Brandon gave them a tight smile and slipped out the door.
Sutton toed it shut behind him.
Abercairn sighed. “Brandon has always been a wee bit of a disappointment.”
Sin gritted his teeth. “I must speak with you, Abercairn. In private.”
The man spread his hands. “Eirlie is one of my closest friends. Nothing is private between us.”
Was that right? Sin stalked forward and knocked the earl’s legs to the floor. “Fine. Have it your way. I frankly don’t care about preserving your reputation.”
Abercairn arched an eyebrow. “This sounds serious.” He leaned back in the chair and laced his fingers together over his stomach, his cigar bobbing. He grinned at the viscount. “Whatever do you think the Marquess of Dunkeld could think to impeach me by?”
Sin’s temper spiked. “How about twenty thousand pounds deposited into your wife’s account from Lucien Bonaparte.”
The room stilled. Abercairn raised his cigar and drew deeply.
“Not such a laughing matter, is it?” Sin found the top to his best damn bottle of whisky and shoved it into the bottle. “Seems rather a paltry sum to turn traitor for the French.”
“This isnae true, is it, Ab?” Eirlie scooted to the edge of his seat. “Dunkeld has overindulged, is that it?”
Sin turned his glare on the viscount. “Do I look as though I’m in my cups? This man, who has pretended fidelity to the union of England and Scotland, has been behind the riots, and the assassination attempt on Beaumont, if I’m not mistaken.” He turned back to Abercairn. “Well? Have you nothing to say for yourself?”
Abercairn crossed one ankle over his knee and ground the end of his cigar into the sole of his boot. “It sounds as though your mind is already made. What use is there in words?”
Sutton leaned forward. “Unless you have some explanation for the deposits, you’ll be arrested. I assure you words can be useful when trying to defend/avoid the hangman’s noose.”
Eirlie rested a hand on his throat, his eyes wide. “Ab, tell him it’s nae true.” He glared at Sin. “You cannae just threaten an earl with execution. Ab, tell him.”
Sin turned his back to the viscount and stood over Abercairn. “I can understand your desire for a free Scotland. But to join with the French in order to do so in unconscionable.”
The man merely smiled.
“Dear God.” Eirlie jerked to his feet. “My brother was killed at Waterloo. How can ye work with those bastards?”
Abercairn gave no response.
Eirlie shook his head. “I have nae love for the French, or anyone who would take orders from them.” He set his glass down on the desk, the soft clack echoing through the room, and turned on his heel.
Sutton drew his legs back so the man could pass and gave him a sympathetic nod. He turned back to Sin and Abercairn, crossing his arms.
A sudden movement, a hiss of fabric, and the sickening sound of metal meeting flesh and bone. Sutton slumped forward onto the carpet, landing heavily on his side.
Sin whirled, only to feel the barrel-end of a pistol press into the back of his head.
Eirlie slapped a short iron rod into the palm of his hand. “Of course, my brother wouldnae have been fighting the French if it wasn’t for the filthy English.”
Sin flexed his hands, the urge to thrash and beat overwhelming.
Eirlie slipped his weapon into a pocket and pulled out his own pistol. He pointed it at Sutton’s prone body.
Abercairn pressed the muzzle into Sin’s head. “As you see, I am nae the one without friends here. Perhaps we should have that talk. I need to know what ye do. And who ye’ve told.” He nodded at Eirlie, and the man threw the lock on the door,
The click echoed hollowly in Sin’s ears, the metallic ping holding a dread sense of finality.
Chapter Thirty-One
Winnifred paced her bed chambers. Her night rail tangled at her ankles when she spun, and she kicked at the hem. Where was he? The last log in the fireplace popped, and Winnifred glared at it. Sin should have been back hours ago, following through on his promise to make her pay for the dance she forced upon him. She’d waited, first curious at his delay, then impatient, and now distracted beyond reason.
