Page 146 of The Language of Love

During his first few weeks back at Stoke, Henry had avoided spending any time in the little village. But that was foolish behavior that couldn’t go on. Annis had been right about one thing: it was time to get over the past.

Henry had spent a great deal of time in the village since Green’s arrival. As a result, he’d encountered several people who had once tormented him and—to a man—they had all abased themselves. The boys who had beaten and taunted him were now husbands and fathers, some even grandfathers, who were barely scraping by and feeding their families.

And every single one of them relied on Henry for their livelihood in one way or another.

Henry could take no pleasure in making such people grovel.

Indeed, he’d found it best to behave as if he’d never met his former persecutors. Not only did such behavior eliminate unwanted apologies, but it also afforded Henry a bit of amusement to watch their faces when they discovered they had mattered so little to him he didn’t even remember them.

One interesting result of behaving like he had no recollection of them was that Henry had begun to forget the past. Forgetting wasn’t the forgiveness that Annis had suggested, but it was a step in that direction.

Henry watched Annis drive away with Gordon before turning from the window and saying to Green, “I’m guessing they accosted her today, hoping to pressure her into a meeting.”

The Runner nodded, his expression uncomfortable. No doubt he was reticent about saying anything at all when it came to Henry’s wife. He was a wise man.

“I’m surprised it has taken them so long to approach her,” Henry said. “I suppose he wanted her to stew and suffer a bit, first.”

Green cleared his throat but remained silent.

“Speak freely,” Henry said. “Your candor will not anger me.” Well, he’d try not to get angry.

“I, too, think he wanted her to stew for a few days,” Green said. “I also believe Loring is worried that her ladyship might not be as, er, tractable as he hopes, so the less time he gives her to think once he’s approached her, the less time she’ll have to change her mind. I believe there might be some difficulty between Loring and the dowager.”

“Ah, interesting. You think he’s trying to do the job without Julia?”

“I do. Mainly because it is unheard of for Loring to work in partnership with anyone except his wife.”

“But he is in the business of selling his forgeries,” Henry pointed out.

“Yes, but usually that is an arm’s length transaction, and he never meets his clients in person. He either works alone or he sells his counterfeits and leaves his clients to substitute the fakes on their own.”

Henry had first learned of Richard Leech’s existence from Annis’s man of business, Mr. Pears. The older man had become voluble about Leech when he’d learned that Henry was betrothed to Annis.

“Leech forged Miss Bowman’s name on several financial documents,” Pears had admitted. “And I suspect he did a great deal more that she didn’t tell me about. I urged her to tell the authorities, but she became agitated and I did not press her.”

Henry knew she would have worried about the effect of a public inquiry on her grandmother. He considered letting the matter go—it really wasn’t his affair—but he simply couldn’t stomach the thought of Leech getting away with what he’d done.

And so, he’d engaged Jonathan Green and made sure the Bow Street Runner was aware of the sensitive nature of the investigation.

Green had needed only a few weeks of diligent digging to discover that Richard Leech was Richard Loring, a man who’d used dozens of aliases over the years. Most of Loring’s clients believed it was only one person who did the counterfeits. In truth, it was a husband-and-wife duo, and they were collectively known by the sobriquet, The Artist.

The pair had been operating in Britain for over a decade, stealing jewels and artwork by replacing the originals with skillful fakes.

Many of Green’s sources—constables and other Runners—speculated that most of The Artist’s thefts went undetected because the forgeries were so good that nobody noticed the originals were even gone.

And this was the man—a slimy, clever career criminal—who’d preyed on Annis.

Loring was the reason that she’d been willing to barter herself to Norburg.

He was the reason that she had bartered herself to Henry when she was in love with another man—a poor man.

Henry had been furious that she’d kept such a dreadful secret to herself. He’d been deeply offended that she wouldn’t trust him to lift the burden from her shoulders. He was her husband, for God’s sake. It was his duty to protect and care for her.

But then, two days ago, Henry had experienced an epiphany of sorts.

He wasn’t the best when it came to putting himself in other peoples’ shoes—hell; he was a disgrace at it—but he’d suddenly, finally, understood why Annis was too terrified to come to him for help.

The poor woman had been the victim of one of the preeminent swindlers in Britain. Loring and his wife had bilked dozens, if not hundreds, of people over the past decade. The man was a virtuoso at what he did. It was no surprise that she’d been too scared to ask for help.

Lord only knew what Loring was holding over her head to keep her in such a state of fear, but Henry suspected it had something to do with her grandmother, the person she loved most in the world.

She was petrified—and had been for months.

Tonight, Henry would put an end to her suffering.