“You’re not going to get out of it that easily, Lucy. Tell me, what else did you do? Who else was involved in this little scheme of yours?”

“What makes you think anyone else was involved?” Lucy tossed her napkin back on the tea tray.

“You always involve others in your schemes. I know because I’m usually one of them.”

Lucy’s eyes twitched back and forth.

“Lucy?” Again, Jane dragged out the word.

“Very well, in addition to Cass and myself, Owen Monroe and Daphne Swift were involved.”

“Owen and Daphne?” Jane breathed. “What was their involvement?”

Lucy drummed her fingers against the wooden arm of her chair. “Owen was to make Garrett jealous by paying special attention to you and Daphne was to keep Mrs. Langford occupied when necessary.”

Jane sat stunned. Her mouth fell open. She felt as if Lucy had hit her over the head with an iron poker. She’d been duped. Duped by the best of them, Lucy Hunt. “So that’s why Owen was constantly appearing out of nowhere and Daphne was always speaking with Mrs. Langford.”

Lucy’s lips twisted. “Of course, they were forced to improvise upon occasion, like the time they jumped in the rowboat together at the lake so that you would be forced to ride with Garrett. Too bad they couldn’t have dragged Mrs. Langford off with them.”

“I shouldn’t be surprised, but I am.” Jane rubbed her forehead. The devil’s own headache was forming behind her right eye. “Tell me one more thing. Have you admitted this subterfuge to Upton?”

Lucy tugged at the neck of her gown. “Actually, Derek is on his way to do that as we speak.”

Chapter 37

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

Garrett tossed back his third brandy. Brooks’s was quiet this afternoon. He’d holed up in a club chair in a corner and ordered drink after drink. He’d been attempting to read the paper but he’d been looking at the same paragraph since he’d arrived. He was preoccupied, preoccupied by Isabella Langford and what she’d shown him.

She’d left the drawing room earlier and returned a few minutes later holding a letter.

A letter from Harold.

As soon as he’d seen his friend’s familiar bold scroll on the parchment, an ache formed in Garrett’s chest. It was as if the bullet that had torn through his shoulder ten years ago was an open wound again.

Isabella cleared her throat and handed him the letter. “This is addressed to you.”

“Me?” Garrett’s heart jackknifed in his chest. “How could that be?” He squinted at the date on the top. Years ago, when they’d been together in Spain.

Garrett searched Isabella’s face. “Why am I just now seeing this?”

“Harold wrote it to you, but he sent it to me,” she replied softly. “He asked me to give it to you in the event that he…” Her gaze dropped.