Her breath caught. She forced herself not to show it. “Then you are proud of murder.”
“Larkin was an arrogant fool,” Holt corrected lazily. “No matter, I know enough.” He patted his coat pocket with a kind of intimate satisfaction. “This is worth more than you can imagine,Widow. Names, routes, payments—little truths that will make great men tremble.”
Once again, Elise’s pulse hammered. The ledger—so close; so real.
“And yet incomplete,” she said, pitching her voice louder, as Mr. Leigh had instructed—louder so that those hidden would hear.
Holt’s gaze narrowed. “You know more than you admit.”
Elise lifted her hands slightly, palms outward—an empty gesture that still conveyed intent. “Forget me and my school.”
Holt’s smile taunted. “Why should I?” His eyes flicked again—to her left, to her right—as if he sensed the shape of something unseen. Then he moved—fast and cruelly decisive.
He lunged toward Elise, his hand shooting out to seize her arm, to drag her back against him, to use her exactly as he had planned: as a shield and hostage.
Elise reacted on instinct—she twisted, trying to wrench free, but Holt’s grip was iron.
The world shrunk to pain in her arm and the harsh press of his coat against her shoulder.
Then her gaze caught on Mr. Leigh in the shadows.
Mr. Leigh had not meant to step into view. Elise saw it in the minute straightening of his posture, the quick calculation in his eyes. However, the moment Holt recognized him, concealment ceased to matter.
“Well,” he drawled, his voice carrying like oil over water, “ain’t this charming?” Holt spoke slow and ugly.
Elise’s blood ran cold. She turned her head slightly, just enough to see Mr. Leigh step closer with controlled ease.
Holt’s eyes glittered. “Keeping it all in the family, are we?”
Mr. Leigh’s face went still—too still.
Holt tilted his head. “One brother sells arms to enemies… and the other tries to tidy up the mess. One brother sinksCaptain Larkin’s ship… and the other escorts his widow like a gallant saint.” He gave a soft laugh. “Tell me… Cholmely… does it ease your conscience, or only harden it?”
Elise’s mind stumbled over the words: brother; one brother; the other—could that be Singleton?
The name struck her thoughts like a bell. Singleton, whose treason had shadowed Charles’s last months; Singleton, who had been hunted; Singleton, who had died.
Mr. Leigh—had been at school with him. He had said it. She had heard it and put it away as a detail. Elise stared at Mr. Leigh, shock flaring so brightly it nearly blinded her.
The moment, however, did not allow comprehension. Danger did not pause for revelations. Mr. Leigh’s voice was low, controlled. “Let her go, Holt.”
Holt’s grin widened. “Let her go? I ain’t even taken her yet.”
Then Mr. Leigh moved. It was not the movement of a man in a drawing room. It was not even the movement of a soldier marching. It was the movement of violence, precise and practised.
He struck Holt’s wrist with a sharp blow that made Holt’s fingers loosen. Elise tore herself free, stumbling back as Holt snarled in response.
For one moment Elise saw Mr. Leigh’s face—no softness, no humour, only a cold concentration that made him look like a man carved for battle.
Holt swung his other arm as if to grab her again, but Mr. Leigh stepped forward to meet him, blocking her with his own body.
A shout rang out—another voice, commanding—and suddenly the shadows around the wharf erupted into motion. Men came from behind barrels, from behind the corner of the hut, from the lee of a fishing boat. They moved with purpose, not panic. They surrounded Holt as water surrounds a sinking thing.
Holt’s eyes widened with fury. “Ambush!” he roared.
Mr. Leigh’s voice remained low. “Surrender.”
Holt laughed wildly. “To whom? To you, the traitor’s brother?” His gaze flicked past Mr. Leigh to Elise. “Do you know who he is, Widow? Did you invite him into your house? Into your bed of secrets?”
