And finally, she would be free.
She closed the door behind her, then took the paper out of her pocket, staring at the shaky writing of her desperate father. And she knew that she could no more throw it away than Nathan had. It held no power over her. Perhaps it never had. It was a nothing, a jot, a scrap. It was not a true debt of honour; there had been no honour in the giving of it, or the taking.
It was a strange, sad reminder of the night when everything had changed. That was why Nathan had kept it, she was sure. Not as a threat, nor a punishment. And never meaning to find her and call it in. He had kept it because he did not wish to forget what had happened, for he did not wish to repeat his mistake.
It was her own imagination that had turned the paper into a nightmare and turned the man that held it into a monster.
She turned it over in her hands, folding it along the old creases. Now, it was she who did not wish to forget. This paper had brought her to Nathan Wardale. To his life--and his bed. It would be eminently foolish to go back, now that she had left him, to devote herself to an unrepentant gambler who was no better than her father. But she did not wish to forget her time with him, nor to repeat the mistake of falling in love with a man so utterly inappropriate.
She took a deep breath, remembering the rush of panic followed by desire, and the deep satisfaction of the previous hours. And the cherished way she had felt when he'd held her afterwards, staring into her eyes. While it had been terrifying, it had been sweet as well. How nice it would be, to have a life full of moments like that.
But more likely, if she returned to Nathan Wardale, her life would be full of lonely nights, squalling children and an angry and distant husband who cared more for cards than he did for her. She remembered what it had been like for her mother when her father would not leave the tables, and how she had cried when she thought no one would hear. Nathan's luck was bound to change eventually. And then there would be debts, the men who collected them and eventual ruin. Unless she was prepared to see another paper such as this, to be sold when her husband treated her as chattel or to see a daughter similarly treated, she could not go back to him. She need only look at the paper to know why she could never return.
She would put it away somewhere. In the wardrobe with the bank notes. Or perhaps she could tuck it between the pages of a book and it could lie forgotten.
There, on the bedside table, was the little book of poetry. And she did not need to open it again to realize where it had come from or to know that the ribbon that marked it was her own. He had taken it from her old bedroom and given it back to her. Without thinking, she had taken the thing up and begun reading where she had left off, all those years ago.
He had been trying to tell her the truth. Before the note, before she had sought the journal for him. Even before the first kiss. He had been seeking a way to tell her, as gently as possible, who he was and that she need have no fear. And she had been so set on who she wished him to be that she did not see what was before her very eyes.
God help her, even if she could not forgive him for what had happened before, he deserved some small credit for trying to find a way to be kind. He had earned a measure of kindness from her in return. It was in her power to end some portion of his suffering, and Nell's as well. But she had kept it from him.
It made her ashamed. Whatever might happen in the future, no good could come of keeping grudges or offering punishments for ancient mistakes. When Marc brought Nell home from Northumberland, she would find a way to tell her enough of the truth so that she could find her brother again. Diana need never see the man again, of course. That would be too painful for so many reasons. But whatever he had become, he and his sister had suffered in ignorance of each other for long enough. She would not be the one to keep them apart. It was the very least she could do, if she wished to clear her slate with Nathan Wardale.
So she tucked the note into the book, along with what was left of the money, and tied the whole thing shut with the ribbon, as though it were possible to close off this chapter of her life, perhaps to open it again on a day when the whole story was not so fresh and painful.
Nate started awake, as though the awareness of a lack was sufficient to disturb him. He had meant to close his eyes for no more than a minute. But he had slept soundly, and now she was gone from his bed. He felt the sheets next to him, trying to decide if they were still warm from the body that had lain beside him. The letter was gone from the dressing table. Damn the thing to hell for all the trouble it had caused him.
There was a noise in the hall, and he jumped out of bed and threw open the door, eager to catch her before she got to the front door. 'Diana, wait...'