“And you have proof of this?” Bedford asked.
“I hired a Bow Street Runner,” Richard said defensively. “He confirmed Mr. Smith was seen coming and going from her estate at all hours. She may deny knowing him, but she certainly acted like an accomplice.”
Bedford opened his mouth, then closed it again. After a long moment, he shook his head. “I honestly don’t know what to say.”
“Me, either,” Westcott muttered. “The worst part is that youdon’t seem to care that you’ve involved an innocent woman in your vendetta.”
“She is not innocent,” Richard said, his voice rising before he lowered it once more. “You would not say that if you had spent five minutes in her company. She is proud, secretive, and thoroughly maddening.”
“None of which justifies what you’ve done,” Bedford argued. “You’ve taken her freedom. Lied to her. Manipulated her. If the situation were reversed—if someone had done this to Olivia—you’d be demanding a comeuppance.”
That struck deeper than Richard wanted to admit. He looked away, jaw tight. “I am doing this for Olivia,” he said through clenched teeth. “To make sure no other woman is treated the way she was.”
Westcott huffed. “You’re punishing one woman to avenge another.”
Richard’s hands curled around the arms of his chair. “This is justice.”
“No,” Bedford said. “It’s vengeance. And it’s beneath you.”
“You don’t understand. None of you do.” Richard’s voice was low. “This isn’t something Iwantto do. It’s something Imustdo.”
Westcott tilted his head, studying him. “And what precisely do you intend to do when Mr. Smith finally comes to London to retrieve Miss Theodosia?”
Richard met his gaze unflinchingly. “I will challenge him to a duel for what he did to Olivia. For abandoning her. For destroying her future and shaming our family name.”
Before either of his friends could respond, a new voice cut through the tension.
“Did someone die?” Viscount Alcott approached the table, glancing around at the grim expressions with a note of confusion. “Or are you all merely contemplating your own mortality over brandy?”
“No,” Bedford muttered under his breath, “but Wilton is determined to get himself killed.”
Alcott turned to Richard. “Dare I ask what is going on?”
Bedford stood and motioned for Alcott to follow him a few steps away. Their conversation was low, but Richard could catch snippets—“abduction,” “duel,” “revenge.”
When they returned to the table, Alcott’s expression had shifted from curiosity to incredulity. He crossed his arms over his chest and leveled Richard with a hard stare. “Are you completely mad?”
“I am no such thing,” Richard said, lifting a hand to ward off the accusation. “It’s not madness. It’s justice.”
“It’s idiocy,” Alcott retorted, pulling out a chair and dropping into it. “You honestly believe you’re going to duel this man and avenge your sister’s honor?”
“That is the plan.”
“I’ve seen you shoot,” Alcott said. “You couldn’t hit a barn door with a blunderbuss at five paces.”
“That is an exaggeration,” Richard muttered.
Westcott grinned. “Is it? Because the last time we went shooting at Eversham’s estate, you didn’t hit a single target.”
“I was having an off day,” Richard insisted.
“And what if you have another ‘off day’ when facing Mr. Smith?” Alcott challenged. “What happens then? You die? And what of your mother and Olivia? You’ll leave them behind to bury you and carry on without a protector or provider?”
The words struck their mark. Richard’s bravado flickered, and for a brief moment, doubt crept into his mind.
“What choice do I have?” he asked, his voice quieter now. “This man has to answer for what he’s done.”
“You do have a choice,” Westcott responded firmly. “Return Miss Theodosia to her home. Let this go before it spirals even further out of your control.”
