Needham followed the movement with his gaze, his jaw clenching at the sound. “No, it shall be because I have the one thing you want more than the land.”
Bourne considered Needham for a long moment, the words echoing in their dark corner before he brushed them aside. “You can’t give me the only thing I want more than Falconwell.”
“Langford’s ruin.”
Revenge.
The word shot through him, a whisper of promise, and Bourne leaned forward, slowly. “You lie.”
“I should call you out for the suggestion.”
“It won’t be my first duel.” He waited. When Needham did not rise to the bait, he said, “I’ve looked. There’s nothing to be found that can ruin him.”
“You haven’t looked in the right places.”
It had to be a lie. “You think that with my reach, with the reach of The Angel, I have not turned London inside out for a whiff of scandal on the stench of Langford?”
“Not even the files at your precious hell would have this.”
“I know everything he’s done, everywhere he’s been. I know the man’s life better than he himself. And I am telling you, he took everything I had and spent the last nine years living a pristine life off my lands.”
Needham reached into his coat again. Withdrew another document, this one smaller. Older. “This happened far more than nine years ago.”
Bourne’s gaze narrowed on the paper, registered the Langford seal. He raised his eyes to his future father-in-law. His heart began to pound, something frighteningly akin to hope in his chest. He didn’t like the way he hung on the silence that swirled between them. Willed himself calm. “You think to tempt me with some ancient letter?”
“You want this letter, Bourne. It’s worth a dozen of your famous files. And it’s yours, assuming you keep my girls’ names out of your dirt.”
The marquess had never been one to pull his punches. He said precisely what he thought, whenever he thought it—the product of holding two of the more venerable titles in the peerage—and Bourne couldn’t help but admire the man for his straightforwardness. He knew what he wanted, aimed for it.
What the marquess did not know was that his eldest daughter had negotiated these precise terms the evening before. That document, whatever it was, would not require additional payment.
But Needham deserved his own punishment—punishment for ignoring Langford’s behavior all those years ago. Punishment for using Falconwell on the marriage mart.
Punishment that Bourne was more than willing to mete out. “You are a fool if you think I will agree without knowing what is inside. I built my fortune on scandal, thieved it from pockets of sin. I shall be the judge of whether that document is worth my effort.”
Needham opened the letter, laid it on the table, slowly. Turned it to face Bourne and held it down with one finger. Bourne couldn’t help himself. He leaned forward more quickly than he would have liked, his eyes scanning the page.
Dear God.
He looked up, met Needham’s knowing gaze. “It’s real?”
The older man nodded once. Twice.
Bourne reread the lines. Took in the scrawl across the bottom of the paper, unmistakably Langford’s, though the paper was thirty years old.
Twenty-nine.
“Why would you share this? Why give it to me?”
“You give me little choice.” Needham hedged. “I like the boy . . . I kept this close at hand because I thought that Penelope would marry him eventually, and he’d require protection. Now my girls need that protection. A father does what he must. You make sure that Penelope’s reputation is unblemished by this match and that the others’ are worthy of decent matches, and it is yours.”
Bourne turned his glass in a slow circle, watching the way it caught the candlelight of the pub for a long moment before lifting his gaze to Needham. “I shan’t wait for the girls’ weddings.”
Needham dipped his head, suddenly gracious. “I shall settle for betrothals.”
“No. Betrothals are dangerous indeed when it comes to your daughters, I hear.”
“I should walk away from you right now,” Needham threatened.
“But you won’t. We are strange bedfellows, you and I.” He sat back in his chair, tasting victory. “I want the other daughters in town as quickly as possible. I’ll get them courted. They’ll not be tarnished by their sister’s marriage.”
“Courted by decent men,” Needham qualified. “No one with half his estate in hock to The Angel.”
“Get them to town. I find I am no longer willing to wait for my revenge.”
Needham’s gaze narrowed. “I shall regret marrying her to you.”
Bourne tossed back his drink and turned the glass upside down on the wooden table. “It is unfortunate, then, that you haven’t a choice.”
Chapter Seven
Dear M—
I’ve just seen you off, and I came inside straightaway to write.