He knew.
Elsbeth kept her chin high and her composure steady as Lord Westcott guided her down the garden path. How could she talk her way out of this?
“Lord Westcott…” she began.
“Not here,” he interrupted curtly, his tone brooking no argument.
The silence between them stretched as they strolled further into the gardens. The crisp air carried the faint scent of roses, a stark contrast to the storm brewing in her thoughts. At last, Lord Westcott stopped and turned to face her.
“Do you want to explain yourself?” he half-asked, half-demanded.
Elsbeth weighed her options. Should she feign ignorance or confess everything? She didn’t trust him, especially after what happened last night. He had betrayed her, and she had no guarantee he wouldn’t do so again. Deciding to buy time, she tilted her chin with a faint smile.
“I’m afraid I don’t know what you are talking about,” shesettled on. It was a weak response, but it was the best she could come up with at that moment.
His brow arched, skepticism etched onto his features. “I know you are the highwaywoman.”
Her heart skipped a beat, but she didn’t flinch. It would do no good to show any sign of emotions. “And why would you think that, my lord?”
“You were shot last night, and now you claim you were injured by falling off a horse. How very convenient,” he mocked.
“How do you know I didn’t fall off my horse?” she countered.
“Because that seems rather unlikely, don’t you think?”
Elsbeth shrugged. “Perhaps I am a poor rider. Have you considered that?”
Lord Westcott ran a hand through his dark hair. “Why don’t you trust me?”
She let out a scoff. “Trust you?” she repeated. “You were the reason why I was shot!”
“So you admit it.”
“I admit nothing,” Elsbeth snapped, silently chiding herself on the slip of her tongue. “But if I were to admit such a thing, you set me up. You feigned concern, pretended to care, all to keep me there so you could ambush me.”
Lord Westcott’s expression shifted, guilt flickering briefly across his face. “I had no idea the constable was there.”
“You didn’t go to him?” she asked, her voice sharp with accusation.
“I didn’t,” he insisted. “My aunt did. She thought she was protecting me. You must believe me. I would never knowingly put you in harm’s way.”
Elsbeth shook her head, her emotions a whirlwind of anger and confusion. “It doesn’t matter anymore. None of this does. Why did I ever think this scheme would work?”
He took a step closer to her, his voice dropping to a softer tone. “Why are you doing this? This clearly isn’t about money.”
Her defenses faltered at the genuine concern in his voice, but she rallied quickly. “My reasons are my own.”
“They are, but I want to help.”
Elsbeth let out a humorless laugh. “Help, my lord? Surely you cannot be serious.”
“You said last night that you were searching for something specific,” Lord Westcott said. “What is it?”
She hesitated. Could she trust him? Every instinct screamed for her to run, to retreat into the safety of her guarded silence. But then there was that small, insistent voice inside her. The one that urged her to try, to take a chance. And heaven help her, she did want to trust Lord Westcott. There was something about him, something familiar, something safe.
“A key,” she said at last.
Lord Westcott furrowed his brow. “A key to what?”
