He lifted his gaze to Marguerite. “You were not the biddable old spinster Justin had imagined, you were . . . yourself, and he was clearly enamored. I was reluctant to join you on your wedding trip, but Justin insisted. He told me that you would understand, that you had been brought up in France and had a more pragmatic view of marriage and adultery.”

When Harry hesitated, Marguerite nodded to encourage him to go on. She didn’t want to disrupt his story by telling him that she’d dreamed of a handsome man sweeping her off her feet, of true love, or happily ever after, thought she’d found it in Justin. She’d been a fool wanting that, wanting to be normal, to be loved.

“Anyway, the more time I spent in your company, the more I liked you, and the less comfortable I felt with our deception. I told Justin he should tell you the truth—let you decide for yourself, but he was reluctant to disturb the apparent harmony between us all.”

“And then I found you in bed together one afternoon when I was supposed to be on a sightseeing tour.”

Harry nodded. “And you were shocked, and rightly so. Justin, of course, hated being caught in the wrong and handled everything very badly. If it wasn’t for your good sense, things might have turned ugly.” He leaned forward in his seat. “You were magnificent.”

Marguerite shrugged. “I merely told Justin that I understood his needs. There is nothing particularly heroic about that.”

“I beg to disagree, my lady,” Anthony said. “But please continue, Sir Harry.”

Harry’s gaze flicked between Marguerite and Anthony. “Well, she allowed Justin and me to be together, she even stayed and watched, which Justin adored.” He licked his lips. “In truth, I found it difficult to enjoy myself in those circumstances, when I knew I was interfering in a marriage. When we reached Dover, I told Justin I was no longer comfortable being his lover and that I intended to return to London.

“I tried to explain to him that I respected Marguerite too much to want to come between them. Justin lost his temper and accused me of coveting his wife, accused her of allowing my attentions. Nothing was his fault, nothing ever was.” His smile was full of anguish. “So I returned to London and set about requesting a transfer to India, to get me as far away from the Lockwoods as possible.”

Harry got up and walked to the small window, aimlessly peered outside and then sat down again. “Of course, Justin followed me to London and found me at my club. He accused me of sleeping with you in front of everyone and demanded satisfaction.” He buried his face in his hands. “God knows, I tried to persuade him to back down, promised him anything, even that I’d fuck him again if he’d only stop the duel.”

“I always wondered where that rumor came from. I didn’t realize it was Justin who said I was an adulterer.” Marguerite stared down at her hands, gripping them tightly together until her nails dug into her skin. “How could he do that to me?”

“Because he was jealous?” Anthony asked. “Because he had finally realized his true nature and knew how much Harry meant to him? Perhaps he couldn’t bear the thought of Harry going away?”

“But I told him I didn’t mind, that he could bed Harry as much as he wanted.”

“And did you really mean that?” Anthony said quietly.

“I thought I did. I was willing to accept anything if it meant he stayed with me.” She met Anthony’s compassionate gaze. “But I was a fool, wasn’t I? Trying to save something that didn’t even exist.”

“With all due respect, Marguerite, Justin did love you; he told me so.” Harry swallowed hard. “And if we are being honest, he also knew I was attracted to you, that if we’d stayed together, I would’ve wanted to make love to you myself. He didn’t want that. Didn’t want to share either of us with the other.”

Marguerite stared into Harry’s eyes, feeling Anthony stiffen and shift forward on the bed. “If you had stayed, I would probably have let you.”

“Did you tell Justin that?”

“I tried. On our last night together in London, when I was still trying to work out exactly why you had left so abruptly and why Justin was so angry.”

Silence fell between them until Marguerite lowered her gaze. Now Anthony knew the truth she’d held so close to her heart, her impure thoughts, her responsibility for the tragedy. She’d been prepared to promise anything, to do anything, simply to keep her sham of a marriage alive. He believed he was a coward, but she was far worse.

“I thought it would help bring you back, not result in Justin’s death.”

Harry sighed, “Marguerite, Justin made his own choices that night. I gave him every opportunity to stand down. He chose not to, and we can’t blame ourselves for that.”

“So how did he end up dead and not you?” Marguerite’s sharp question made Harry visibly wince.

