lasted no more than a few seconds. Henry’s dark grimace spread over his face. The blade not only lifted again, it also moved closer to Matthew. Dara, fearing for his life, wriggled out of his arm and shot in between the space. The sword kissed her shoulder, nearly cutting her.
Henry gasped and retracted the blade. Matthew swore.
“No more,” she cried. “No more lies and hatred. No more. I cannot stand it.” She glared at her husband. “I do not love you. You know this. And you most definitely do not love me. So let me go. Have your divorce, I don’t care. Your mother faced the same decision when she chose Matthew’s father, and she made it bravely, for it was in her favour. I shall do the same. If you want to petition the courts, do so. I shall live in hope that my family will one day forgive me.”
“Dara,” Matthew said. “Don’t.”
“I shall do as I please,” she said, digging up every morsel of courage she might have left.
“Then, milady, you will have to face the consequences,” seethed Henry. “My bastard brother will end up ruined, I shall see to it.”
“He’s not a bastard,” she hollered.
“Dara,” said Matthew, almost calmly, in her ear. “Tis time to go. I’ll not fight him. He can call me what he likes. I’m his brother, and my mother is his mother. If he can’t see we’re kin, then there’s no hope for him.”
They backed toward the door. Henry, although his sword remained aloft, made no attempt to stay in step with them.
A shout went up, then another. Somewhere in the house, there was a familiar voice. “Master, Master.”
Running down the corridor, his face crimson and streaming with sweat, was Lemuel. He stopped, bent over and rested his hands on his knees, panting heavily. Henry turned to stare at him.
“Who are you?” he snarled.
Lemuel, to Dara’s admiration, simply ignored Henry, the sword, and the curious dogs, and took from his pocket a folded piece of paper. “For you, Master. The reply you sought. He took two days to decide what to do, then he agreed to write a reply. I’m sorry I could not come sooner.”
Henry stood between them. Matthew walked around him, keeping Henry and his indecisive blade in his view the whole time. He received the letter, which bore no seal, and unfolded it. Somehow, he managed to read it and never allow his guard to drop.
Lemuel propped himself against the wall, then slid down. Dara wondered how many miles the exhausted youth had covered to reach the house.
“This is my house,” said Henry. “I demand an explanation. Who is this boy?”
Matthew revealed no emotion in either his voice or face; he remained a picture of neutrality. Dara was bursting to know what the letter contained and why it was so important to read then and there.
“Lemuel, lad. Take yourself off. Find a friendly servant to give you a well-earned drink.”
“Master.” Lemuel struggled to his feet and trotted down the corridor. Only when he was out of sight did Matthew hand the letter not to the expectant Dara, but Henry.
He fumbled to hold it and the whip. “What is—”
“Read it,” said Matthew. He returned to Dara’s side and squeezed her hand.
The colour drained from Henry’s face. “How did you find him?”
Matthew scratched his nose nonchalantly. The confidence had returned to all faculties of his body. “Alfie. The old gamekeeper. He preferred to use the old hunting lodge that sits close to the border between your land and mine.”
Henry pursed his lips. “He left my service two years ago, so—”
“Alfie is a cousin of a friend of mine.” He turned to Dara. “Maggie.”
“Alfie isn’t the person who wrote this letter,” Henry said. The paper trembled in his hands.
“No. But he was able to give me the name and address of the man who did write it: an upstanding innkeeper with a wife and two sons. Alfie, I think, could guess at the nature of my enqu
