“I can’t imagine why he singled me out for blame, and I suppose I will never know, since he’s deceased. But I’m obviously wasting my breath professing my innocence to you, when you refuse to see beyond the few facts you have been told. So be it. But if you believe all that, why would you help my family?”

“What makes you think I’ve helped them?”

George stiffened. It was the tone that alarmed him. “What have you done?”

Vincent didn’t answer. The moment was at hand, the moment he had worked for, when all he had to say was, “Paid you back in kind,” and he couldn’t say it. He couldn’t go on with this. Not because he believed Ascot; he didn’t. But he was himself as much to blame for Albert’s death as Ascot was. He hadn’t pulled the cords that led to Albert’s decision, as Ascot had, but he had done nothing to influence that decision either.

He hadn’t recognized it before, had merely seen this revenge thing as doing his duty, more or less. But there was guilt involved, his own, for failing to pay more attention to his brother, for failing to develop a relationship with him in which Albert wouldn’t have hesitated to bring even this worst failure of his to Vincent’s attention, rather than give up all hope and kill himself instead.

Their parents had spoiled and coddled Albert so much that he was unable to stand on his own after their deaths. He had needed constant bolstering. Having that cut off abruptly by their deaths had hurt him. Vincent could have helped, could have weaned him slowly from his dependence, or at least tried to instill some confidence. Instead he had viewed Albert’s weaknesses with disgust, while doing nothing to help his brother overcome them.

“I repeat, what have you done?”

“Nothing that can’t be rec—”

“Having somehow managed to buy our home, he then kicked us out of it so we would have no place else to go,” Larissa said at the top of the stairs in a dull voice. “Then brought us here so he could seduce me—with no intention of marrying me—which he did quite easily. He took full advantage of my vulnerability in thinking you were dead, Father. He used my grief to aid him, because I needed a distraction from it, and he was that; indeed, he was quite the distraction.”

She was staring down at Vincent without expression, as if all emotion had been sucked out of her—or she had no room left for any more. Her brother was standing next to her, staring daggers at Vincent as he slipped his hand into hers to offer comfort. The boy sensed she was in pain even if she wasn’t showing it.