Bentley scoffed. "You won't hurt me."

Harcourt started to slice with the blade, and quickly, it was through flesh and touching bone. Bentley shrieked with pain; his knees buckled.

"All right! All right!"

He stumbled to the wall, lifted the painting that concealed the safe, then spun the k.n.o.b.

"Would you hurry?" Harcourt admonished. "I'm in a bit of a rush."

Bentley was shaking with terror, blood dripping and making his hand slippery, so it took several tries to get the combination to work. Finally, the door was tugged wide to reveal jewelry, stock certificates, deeds, and gold coins.

"What is it you want?" he inquired.

"I'll take a thousand pounds," Harcourt said.

"I don't have that much here."

"Then I'll take all the gold and the jewelry."

"But...but...it's my mother's. She'll be very upset."

"I don't care. You're a menace to society, and she raised you to be the despicable cur that you are. She'll get no sympathy from me."

Harcourt held out a bag, and once again, Bentley considered the odds. Could he push Harcourt aside and escape? Could he scream for help before Harcourt stabbed him to death? After having watched the footman race for the stairs, what were the chances that a servant would come to his aid?

He reached into the safe and grabbed all the valuables, dropping them into Harcourt's pouch as if they were worthless rocks instead of irreplaceable gemstones. When he finished, Harcourt peered inside the safe himself, riffling around to be certain that Bentley hadn't omitted anything.

"Are you satisfied?" Bentley sneered.

"Yes," Harcourt responded. "Very satisfied."

"You rich pig," Bentley spat, "barging in and stealing from my poor mother."

"Oh, it's not for me. Have I failed to mention why I'm doing this?"

"b.l.o.o.d.y right, you failed to mention it."

"I'm doing it for Harriet Stewart."

Bentley's gaze narrowed. "Harriet...Stewart? That little trollop?"

Harcourt's fist flew like lightning, striking Bentley, and he wobbled and sank to his knees, moaning and clasping his cheek.

"Don't ever call her a trollop," Harcourt said. "In fact, don't ever speak her name aloud again. For you see"-he seized Bentley by his shirt and pulled him close-"she's about to be my wife, and I don't take kindly to slurs being leveled against her."

"You're actually marrying that doxy?"

"You're a slow learner, Bentley."

Harcourt hit him again, and Bentley crumpled to the rug.

"You're robbing me to give her a thousand pounds?"

"Isn't that what you offered her cousin as a reward for finding her?"

"I offered him nothing!" Bentley claimed. "Nigel Stewart is a renowned liar."

"Then let's say the amount is damages owed."

"Damages!"

"Remember when I was here last time?"

"Yes," he muttered.

"I told you that you had better hope she was unharmed. Didn't I tell you that?"

"Yes, you did."

"Well, there's the pesky matter of that black eye you gave her."

"b.a.s.t.a.r.d," Bentley groaned.

"I'm letting you live for one reason, Bentley. Do you want to know what it is?"

"Yes. Why are you?"

"My fiancee asked me not to kill you so-as a favor to her-I won't, but hear me and hear me well: I've bribed all your servants, plus all the neighbors' servants, and your delivery people. If there is ever a peep of a rumor that you've abused another girl, I will return and-despite what my new bride wishes-I will finish what I started."

Harcourt conveyed a vicious, brutal kick to Bentley's privates, then he vanished.

Bentley vomited, then rolled onto his back and pa.s.sed out.

"What do you want now, Westwood?"

Nigel glared, irked by Westwood's unannounced arrival. He'd imperiously entered, as if he owned Brookhaven, and Nigel was in no mood to be civil.

None of his financial plans had come to fruition. Bentley Struthers had cheated him out of his reward. Then Nigel had convinced Helen to marry him so he could coerce money from her father, but she'd gotten a bee in her bonnet over Harriet and had fled in the dark of night.

He had no idea where she'd gone.

His expenses had risen to extreme limits, and he'd demeaned himself by journeying to London and pleading with Attorney Thumberton to release some cash from the twins' trust account. Thumberton served as trustee of the dowries set aside for Helen and Harriet, and he was an absurdly honorable man. He'd refused to cough up a single farthing of what rightly belonged to Nigel.

To top it off, someone had been quietly sneaking about the city and buying up Nigel's debts. His hundreds of small bills had become one huge balance owed to a lone creditor, but no one could figure out who it was.

He didn't have the time or energy to d.i.c.ker with Westwood.

