A desolate streak of despair snaked through him. They had heard whisperings from their operatives stationed in America for many months now that London was a target. The explosion at the armory in Salford had been but the beginning. The Fenian foe had been growing in numbers, power, and audacity. But until now, the threat had seemed nothing more than that—a threat to be monitored and obliterated before it manifested itself in far more dangerous means than chattering amongst spies, ebullient rallies, and incendiary articles. London, the League had been sure, would be far too risky of a target for the Fenians to pursue.
It would seem that was a grave fallacy.
At long last, their greatest fear had become a reality in the heart of London.
“Jesus,” he said slowly, passing a hand over his face. The whisky had begun its pleasant, detached warming of his senses, but it did nothing to dull the urgency of the matter facing them. Griffin’s warning of the day before churned through him: the bloody submarine.This is war.Fuck. “What information do you have?”
“Not much at this juncture. The constable took the box to Bow Lane station. There was almost forty pounds of gunpowder filling the damn thing, along with some foreign newspapers and two addresses, one in London and another in Liverpool.” Carlisle stalked back to the sideboard, slamming his half-full whisky glass on the carved mahogany with such force that Sebastian was shocked it hadn’t shattered. “Our men are investigating the addresses as we speak. If the constable had not walked by when he did, the bomb would have exploded. He’s bloody fortunate he wasn’t killed. Another thirty seconds, perhaps, and he would have been.”
Forty pounds of gunpowder. Holy God. The bastards who had fashioned the bomb had intended to cause a great deal of destruction. They needed to be stopped by whatever means necessary and as quickly as possible.
A sickening sense of inevitability slid home inside him. He thought of Daisy, then, and how he’d allowed himself to believe that he could actually be free of the burden of this life and all its duties and encumbrances. Griffin had been right. This was war, damn it, and the enemy had infiltrated London, prepared to maim and kill as many innocents as possible. How could he possibly leave the League now, in such a time of need?
Had he imagined that he could ever leave this life? That he could simply be a man in love with a woman? That he could retire to Thornsby Hall and raise golden-haired babies with Daisy? In the span of an hour, everything had changed. A bomb had been set. Lives were in jeopardy. This was bigger than all of them. Bigger than his own selfish desires.
He knew what he must do.
He stiffened in his seat. “How can I be of service?”
“The Home Office wants you in Liverpool immediately.” Carlisle’s answer was quick, decisive. He’d likely spent the dawn hours crafting his strategy.
“Why Liverpool?” he asked, recognizing that such an assignment would take him from Daisy when the last thing in the world he wanted to do was leave her side, especially with so much unfinished business between them. Just last night, she had told him she loved him. He needed to tell her the truth, to beg her forgiveness.
But first, he had an oath to uphold.
And he would loyally uphold that oath until he met his end or until he was relieved of his duties, whichever came first. The last fortnight aside, he was capable of thinking and acting like a rational, loyal subject of the Queen. Like a man who had been tasked with defending England and her people from all supposed threats, whether or not they happened to be lovely, golden-haired, luscious-lipped sirens who smelled of vanilla and bergamot.
Carlisle’s gaze was on him, hard and assessing. “Liverpool is where Vanreid just spent a great deal of time. We suspect him of bringing supplies and funds to aid the Fenians already planted in England. The address inside the box could have been planted to mislead us, or it could be a valuable asset to our cause. Either way, we need one of our best men to be our eyes and ears there for the next month at least. If there is a dynamite ring based in Liverpool we will run them to bloody ground before they can set one more bomb.”
Sebastian nodded. Vanreid again. Why could Carlisle not accept that Vanreid, a corpulent animal who had beaten his own daughter and attempted to marry her off to an aging reprobate, was the source of the evil they wanted to defeat? That Daisy had no part in it? That she was an innocent victim who deserved far more than a false marriage to a man who had done nothing but deceive her from the day he’d met her? For his part in this travesty, Sebastian could not keep his gorge from rising each time he thought of it.
But his was not to question. He owed his loyalty to the League and to his country first, regardless of how unpalatable he found his present task. “I’ll need to inform Daisy of my plans.”
“No.” Carlisle stalked forward again, dark as a thundercloud. “You will inform her of nothing. Her part in this plot remains unclear, but she is not to be trusted. Indeed, you must not even think of her as your wife. She is a means to an end. Nothing more. Am I understood, Trent?”
The words tumbled about in his mind, settled into his veins, cold as winter’s ice.A means to an end. Nothing.He saw her face, lovely and expressive. Thought of the way she came alive in his arms, all innocent fire. Heard her words.I love you.She had slipped past his battlements and crept beneath his skin, and he could never do what Carlisle asked. Not any longer.
For as long as he lived, the taste of her—sweet, wild, delicious—would remain with him. Some long-overlooked restlessness inside him hungered for her. He could kiss her senseless on a thousand nights under a hundred different moons, and he would still want her more than he had the night before.
She was not—could never again be—just a means to an end.
“She is an innocent in this, Carlisle.” Sebastian met him halfway, unafraid and unapologetic. Yes, he had a duty but he also had a mind of his own, and everything in him told him that Daisy was not a part of whatever evil her father sowed. Maybe it was what he wanted to believe. Something had changed for him from the moment he’d met her, and it left him questioning everything: his loyalty, his oath, the League, his instincts, his own bloody honor.
Everything.
The duke considered him. “You’ve been bedding her against my orders, then.”
It was not a question, but a statement. Rage swarmed through him to hear Carlisle speak so cavalierly of her, as if she were no better than a tavern doxy. He clenched his fists at his sides to keep from smashing one of them into his superior’s jaw. “Go to hell.”
“Jesus.” Carlisle stared at him, his expression for once undisguised. It was pure, unadulterated disgust. “I never would have expected it of you, Trent.”
He didn’t wish to discuss Daisy with anyone, and especially not the Duke of Carlisle. It felt like a betrayal of her. “Goddamn you, Carlisle, the League doesn’t own my cock, and I’ll do with it what I like. Furthermore, I swear to you that I have uncovered nothing to suggest she has even an inkling of the Fenian plots. She cannot abide by her father, who beat her and wanted to marry her off to Breckly despite her own vehement objections.”
“That is what she wants you to believe. I daresay this wouldn’t be the first time a good man has fallen prey to a traitorous cunny.” Carlisle snorted. “Certainly won’t be the last.”
He had never longed to thrash a man to within an inch of his life more. Sebastian took a menacing step forward. “Do not dare to disparage her in my presence again.”
Carlisle met him halfway. They squared off, boot to boot, of a height with each other. Sebastian was a bit leaner than Carlisle, but he was sure he could win handily in a bout of fisticuffs.
