“In exchange,” she continued, “I shall remain a niece to you, and my children will stay part of your life.” She inhaled deeply. “This isn’t about you. This is about my children, Aunt Dot, and the unity of the family. I believe you love us, but that your love is sometimes misguided. Mayhap your retirement to country life will help you see that. Otherwise, you will lose family, standing, and reputation. I know the power and reach of a gossip rag.”
Montfort darted a quick glance toward Nick before walking over to a sidebar stocked with crystal decanters of varying shapes and sizes. He very deliberately set out three stout tumblers and poured a few fingers of whiskey in each. “To my retirement?” he asked as he handed out the tumblers.
They raised their glasses in unison and gulped the fiery liquid down. Mariana didn’t even sputter.
“You drive a hard bargain, my dear,” Montfort said, his demeanor sheepish, but not cowed. He would recover from this night. Men like Bertrand Montfort always did.
There were others, however, who weren’t so lucky.
“And what of Percy Bretagne?” Nick asked. He would have an accounting from Montfort before this night was through.
“What of him?” Montfort’s eyes held a challenge within their depths. He flipped open the lid of a cigar box and silently offered one to Nick.
He shook his head, refusing to be distracted. “You won’t pursue him now that his cover is blown?” He wanted an assurance stated explicitly. Mariana had only seen the tip of the iceberg where Montfort was concerned. His ruthlessness ran as dark and deep as the ocean itself.
“I rather expect it will be the other way around,” Montfort replied, snipping off one end of his cigar before striking a match and gently puffing it alight. Cigar smoke reached out and permeated the air with its rich, earthy aroma.
Nick shifted impatiently on his feet. He wanted more from Montfort, whose hands invariably emerged from the messiest of situations spotless. A question plagued him. “Was the Foreign Office involved in the assassination plot?”
“You know the answer to that question.”
“You directed a rogue operation to assassinate a future French king.” Confirmation settled in Nick’s gut. “Why?”
“For England’s security, of course,” Montfort replied. “I thought you of all people would understand that, even if you don’t agree with my methods.”
“How does plunging France into the throes of another revolution keep England secure?”
From the corner of his eye, Nick saw Mariana’s head tilt in curiosity. She wanted to know the answer, too.
“Whitehall has been trying, and failing, to get a constitutional monarchy established in that self-important mess of a country for years.” Montfort shuffled to the library side of the room and settled his massive girth onto a plush leather sofa, allowing an arm to rest comfortably along its spine of shiny brass tacks. Mariana didn’t move to follow, so neither did Nick. He would stand with her.
“Get rid of Louis, Charles, and their cabal of Ultra-Royalists, and we have a shot at French stability,” Montfort continued. “What’s a few years of revolution in the grand scheme? Those nincompoops are going to incite another one at the rate they’re going anyway. Reparations for dispossessed nobility?” He chortled drily. “That will never work. But get a man on the throne with the right ideas—Louis-Philippe of the Orléans branch would like a shot at it—and an understanding of his obligations to those who put him on the throne, and then we’ve really gotten somewhere.”
“Are you speaking of a puppet government?” Nick interjected. “Do you think it even a remote possibility that the French would allow you to influence policy?”
Montfort shrugged noncommittally. “A monarchy limited by a constitution and a parliament is the only long-term solution.”
“What of the short-term effect of an assassination that would change the regime of a nation?”
“What of it?”
“Revolution.”
“Haven’t you been paying attention? There will be a revolt either way. This way, at least, England would have control over the outcome.”
“You’ve completely overstepped the mark.”
“The price for peace is often war,” Montfort said with a finality that brooked no opposition.
Mariana stepped forward, her gaze locked fast onto her uncle. “Have you not considered your own great-nephew, Geoffrey? Did it not occur to you that he could become caught up in future conflicts that would have been a direct result of the plot?”
“Not our Geoffrey,” Montfort replied with a dismissive flick of his wrist.
“Uncle,” she pressed, “every family has a Geoffrey.”
Montfort’s response was a nonchalant sip of his whiskey, and it was all Nick could do to remain in place, to not stride across the room and knock that uncaring expression off his face. A specific sort of madness and an inflated sense of his own importance had overtaken a formerly good man. One had to experience a great deal of evil in the service of good in espionage. Over time, the two twisted together and, for some, became a Gordian knot, impossible to separate.
This was what happened to men who remained in the game too long. And, no doubt, Montfort had been in too long.
