“For some.” He lazily traced a finger around the rim of his empty glass.
This was blatant evasion. Her frustration sprouted roots. “You owe me more than that. It isn’t only the scar, Percy. You are altered.”
An unhurried hand reached for the whiskey, and he poured them each another few drams. She watched him take a sip and left her own untouched.
How was this Lord Percival Bretagne? Sitting opposite her was a rangy wolf of a man. The sort of man one instinctively crossed the street to avoid.Thiswas Percy?
The Percy she remembered was a high-spirited youth who was the life of every party. She would have even gone so far as to describe him as frivolous. Honestly, she’d never understood what, beyond his dashing good looks, Olivia saw in him. Mariana had always thought him shallow as a puddle of water. And when he’d run off and gotten himself blown to bits on the Continent, she hadn’t been at all surprised.
The man before her was no brash, shallow youth. His face had shed any trace of boyishness. It was still a handsome face, but one long accustomed to deprivation. The wordwolfishreturned to her. One’s eyes wouldn’t linger long enough on this man’s face to take note of its rugged handsomeness. This man possessed depths that ran as deep and dark as those of a Scottish loch.
“Shall we start at the beginning?” she asked, grasping for some sort of opening.
“And where is the beginning?” he asked, the question a laconic drawl.
“Why did you lead me here only to be deliberately obtuse?” She couldn’t keep a frustrated rush from jumbling her words. “How is it you’re alive? That would be a beginning.”
He picked up his glass of whiskey and downed its contents in a swift swallow. Here was something else she was learning about this Percy: he was difficult. The Percy she remembered had been eager to please. Not this one.
“My death, it turned out, wasn’t long-lived. Eventually, I was found somewhat alive, if a bit worse for wear.” A dark laugh escaped him, and a chill raced up her spine. “Turns out I’m far more useful dead than I ever was alive.”
“Why would you say such a thing?”
“So many indelicate questions for a lady. But, then, you never were one for mincing words.” He absently tapped the side of his empty glass. “If you must know, a government has many uses for a dead man.”
A sick feeling of dread crept into her stomach. His eyes slid away from hers, and she knew. His government . . . Whitehall . . . the Foreign Office . . .Nick.
Nick knew. Of course, he did.
She’d seen them together twice. She’d even spent an evening in the same room with this man. A dark thought came to her. She wasn’t certain if it was born of fear or . . . hope. “I’ve seen you with Nickandthe Comte de Villefranche. Perhaps you are playing both sides. Perhaps you sent those men to attack Nick.”
He mulled her words before answering, “And if I did?”
It was tempting to give in to the possibility of his confession. After all, if Percy was a double agent, the situation would be black and white, and easily concluded. As quickly as the thought came, it was replaced by another consideration, one grounded in reality. Nick trusted this man,Percy,with his life. Nick trusted no one.
Percy wasn’t behind the attack. Furthermore, it was clear that he was providing cover for Nick. The black and white swirled into gray again.
“Your loyalty to Nick runs so deep that you would allow me to think the worst of you so I don’t think it ofhim?”
Percy’s gaze glimmered with an intense light. “Nick is finished.”
A surge of protectiveness swelled within Mariana. “Nick knows his business very well. When he sets his mind to something, he is the—”
“Best?” Percy finished for her. “Hewasthe best before”—She braced herself. She knew how this sentence would end—“you arrived. Now, he is finished. He simply hasn’t realized it yet.” He shifted forward. “Do you know why he is finished? Can you admitwhyeven to yourself? Allow him to come home, Mariana.”
“You have the temerity to speak those words to me?” She threw back at him. “What ofyourhome, Percy? What of Olivia? What of your daughter whom you’ve never met? Or do you even know of Lucy?”
He flinched. She’d hit her mark. “I know of her.”
“Have you considered how Olivia suffered?”
“Not as much as she would had I returned.”
“Help me understand. Why do you and Nick choosethis?” She spread her arms wide to indicate the ramshackle room surrounding them. “You’re the son of a duke.”
“I am a son of England. My surroundings”—He mirrored her gesture, arms splayed wide—“are of no consequence. But the work Idois.” He cocked his head, and a shrewd light sparked within his eyes. “It’s the same work you’re doing. This work seduces you in. It invigorates and makes you feel alive. You feel it,non?”
Her mouth snapped shut as she remembered the heady sense of power she’d experiencedconductingVillefranche.
