“But we have done it with forged papers.” He had never sounded so dispirited.
Frank cursed a moment later, as he apparently understood something that remained opaque to Jane. How could the papers be forged, when Lord Verbury had given them to Vincent? She chilled as comprehension took her. Because Lord Verbury’s handwriting had changed after the stroke, Miss Sarah had drawn up the papers. It would be easy for him to claim that they were counterfeits. The resemblance to Mr. Pridmore and the embezzled funds became clear. Lord Verbury had caught them by encouraging them to commit a criminal activity. If Vincent had merely held the deed and done nothing with it, that would have been one thing, but his father could have made an accurate guess that Vincent would free the young man. Once the manumission entered into the public record, it became a different matter.
Vincent wrapped his fingers in his hair. “I had thought that my very public break with my family would protect me from being seen in collusion, but that same history will be very good for presenting a case that I kept my father a prisoner.”
“But he is still a traitor,” Jane protested. “That has not changed—”
“I hope not.” Vincent sat up, rubbing his brow. “But I cannot help remembering that the reason he was caught during the coldmonger’s affair was because his papers were entered into evidence. If there is a forger … with the right solicitor and the right judge, there is no telling what he might accomplish.”
“But this is far-fetched, surely.” And yet, as she spoke, she could see the webs of intrigue as clearly drawn as the lines of a glamour. “Surely this has not all been to get you here and create a case that you forged the papers used in the trial.”
“I do not know. It may be an action of opportunity, or perhaps he is merely manoeuvring out of habit, and wants nothing more than to ensure that I do not take him back to England to face trial.” The tension seemed to have drained out of him, leaving only exhaustion behind. Every line in his figure bent down. Vincent pushed himself out of the chair. “Now, if you will excuse us, Frank.”
Rising, Frank showed every evidence of confusion, but settled back into his role as house steward quickly. “Of course. If there is anything you require, please let me know.”
“I shall. Thank you.” He walked Frank to the door and closed it behind him. Then Vincent leaned his head against the wood. When Jane stood, he did not acknowledge the sound of her chair sliding back, nor the rustle of her gown. Cautiously, Jane rested her hand against his back. Through his coat, the steady rhythm of his heart soothed her. Jane had expected it to be racing, but it beat as though he might actually be calm.
He lifted his head, and turned to her. “Do you trust Frank?”
Jane’s first instinct was to answer that she did, but she paused to consider before speaking. “When we first arrived, I did not, but I do now. I take it you do not?”
“I do not know.” Running his hand through his hair, he shook his head. “I had a realisation during dinner about why it took me so long to be comfortable with your family, and before that with Herr Scholes.”
“Oh?”
“I could not believe that their warmth was genuine. I kept looking for hidden mockery and insult. There were none. I am having the same thoughts about Frank now.” Grimacing, he dipped a hand in the ether and began rolling a thread of yellow between his fingers. “I am aware that my judgement is poor right now, but … but the thoughts are still there.”
To live with so little trust would destroy Jane, and it was breaking Vincent. She had been watching the slow erosion of his sense of self and worth without any ability to halt its progress. The revelations tonight had left Jane staggered, and she suspected that there were still more things undiscovered. Almost worse was the understanding that this want of trust was how Vincent had lived for years before breaking away from his family. It repulsed her. The baby kicked against her side, and she put her hand there to try to soothe it.
Vincent caught the motion. “Are you all right? Truly?”
“Your child is practising pugilism tonight.” She slid her hand into his and pulled it against her stomach so he could feel.
He bent his head, closing his eyes as their child beat a protest against Jane’s side. The hand that had been working glamour stilled and let the thread dissolve. Against Jane’s stomach, the warm pressure of Vincent’s hand comforted her, and, just for a moment, nothing beyond them mattered.