wouldn’t harm Miss Higgins physically, although her stomach continued to pitch about at the thought of destroying her reputation.
“Good evening, Captain Nighter.”
“Until we meet again, Lady Cupps-Foster.” He bowed politely but made no attempt to take her hand before heading down the stairs.
Marissa waited, counting to ten before placing a hand on the railing to assure Nighter had enough time to sneak away. Hand trembling against the iron, she made her way down the stairway, the implication of the series of events she’d just set in motion firmly fixed in her mind.
The guilt was the worst of it.
I’m doing what I must. For Reggie.
No, this is not for me, Reggie’s voice whispered in her head.
“Shush. It is for you,” she muttered under her breath. Good Lord, anyone coming upon her would think her addled, speaking to herself in such a way.
As she took a step down, the heel of her slipper caught against the hem of her skirt. Swinging her foot in irritation she sought to dislodge her shoe from her skirts, but instead the velvet wrapped around her legs. Marissa’s knee buckled, trapped amid the layers of her skirts.
Perhaps I won’t have a chance to avenge Reggie.
Arms spinning like a small windmill, Marissa held out her hands in a futile attempt to avoid falling to her death and conveniently resolving her guilt at harming Miss Higgins.
Of all the idiotic ways to break my neck. On a staircase. At the theater. And it isn’t even a good play.
Marissa closed her eyes as the staircase spun, certain she was about to perish when she landed against a familiar, muscular chest that smelled of shaving soap and spice.
Haddon.
16
Trent had taken the long way back to the Marquess of Stanton’s box after the intermission ended, using the excuse he wished to have a cheroot and take some air. What he’d really needed was a respite from the stifling atmosphere of Lord Stanton’s box and the gentleman’s quiet disapproval. Lord Stanton didn’t think Trent a good enough catch for his only daughter, which was fine with Trent since he’d no intention of marrying Lady Christina Sykes.
He had enough on his mind tonight besides trying to garner the approval of his host, something Trent didn’t give a shit about anyway. Pendleton’s markers, consolidated into one giant, enormous sum, had been called due. As Pendleton said they would be.
I have beggared myself.
True to his word, Pendleton did have his solicitors draw up a document detailing the loan repayment. The documents had been delivered to Trent just this morning by special messenger. Of course, repayment was entirely contingent upon Pendleton marrying Miss Higgins.
Pendleton had assured Trent that nothing would impede his marriage to the girl.
Just as Pendleton had assumed before when Petra Grantly was ruined beneath his nose.
Miss Higgins seemed a level-headed young lady. He’d met her only moments ago as Pendleton, escorting the highly reserved girl, had visited Stanton’s box. Though shy and soft-spoken, Miss Higgins appeared somewhat intelligent. Dutiful. She’d clung firmly to Pendleton’s arm as he’d paraded her about.
Christ, let’s hope so.
If something were to halt Pendleton’s marriage to Miss Higgins, Trent would be returning to Derbyshire permanently. His home in London would have to be sold immediately. His daughters would be left with only small dowries if even that. And the quarries?
A heavy weight settled in his stomach.
Gone.
The work of three generations would be foreclosed on by the banks and Trent would be reduced to sheep farming. Or raising pigs. He was equally terrible at both, so he supposed it didn’t matter. Trent and his daughters would become yet another ancient family with nothing to show for themselves but a bankrupt estate and good breeding. His girls would be raised in genteel poverty.
Trent had lain awake several nights contemplating the sheer stupidity of helping Pendleton, but at the end of it, he always came to the same conclusion. Honor, a stupid overused sentiment, would nonetheless dictate his actions. He owed Pendleton. At least there was the promise of repayment in writing. And thinking of Pendleton and the loan had pushed Trent’s thoughts of Marissa aside for the better part of a week.
He rounded the corner to go up the stairs, certain Lady Christina was pouting at his absence, when he heard the hum of a low-pitched conversation above him. The stairwell was dark, the lamps having been dimmed once the curtain went up and the play resumed. The quiet corner at the top of the stairs was the perfect place for an assignation