"If you're here to speak with Helen again"-Nigel was prepared to let the lies roll off his tongue-"she's visiting the neighbors."

"Really?"

"Yes. My wife won't be home for hours, so there's no reason to linger. And even if you wanted to, I wouldn't allow it. As I previously explained, I have no desire to have you communicating with her."

Westwood smiled in a disturbing way that hinted at information to which Nigel wasn't privy.

"I haven't come for Helen," Westwood claimed.

"Then why are you here? I'm very busy, and I hate to be blunt, but I'd rather not entertain you."

Westwood stood and strolled around the parlor, studying every item in every corner, almost as if he was evaluating the contents, then he went to the window and stared off across the park. He was silent, smug, and when he spun to face Nigel, his expression sent a chill down Nigel's spine.

"This is a lovely property," Westwood said.

"Yes, it is."

"How awful for you that it isn't entailed. In light of your debts, it certainly makes your residence here a bit insecure."

"I don't think the ownership terms of Brookhaven are any of your business."

"I've been told," Westwood continued, "that the farm was very prosperous before you and your father ran it into the ground."

Nigel's temper sparked, and he rose to his feet. "I won't listen to your slurs against my father. Or myself. I'll be happy to show you out."

He gestured toward the door, but Westwood didn't budge. Instead, he walked over to Nigel's desk and sat in the chair behind it. He appeared relaxed and omnipotent.

"I say, Westwood," Nigel protested, "you're being a pest."

Westwood chuckled. "Should I let you in on a little secret, Stewart?"

"What is it?"

"I know that Helen isn't married to you and that she's not increasing."

"Ha!" Nigel puffed out his chest. "I haven't a clue where you heard such a rumor, but it isn't true. She and I are husband and wife. If you don't believe me, you can check the register at the church in the village."

"I don't need to," Westwood confidently stated. "Should I let you in on another secret?"

"I've been more than courteous. Now I have to insist that you leave."

Westwood kept on as if Nigel hadn't spoken.

"Let's talk about Bentley Struthers and your plan to collect the reward for Harriet."

"I did no such thing. My goodness, I don't know where you come by such spurious slander, but you should have a care about besmirching my reputation."

"We've met with Struthers's man, Mr. Radley. He tattled, Stewart. He doesn't like you or Bentley Struthers. We didn't even have to threaten him."

Nigel was determined to deny and deny to the very end. "I have no idea who you mean."

"I'm curious about Helen and Harriet, about why their grandfather disinherited them after he'd gone to the trouble of paying for their education."

"He hated Lord Trent and didn't feel he should have to support them after they were grown."

"I had a solicitor of mine look into the matter," Westwood said, "to see if your grandfather left any legal doc.u.ments that might interest me. By any chance, are you acquainted with a London attorney named Thumberton? He has an exclusive clientele, and he works for all the best families."

Nigel's heart began to pound.

Westwood was about to reveal something terrible, something that would forever alter Nigel's life, and he didn't wish to be apprised of what it was.

He ran to the parlor door, flung it open, and yelled, "Mother! Mother! Come here at once! I need you!"

Westwood came up behind him and pushed the door shut.

"Your mother can't get you out of this mess-as she always has in the past."

Nigel reached for the door again, but Westwood braced his palm on it.

"I understand what a p.r.i.c.k you are," Westwood chided, "but I'm trying to figure out your father's motives. They were sixteen-year-old girls, yet he cast them out with nary a ripple in his conscience, so I can only a.s.sume that he was a p.r.i.c.k, too."

"Don't talk about my father," Nigel seethed.

"I've bought up all your debt," was Westwood's retort.

"No..."

"Yes. And I'm foreclosing."

"What? You can't! Brookhaven is mine! You can't have it!" He grabbed for the doork.n.o.b again, and Westwood let him rush into the hall.

"Mother! Mother!"

"As I said, it's a lovely property, and my brother has been needing a home of his own. I'm giving it to him as a wedding gift."

"You can't! You can't! Mother!"

"Do you want to know who his bride is to be?" Westwood asked. "Do you want to know who will be living here with him?"

Nigel felt ill. "Who?"

"Your cousin, Harriet. I thought it fitting that the house be hers-since she was never welcome in it. Well, she'll be very welcome from now on."

Westwood spun on his heel and walked outside, and Nigel hurried after him, watching him prepare to depart.

"How long?" Nigel pleaded. "How long do we have."

"Thirty days."

"A month!"