“Lord Harold,” I said, crossing to face him, my fear of his power banished, “I see that the dark angel has triumphed.”

He raised his glass to me in mocking salute and tossed back its contents. “Was there ever a doubt?” he said.

“Lucifer was possessed of just such certainty, my lord, and his prospects in the end were hardly sanguine.”

“I would disagree, Miss Austen. Lucifer inherited a kingdom, assuredly, and one of his own design. Many men would wish to claim as much.”

I waved a hand dismissively. “You talk but to hear yourself speak, my lord, and I have no time for the cultivation of vanity. I am come to bid you good-bye, but not farewell and hardly adieu. I should rather wish you to fare poorly and go straight to the Devil.”

Such language, I admit, is shocking in any woman, and particularly in a clergyman's daughter; but the blood was upon me, as my dear brother Henry would say, and I was careless of effect. The one I produced, however was the last I should have anticipated. Rather than smiling in scorn, or throwing back his head in outright laughter, Harold Trowbridge took his cigar from his lips, and studied me speculatively.

“Your aspect gains something in the liveliness of anger, Miss Austen. Had I anticipated such, I should have provoked you to it sooner, simply for the enjoyment of the effect.” His dark eyes actually danced, with all the impudence of a man who has never known scruple.

“How can you speak so, my lord, when you have been the ruin of one of the gentlest, the best, and certainly now the most suffering of women?”

“You would have it that I find pleasure in my achievements, particularly when they are won at the expense of such.”

“You are in every way despicable,” I said.

“Perhaps,” he rejoined, “but I am nonetheless successful, and the Countess is merely noble and poor.”

“How,” I began, my voice unpleasantly strident to my own ears, “did you prevail upon her? She was in every way opposed to your purpose. It can only be that the weight of her recent afflictions has enervated her, and that she gave up the struggle rather than contest with one such as you.”

“I merely pointed out that she is penniless,” Trowbridge said calmly, “and that her creditors have called in their debts. While her husband was alive, I chose to bide my time, and learn what the cost of clearing the estates’ encumbrance was worth to him; but with Scargrave gone, there is no point in delaying further.”

“Scargrave is gone, but Scargrave is yet with us,” I pointed out. “The Earl has an heir, possessed of all the potency of his estates.”

“And a healthy debt of his own,” the rogue said mildly. “Even if the Countess were to rush in unseemly haste, and marry her lover” — at this demonstration of his knowledge, I gasped, but he took no notice — ”Fitzroy Payne must look to his own accounts first. Half of London are his creditors; his own holdings in the Indies are beset with difficulties, and should his uncle not have died, Payne should soon have been hauled into court, or killed in a duel by one of the many men to whom he owes debts of honour.”

“Debts of honour?” I was aghast.

“Miss Austen,” Lord Harold said with a condescension that made my blood run hot, “I understand you are more accustomed to the ways of the country than of Town. Doubt cannot be in your nature, nor suspicion in your character. But let me assure you that Fitzroy Payne keeps up with a very fast set. Indeed, he forms its chief ornament. The cost of his establishment — his clothes, the maintenance of his Derbyshire estate, the gambling to which he is all too partial — exact a heavy toll on a fortune that is not above three thousand pounds a year. He has wagered heavily on the expectation of his inheritance, and his creditors, recognising his prospects, have been content to give him more line with which to hang himself. But he has reached the end of his rope, and I fear there is no slack for your friend the Countess to grasp.”

I was struck by all the power of Trowbridge's words, so carelessly bestowed, and clearly without a suspicion that the Earl might have died by other than natural causes. That Fitzroy Payne had a motive to murder — and well before the Earl should get himself a son, and thus disinherit his nephew — was patently obvious. The image of Fitzroy Payne's noble face rose in my mind; could such a man be capable of killing? But certainly his appearance gave no hint of the pressure of his circumstances; he had never betrayed the desperation that must haunt his every thought. I understood better now, why he had not pressed Isobel to break off her engagement to the Earl, and marry him instead; the wrath of his uncle should have blasted his future prospects entirely. Better to win the Countess's heart from her husband — and so guard against the possibility of an heir and the loss of an immense estate.

What had seemed noble, in retrospect was revealed as vilely mercenary. But my thoughts were interrupted by Lord Harold's implacable voice.

“… and then there is the matter of Mrs. Hammond.”

“Mrs. Hammond?”

“A woman he keeps in a flat in Cheapside. It pains me to wound the sensitivities of a lady, but there it is. Her tastes are somewhat extravagant, according to my sources.”

A mistress, when Payne had professed love for Isobel. By any account, it was too much. “Your information has been complete, indeed, Lord Harold,” I said contemptuously. “I would that the gathering of it did you more honour.”

“I make it a point to learn all that I can of my adversaries,” Trowbridge replied easily. “Finance is war; Miss Austen, and one cannot wage war without knowledge. The force of mine was readily apparent to the Countess.”

“You told her of this?” I exclaimed, with horror. “Of Mrs. Hammond as well?”

“It was essential for little Isobel to understand that any hope of succour from the new Earl must be impossible. I could not defer my offer for Crosswinds until such time as she might marry the rogue. I could not depend upon his funds being directed my way.”

I comprehended now the utter defeat of my friend's aspect as she sought the stairs; the air of bewildered pain. Where she assumed strength and love to be hers, she was met with treachery and deceit. And / had urged her only this morning to put aside regret and turn to the living. / had pled Fitzroy Payne's case, when all such pleading must be injury.

“I believe the Countess felt the truth of my arguments,” Lord Harold continued, reaching for the decanter of Port to refill his glass. “She agreed to accept a sum — quite generous, under the circumstances — in return for her properties and the discharge of her debt. She shall have something to live on, at least, which she certainly could not say before.”

And so he feels himself to have been magnanimous. Vile man.

I wheeled for the door, intent upon taking no leave of Harold Trowbridge, but a thought stopped me where I stood. An adventurer like his lordship never wagers without great purpose; and so there must be a value to Crosswinds of which dear Isobel knew nothing.

“What can have been so important, Lord Harold,” I said, turning again to face him, “that you should struggle so long against the Countess?”

“Winning alone has made it worthwhile,” he answered carelessly, drawing on his cigar and releasing the smoke in a foul-scented cloud. “But then there is the matter of the property itself. The lands run down to a deep-water harbour perfect for the mooring of heavy ships; it is unique to the Barbadoes in being held in private hands. Such a port is essential.”

“Essential for what purpose?”

“One you should hardly understand, my dear. And now,” he said, drawing forth a pocket watch, “I fear I must depart. It has been a delightful encounter^ Miss Austen. We make a compelling pair. My initiative, and your wits — had you a greater fortune, I should almost think myself in danger. But alas, you are quite portionless; and hardly possessed of enough beauty to make lack of means a trifle.”