St. Clare chest tightened. Even after all of these years, the memory of that night, locked in the loose box, was as vivid to him as if it had happened yesterday. The fear of it, and the desperation. The way he’d pounded his fists on the walls until they’d bled.

And then the blessed sound of the bolts sliding back from the door, and of his name whispered in the dark.

“I wasn’t alone,” he said. “Maggie came for me.”

Fred looked away from them. “She wasn’t supposed to know you were there.”

“I mightn’t have,” Maggie said, “if I hadn’t overheard my Aunt Daphne gossiping with the vicar’s wife.”

“That was my mistake,” Fred said, as much to himself as to them. “I should have hidden the jewelry the day before. If I’d arranged to find it earlier—”

“Hidden the jewelry?”

St. Clare turned his head to the open doors of the drawing room.

Sir Roderick stood there, framed in the doorway, having apparently doubled back to fetch his son rather than continue to dinner without him. “Arranged to find it?” he echoed. His stern countenance was swiftly mottling with barely controlled fury. “Do you mean to say that all this time, Miss Honeywell has been telling the truth? That you—my son—conspired to have a servant arrested for a crime he didn’t commit?”

Every last vestige of color drained from Fred’s face. “Father, I—”

“Be silent!” Sir Roderick’s voice resounded through the drawing room like a pistol shot. “You would have seen this man hanged? The grandson of an earl?” He turned to St. Clare. There was no friendliness in his expression, only the formality dictated by his son’s actions. “On behalf of my family, I beg your pardon, my lord. You may be sure that my son will make amends for his actions, beginning with his approval of your marriage. It is the very least he can do to atone for his sins.”

Fred’s jaw dropped. “Father, I didn’t—”

“Not another word.” Sir Roderick shoved Fred between the shoulder blades, marching him out the door of the drawing room. “We’re returning to Letchford Hall, where we will discuss your conduct in private.”

St. Clare stood next to Maggie, still and silent, as he watched them go. He had the strangest sense that a part of his life had finally come to a close. A painful, unresolved piece of his history, still raw after so many years. The duel with Fred had been a temporary salve on it, as had the brawl at the tavern. But there had been no real justice.

Not until tonight.

Sir Roderick’s acknowledgment of what Fred had done didn’t have the force of law, but by God, it was enough.

“My goodness.” Maggie looked up at him, stunned. “Does this mean what I think it means?”