Padraig McGuire called upon Her Grace and was received upon four separate occasions, the first lasting one quarter of an hour, the next lasting twenty minutes, one-half hour the third…
The remainder of the report swirled before his eyes. She had been closeting herself with her former betrothed. A dangerous man, and one that perhaps she had never stopped loving. Betrayal, sharp and sudden as any blade, twisted through him.
He was going to kill McGuire.
When the time came, he would savage him and take great pleasure in it. A knife to the gut, maybe, after water torture. But Daisy… What the hell would he do with his beautiful vixen of a wife if the report was true? Bolton and McGuire? Trousers and scandal? It sounded much like the Daisy Vanreid he’d first met.
Perhaps that was the real Daisy. Mayhap everything had been a lie, from her father’s abuse to her fear. Had that sickening scene with Vanreid the day after their wedding been staged for his benefit?
Dear God, his wife was courting ruin and taking lovers. The last few months he’d spent away from her, he’d been a man torn between his duty and the woman he’d married. How many nights had his thoughts strayed to her? How many times had he longed for her scent, the sight of her burnished curls, her mouth and body ripe beneath his? How desperately had he ached for the sound of her voice, the touch of her hand? How thoroughly had his love for her eaten him alive?
And all the while, she’d been scheming and taking other men to bed. In his own bloody home. Was it possible that the entire time he’d thought he was using her, she had in fact been usinghim? The notion was too ugly to contemplate, the implications too far-reaching and severe.
His stupid, bloody heart thudded in his chest. Had everything been a ruse? If it had, he needed to be put down like a lame horse. How could his instincts about her have been so wrong? How could he love someone capable of such deception, he who had been trained better than anyone to recognize even the most cunning subterfuge?
“Trent?” Carlisle’s voice—tinged with something he’d swear was concern if he didn’t know better—pierced the fog of wrath that had infected his mind.
“What would you have me do?” he rasped.
Carlisle’s chiseled face hardened even further. “You’ll need to return to London at once. Griffin will accompany you when he returns. According to all the intelligence the Home Office has been able to gather, signs indicate quite strongly that she’s been tasked with infiltrating the Special League. It would appear that you are her target.”
Her target.
The two words echoed in his mind, a taunt. It all made perfect, disgusting sense. A beautiful heiress who’d set thetonon its ear. She’d danced her way through a series of suitors and balls, setting off wagging tongues but avoiding ruination. Daisy was the siren meant to lure his ship into the jagged rocks. She’d put on a pretty show of fearing her father. And he’d been sympathetic. His honor had demanded he protect her, even in the face of all logic, reason, and yes, duty.
He was no one’s target, damn it. He was one of the finest spies in all of England. There was no way in hell he would allow himself to be outfoxed by a sultry siren who smelled of bergamot and made him hard simply by being in the room.
He straightened, forcing himself to focus. “I return to London and then what? Wait for those bastards to set off another bomb?”
A strange expression crossed his superior’s face. “No. You need to keep a watchful eye on your wife. Find out how much she knows. Discover her connections. Gather as much information for us as you possibly can so that we can send more double operatives to infiltrate their ranks. And do whatever you must to break her and gain the information we need.”
To break her.
The notion shouldn’t fill him with… what, sadness? He couldn’t define the sensation hollowing him out. Didn’t want to. “As you order, Your Grace.” Suddenly, he needed to escape. He felt as if the air had been sucked from the chamber and he couldn’t properly breathe. “I will take my leave and begin preparations for my return posthaste.”
He pivoted on his heel, ready to flee. Trying not to run from the room. From the demons. From the price of doing what he must. From the burden of duty.
“Trent?”
Sebastian halted, turning back to his superior.
Carlisle had the appearance of a man at his mother’s funeral. A foreign sensation crept through Sebastian, filling him with dread. He knew what the duke was going to say before the words ever left his mouth. His entire body tightened, bracing for it.
“Prepare yourself, Trent,” Carlisle said finally. “She is a woman, I know, but under the proper circumstances, a bolder course of action may have its merits, if you take my meaning.”
He was sure he did, but he wanted to be certain. “You want me to… kill her?”
Asking the question filled him with ice. Dread expanded in his chest. Disgust curdled his gut.
His superior inclined his head, his gaze steady. “I want you to take whatever action you deem necessary as you carry out your duty to the Crown and the innocents under our protection.”
Jesus. Sebastian’s mouth went dry. The Duke of Carlisle wanted him tomurderDaisy. He was giving him permission. An indirect order. Even if she was guilty of every crime Carlisle suspected her of and more, women and children were… damn it, they were women and children. Men could be gutted, shot, hanged, or drowned. Burnt alive. Any number of torturous ends could be their fate in the name of duty. But not women.
Not Daisy.
Nothis wife, regardless of how duplicitous and conniving she may be.
He’d sworn an oath to the League, to his Crown, yes. But he’d also sworn an oath before God. An oath to her. And even if she was the most deceptive viper in all of England, he still loved her. Bloody hell.
