Plot against Searle.
Colluding with the French.
You were responsible. You were responsible. You were responsible.
Crispin closed his eyes as a wave of unwanted memories returned to him. The pain exploding in his head, the darkness, waking up to the grisly sight of the captain who’d been burned alive. The corpse’s face had been scorched into a contortion of agony. All the blood. Morgan’s hand, neatly hacked off and lying in the pool. Heat prickled him, then cold, then heat again. His heart pounded. It was as if a band had been fashioned around his chest, squeezing the life from him until he could scarcely breathe.
Everything returned at once, full force. His entire body tremored beneath the force of it.
There had been so much blood. The scent of death and burnt flesh. A raven had flown in through one of the broken windows, ready to peck at the dead.El Corazón Oscuro’s threat returned.You will regret your words, Searle. I will take great pleasure in making you eat them before I let the birds peck out your tongue.
Bile clamored up Crispin’s throat.
He slammed his fist into the desk, banishing the memories, beating them back with the pain that radiated up his arm. Silencing them with the rage that coursed through his veins. He had been helpless on that day, unprotected and taken unaware. He had not been able to help himself or Morgan.
But he would be damned if he would not defend himself now. “I was beaten and left for dead,” he told Duncan tightly. “I woke with a roasted enemy captain hanging above me, with a broken rib and a badly beaten skull.”
Duncan winced, the pity in his eyes as undeniable as it was unwanted. “According to my lady, your accuser suggested your injuries were elaborated upon, and that they were staged as part of the conspiracy.”
“My accuser,” he spat. “Who the hell is he, Duncan, and when did this supposed information make its way to the Foreign Office?”
Duncan held up a staying hand. “Before I tell you, there is more you must hear. And I will also have your promise that you will not tear into his private chamber and demand satisfaction. I love you like a brother, but this club is only as good as its reputation. If one lord were beaten to death or challenged to a duel here, it would ruin me.”
“He is still within these walls?” Every part of him itched to rise. To tear apart plaster and brick until he located the rotter.
“Yes. Sleeping off his drink, as it were.”
Crispin raised the glass to his lips at last, taking a long pull of whisky. It simmered down his throat but did nothing to dull the maelstrom rising up inside him. This was not what he had expected. Not what he had needed. By God, he was blindsided. He could not have been more shocked had an entire brigade of enemy troops poured into The Duke’s Bastard at that very moment, bayonets and musket fire at the ready.
He slammed his glass down upon Duncan’s desk, realizing belatedly he had drained the content and still, he felt nothing. “I promise you. Give me his name, Duncan.”
“The Earl of Kilross,” Duncan said.
And once again, he found himself flummoxed. Utterly confounded. He could not recall one occasion in his life upon which he had ever crossed paths with Kilross. “I have never met him. How can he possibly have evidence against me of a crime which I never committed?”
Duncan refreshed both their glasses from the decanter he had left upon his desk. “The man is a braggart in addition to sporting a limp prick, apparently. For while he was more than willing to sing his own praises, according to my lady, he could not perform. But she is loyal to a fault, and she primed him with additional drink so she might encourage his loquaciousness. He claimed you continue colluding with the French, and that you are in possession of ciphers to prove it. He also said one of the domestics at Whitley House is in his employ, reporting back to him. He told her that within the next fortnight, you will be exposed and he shall be hailed as a hero.”
Bloody hell, if the nonsense Kilross had spouted to Duncan’s lightskirt was to be believed, he was beingspied uponin his own home as if he were some sort of vile traitor. Worse, should the spy in question locate the planted ciphers, he would look guilty as sin.
“My God,” he said aloud, marveling at the ease with which his life could potentially be torn asunder. Mere hours before, his only concern had been how he would convince Jacinda to become his bride, how quickly he could obtain a license, and whether or not it was appropriate to marry her since his year of mourning for Phillip was not yet concluded. “Someone planted those ciphers in my study to make it look as if I was a conspirator against Morgan. To implicate me in his death.”
Someone was trying to prove he was a traitor, damn it all.
And they were doing an awfully bloody good job of it, too.
“All evidence points in that direction.” Duncan was grim. “My man working on the ciphers you brought me has yet to decipher them, but he feels he will soon have answers. Without knowing what the ciphers say, we cannot be sure of how they implicate you.”
“I need to remove them from my desk,” he said. “And destroy them.”
His friend nodded. “The sooner you are able to do so, the better. I suggest burning them to ash. Then turn every inch of your study upside down in an effort to be certain there are not more lurking elsewhere. You cannot afford to be caught unawares.”
His shock gave way to anger then. Someone was conspiring against him. Planting evidence against him. Plotting to see him imprisoned or worse. This disgrace was not to be borne.
He had risked his life for years, had been the best damn soldier he knew how to be, had been shot and stabbed and nearly killed. Had suffered the sights, sounds, and smells of so many atrocities he still could not sleep at night. And now some whoreson’s baseless accusations had rendered him suspect by his own Crown?
He shot to his feet, for he could not sit civilly for one moment more. The beast in him raged. His hands were trembling with a violence that had not occurred in some time. Stalking the length of Duncan’s office, he paced to the window and then back, feeling so helpless and impotent and furious he could not speak.
His mind whirled, galloping at the speed of a runaway stallion. He needed to calm himself. Needed to think. Form a plan of attack. This was no different than a battle formation. The enemy thought it could penetrate his line of defense and slay him in his sleep, but he was no longer unaware of the danger. He would defend himself to the death if necessary.