“I told Justin I would delope, that I would never shoot at him, that he could kill me if he wanted to. On the morning of the duel, his pistol misfired. I brought my gun down to my side to indicate I wouldn’t take a shot, but he kept coming at me, tried to grab my pistol, tried to kill me with my own gun, said if he couldn’t have me, no one would. In the struggle the pistol went off, and he was hit in the chest.”

Sir Harry stared at the floor. “If there had been another loaded gun there, I would’ve killed myself and covered his body with my own. But I was dragged away by my seconds and taken across the channel before I even knew if he was dead or not.”

He raised his head, and tears glinted in the corners of his brown eyes. “I loved him, Marguerite, for all his selfishness and arrogance, I loved him, and I’ll never forgive myself for what happened until the day I die.”

Marguerite felt answering tears slide down her cheeks. She tried to make sense of what she’d heard, felt every word twisting and turning in her mind until she wanted to scream. Despite everything she’d done, Justin had loved Harry more than he’d loved her, had been prepared to kill him rather than lose him. Whatever she did, she’d always be blamed for the duel because Justin had used her to get what he wanted. Yet again she was irrelevant, second best, pushed out . . .

“I’m sorry, Harry.”

“For what? I’m the one who is apologizing; I’m the one who killed your husband.”

“If I hadn’t married Justin, none of this would’ve happened, so I am just as guilty.”

“Marguerite . . .”

She ignored Anthony’s attempt to intervene, fixing her attention on Harry. “Will you give me your address in France? I would like to write to you.”

“Why?”

“Because I think Justin would’ve wanted to know that you were safe.”

Harry scrubbed at his face. “As I said, I’m going to India. That’s why I came back to England. A relative of mine has found me an obscure post with one of the trading companies where I can work hard to redeem myself.”

“Then write to me when you are settled. Please.” Marguerite hesitated. “I want to forgive you, but I need to think about what I’ve heard. Do you understand?”

“Perfectly, my lady.” Harry stood up and bowed. “It’s taken me two years to get to a point where I can accept my responsibility for this tragedy and also accept that Justin wasn’t blameless. I hope you can do the same. I will write to you.”

Marguerite rose as well and curtsied. “I hope your sea voyage is safe and that your new life is everything you want it to be.”

Harry walked across the room and went down on one knee before her, took her hand and kissed it. “I’m sorrier than I can say about Justin. I’ve gone over what happened a thousand times, and I still can’t decide what I could’ve done to change the outcome.”

She patted his shoulder. “I understand, and I know you loved him. I’ll pray for you.”

He looked up, the pain in his face almost unbearable to see. “Thank you.”

Marguerite went toward the door, and Christian opened it for her. She barely noticed Anthony fall in behind her. They reached the ground floor, and the noise of the tavern was even more startling after the quietness of upstairs. A chorus of boos and jeers went up as they headed for the door and didn’t join in the festivities. Marguerite almost smiled. How ludicrous life sometimes was, the blaze of color and laughter down here compared to the stark story of the destruction of a man’s life she’d just heard upstairs.

She gulped in the slightly fresher air, forcing herself to walk to the wall that protected the river down below.

“Are you all right, Marguerite?”

She suddenly became aware of Christian’s calm voice in her ear and Anthony’s firm grasp of her upper arm as the whole river vista swayed and dipped before her eyes.

“Yes, I want to go home.”

“I can take her, Delornay.”

“Non.” Marguerite removed herself from Anthony’s possessive grasp. “I want to go home, to my mother.”

Anthony stepped back and bowed, his face impassive. “Then I’ll come and see you in the pleasure house tomorrow, after you have rested. Good night, my lady, Mr. Delornay.”

She watched him leave, vault on his horse and disappear into the night. She’d have to talk to him at some point, but why did it have to be tomorrow?

“Are you ready to go now, Marguerite?” Christian leaned against the stone wall beside her, arms folded as if he were happy to wait on her all night. She shivered and drew her cloak tighter.

“Yes, and thank you for coming with me.”

He straightened and buttoned up his coat, shoved one hand in his pocket and offered her the other. “Thank you for helping me understand what happened.”

She glanced up at him as he led her back toward the carriage. “Do you still love me?”

He stopped and put both hands on her shoulders. “Sometimes, Marguerite, you ask the most ridiculous questions. You married the wrong man. He made a fool of himself. Why wouldn’t I still love you?” He shook her gently. “It was not your fault or poor Sir Harry’s. You must try to remember that.”