“You left the envelope open in the library, you little fool. If I can know all of this so easily, do you not think others could as well?”
His gaze snapped to hers.
“And if your little adventure becomes known, that article will not quiet rumor—it will confirm it. It will be proof. You understand how swiftly gossip hardens into fact?”
“Yes,” she said quietly. “I do.”
And that was precisely why she had already thought this through.
“And that is why,” she added, almost thoughtfully, “I’d like to suggest a compromise.”
He stopped pacing.
The scoff he sent her was automatic. “And what compromise do you imagine?”
“I will go to London. I will present whatever version of this week we decide upon. I will be… agreeable.” She held his gaze. “On one condition.”
“Rosa.”
“I publish one article.”
His eyes narrowed.
“It will recount how theDuke of Kenbrooksvisited the Duke of Bexley’s estate. Howyouwalked the grounds together. Met the tenants. Renewed an old friendship.”
“You expect me to endorse fiction?”
“The only fiction will be that it was you. I did walk the grounds with him, and I will report nothing of substance that I did not see for myself,” she replied evenly. “He is not beastly. The rumors are not true, Charles. Think about it. You forced your way into his home. You insulted him in his own dining room.”
Her gaze lowered deliberately.
“And yet, the only injury I observe is to your own knuckles.”
Charles’s mouth tightened.
“If he were dangerous, as society claims, you would not have walked away unscathed. You are strong. But he is stronger still. If he lacked control, you would know it.”
His voice dropped. “Why does this matter so much to you?”
“Because truth matters,” she said steadily. “Because I may have blundered in how I pursued it, but the pursuit itself was not wrong. He suffered a horrible injury. Yes. He was changed by the war—what soldier is not? But he is intelligent. Compassionate. Honorable.” She let the word settle between them. “I always believed you were, as well.”
A muscle worked in Charles’s jaw.
“Lying is not honorable.”
“I know.” She did not look away. “But your association would quiet speculation, whereas mine would only ignite it further. One small, albeit strategic, deception would restore justice. And that”—her voice tightened despite herself—“is what I care about most.”
Charles didn’t answer immediately.
She watched the calculation take place behind his eyes. Risk weighed against risk. Scandal against strategy. Control against concession.
At last, he exhaled.
“I will read the article before you take it to your printer,” he said. “And after, you will go to London without further argument.”
“I will.”
“And if this backfires?—”