Page 90 of The Earl’s Marriage of Convenience

“And, by doing this, anyone searching, should he say something regarding their family tie, will merely uncover that she’s indeed who she says she is. By doing this,” Henley added, “we ensure he understands that any attempt to expose her will have no foundation in proof, oddly enough.”

Edwin considered that, then continued. “The fact he’s always avoided her and never once acknowledged her family tie to him only adds foundation to our cause as well. He will look reaching, add in that we can expose his dire financial straits … and he will face ruin.”

“Blackmail fighting blackmail. I like it.” Henley nodded in approval.

“Yes,” Edwin said. “If he moves, he risks destroying himself as well.”

“Then we make certain he knows it,” Hawthorne said.

The plan settled into place.

Not perfect—but solid.

Edwin turned back to his mother. “I would like the wedding breakfast to be held here. At Devon House.”

She studied him for a long moment. Then—very slightly—softened.

“Very well,” she said. “If that is your wish, it shall be done.” As they prepared to leave, she paused—just long enough to place a hand on his shoulder.

“I may not approve of your choice,” she said quietly, “but I am … pleased that it is made with affection.”

Edwin stilled.

“And I did not have that luxury,” she added. “But I came to value it.” Then just as quickly she withdrew.

He stepped into his carriage moments later, the weight of the conversation settling around him.

He had lied but only once. It was not a love match. It was strategy, necessity.

And yet—he stared out the window, the city passing in blurred motion.

Perhaps … it was not entirely a lie.

The thought struck him with far more force than Carver ever had.

That unsettled him most of all.

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Eliza had known, the moment the invitation was extended, that the evening would serve a purpose beyond mere entertainment. Vauxhall Gardens was not simply a place one attended. It was a place one was seen.

And more importantly, it was a place where one was remembered. As her carriage rolled to a measured stop, she took a breath—not deep enough to draw attention but deliberate enough to steady her thoughts. This was no ballroom, with its predictable patterns and contained observation. This was something else entirely.

Lantern light flickered in the distance, casting a soft, golden haze across the grounds. Music drifted through the evening air—unstructured, lively, threaded with laughter and conversation that rose and fell without restraint.

It was beautiful. And dangerous. Because here one did not simply participate. One was absorbed. The footman opened the carriage door. And as she stepped down, she became aware of the subtle shift in the crowd—the glances, the quiet recognition, the murmur that followed awareness just seconds behind sight.

It had begun.

She did not look for him immediately. She did not need to.

“Lady Eliza.” His voice found her before her gaze did.

Warm.

Certain.

She turned.