“Yes.” Iris took a deep breath. “After our home was ransacked, His Grace—who believes as I do that you were responsible—decided I must still be working with you to spy on him. He accused me of betraying him, of working with you to take everything from him. No matter what I said, I could not convince him otherwise.”
Tears sprang to her eyes, and she wiped them hurriedly away. Her father’s eyes followed the motion with interest. “He left me right then and there, and I do not believe he will be back. After everything he has been through in this life, he doesn’t trust easily. And now his trust in me is broken.”
Her father tutted impatiently. “And what does this have to do with me?”
“You were right,” Iris said, “about our connection. We have grown close. I… I love him. And I would do anything to earn his love again.”
Lord Carfield stilled. “Anything?”
“Yes, anything. Including giving you back the original letter.”
A beat passed, during which Iris held her breath. Then her father shook his head. “But no such letter exists, since I did not commit this crime,” he maintained, although he didn’t sound as convincing as before.
“Regardless,” Iris said with a shrug, “I would give you back the letter, and you could safeguard it and ensure that no one eversees it if you tell my husband that I am not working with you. Prove it to him.”
“And how would I do that?”
“You’d find a way.” Iris snorted. “You always find a way.”
“You’re bluffing,” her father said slowly. “If such a letter existed, why wouldn’t you simply show it to the authorities in order to prove your loyalty to your husband? Why give it back to me, with no guarantee I could convince your husband of your innocence? Why not just ruin me once and for all?”
“For my mother’s sake,” Iris replied at once. “She could have gone to the authorities years ago with the letter, but she chose not to. And why not? Because it shows her own complicity in the murder. She witnessed the forged bill of sale, and it wouldn’t be hard for a prosecutor to argue she was also involved in the murder.
“She knows all this, which is why she has kept your secret. Not just out of fear for her own freedom, but out of fear that if both your reputations were ruined, her daughters’ reputations would be tarnished as well. And I want to protect her, as well as my sisters. Which is why I would prefer to deal with you directly, rather than involve the Crown.”
“And all this… in exchange for me telling your husband you weren’t spying on him for me?”
“In exchange for convincing him,” Iris insisted.
Lord Carfield drummed his fingers on his leg. He looked thoughtful, but not wholly convinced. “Of course, there is no legitimate letter,” he began slowly. “But I suppose your mother could have forged such a document. In which case, it would be helpful to make sure she doesn’t distribute it and try to ruin me.”
“Then you’ll do it?”
“I’ll think about it,” he snapped.
Just then, a knock sounded at the door, and Mr. Jones scurried out of wherever he’d been eavesdropping to answer it. He pulled it open, and in walked the Constable who had come to Eavestone House after the robbery. He looked surprised as he surveyed the scene.
“Your Lordship,” he said, bowing low, “you said you needed help removing a trespasser?”
“That won’t be necessary,” Lord Carfield replied smoothly, looking at Iris. “Her Grace was just leaving. Isn’t that so, Iris?”
“It is,” Iris confirmed. “My lady’s maid accompanied me here. I sent her to the kitchen. Mr. Jones, would you please tell her we are leaving?”
Mr. Jones nodded and left the room.
Several moments passed, during which no one looked at each other. Then Mr. Jones and Anna emerged from the kitchen. Anna briefly glanced at the Viscount, but he didn’t so much as look at her. Iris tried to act natural. There was no reason for her father to suspect his spy of doing anything other than going to the kitchen to see her old friends, right?
After a brief nod to Mr. Jones and the Constable, Iris turned and swept past the Constable and out of her father’s house for what she hoped was the last time.
Lord Carfield stood still for a long moment after his daughter left, listening to the echo of the slammed door bouncing through the hallway and then slowly fading to nothing. At last, he went to the window and drew the curtains. He couldn’t see any sign of Iris outside, but he checked for a moment or two before finally turning and making his way up to his study, ignoring the bumbling inquiries of the Constable, whom he left standing alone in the hall.
Once he was in his study, he went straight to his desk. On top of it was a small bronze statue of an eagle. He twisted the right wing of the eagle, until it unscrewed, revealing a small hollow inside the bronze. From this, he pulled out a silver key.
Turning, he grabbed the edge of the large portrait of himself that hung above his desk and pulled forward. Instead of falling off the wall, the portrait swung outward, revealing a small spacein which a safe was hidden. Inserting the key into the safe, he clicked open the lock.
Inside was a bundle of documents. He retrieved them and spread the papers out on his desk, rifling through them until he found the one he was looking for—a letter that he had written to the man he’d hired to rob and kill his old friend and nemesis, the late Duke of Eavestone, along with his wife.
Lord Carfield raised the letter to the light and squinted at it. The ink was faded, but there was no doubt that it had been written in his hand. He would recognize his penmanship and signature anywhere. There was no way that this was a forgery. No one could replicate his handwriting so well.
