Edmund exhaled slowly. It explained too much: the beating, the secrecy, Elise’s immediate competence.
“Holt is a disgraced officer,” Renforth said, his voice turning colder. “He was tried by court martial some years ago for theft and corruption. He escaped the consequences by vanishing into the hidden spaces where men like him thrive. After that he attached himself to Singleton’s operations because Singleton paid well and asked few questions.”
Manners’ tone was sardonic. “A man of principle, then.”
Fielding snorted. “A man of ambition.”
Renforth turned back to Edmund, and the weight in his gaze was no longer only professional.
“There is more,” Renforth said.
“There is always more,” Edmund quipped sardonically.
“Yes,” Renforth replied, “and this—unfortunately—is your portion.”
The room seemed to draw in upon itself. Even Baines stopped prowling.
Renforth spoke plainly. “Singleton’s intelligence—much of what allowed us to catch him, to intercept his shipments, to choke his supply—did not come from him alone.”
Edmund felt a cold, creeping unease. “From whom, then?”
Renforth held his gaze. “From your father.”
For a moment Edmund could not breathe.
The words did not fit. His father was a man full of his titles and cold manners, a man who believed loyalty a performance and honour a family heirloom. His father despised scandal; despised weakness. Yet he revelled in earthly pleasures. Had he been lost to such desperation that he would betray his country? Could his father really have provided intelligence for treason?
It was suddenly, sickeningly plausible—because the only thing his father prized more than money was power, and power required knowledge; and because treason had come too near the family not to demand some counterweight.
Edmund’s throat tightened until speech felt impossible. “You are certain.”
Renforth’s expression did not soften. “Beyond doubt, I am afraid.”
Fielding took a slow sip of his drink, as if bracing himself for Edmund’s reaction. Manners’ eyes remained intent and sympathetic in a way that would have been alarming from anyone else. Stuart remained quiet.
Baines grunted. “Families,” he said roughly. “Worse than the French.”
Edmund swallowed hard. “Why are you telling me this now?”
Renforth’s voice remained firm. “Because the proof has only just come to light, but cannot be concealed any longer. Holt’s ledger—this one, I mean, and the fragments we have recovered—contains references that lead back to your father. Not as the architect of Singleton’s treason, but as one who fed information when it suited him—and withheld it when it did not.”
Edmund’s hands curled into fists. “So he played both sides?”
Renforth nodded once. “He attempted to, and we assumed because of his connection to you that your brother had been the main culprit… until the ledger was stolen and shipments of arms were again being plundered.”
A hollow sound escaped Edmund. It might have been laughter in another man. In him it was only disbelief turning to rage.
“What does the Crown intend?” Edmund asked, already knowing that the Crown rarely intended mercy when it came to treason… twice.
Renforth’s eyes hardened. “The King knows of your allegiance, Edmund. He knows you have served England and served her well. He knows you have risked everything to rectify what your brother began.”
Edmund flinched at the mention of his brother—as if the word itself were a bruise.
Renforth continued, his voice cool and controlled. “You will not be stripped. Your title will remain. Your prospects will not be ruined.”
“Your father, however,” Renforth said, “cannot be permitted to go unpunished.” The room went very still. Renforth’s gaze did not waver. “His death will be arranged. Quietly. In a way that spares the Crown scandal and spares you the spectacle of his being declared a public traitor.”
Edmund’s stomach turned. He had killed men. He had watched men die. He had accepted death as the natural consequence of certain choices…
