He ought to be furious with her. Instead, he had teased her, made her feel comfortable about looking like a strumpet. What the hell had gotten into him?
He supposed, in a way, he admired her. She was either very loyal or very foolish for standing up to someone like him, but she had done it because she believed the man who had left her dishonorably had been honorable.
Nick’s father had eaten his own bullet in much the same fashion. It had taken Nick exactly six months before he had accepted his loving father had been craven and a traitor to the crown. That was how long it had taken him to realize the extent of the late earl’s transgressions. He had found evidence of his father’s dealings with the French, selling them England’s secrets—military secrets—whilst Nick had been away at war. Hell, those secrets might easily have gotten Nick killed. He had come to Paris searching for the men his father had been involved with, hoping to put that demon to rest, but he knew even that would not be enough had he been successful.
What Lady Dumonte did not or could not understand was, whether there had been a reason or not, knowing would not ease the pain. If there were a reason, it would never be good enough. If there were none, no one had looked hard enough yet. Then, when the truth finally sinks in, there is no way to fix it, no matter how hard one tries. Even knowing all that, whatever he found or did not find, he was going to tell her the truth. The rest would be up to her.