Westcott’s lips curved into something just shy of a sneer. “All the more reason not to waste our time.”
Standish crossed his arms, his relaxed posture doing nothing to mask the sharpness in his eyes. “You’re involved with Crossings,” he prompted, cutting right to the thick of it.
Beckworth said nothing, but watched.
“Yes. As I said—er.” Northwoods flicked his eyes in Malum’s direction. “As I informedHis Grace. I want to make things right.” He cleared his throat, adjusting his grip on the reins. “I have, in fact, been working with Crossings for months. But only because I had no choice. The man—” He broke off, darting another glance at Malum before continuing. “He’s involved in illegal trade.”
Westcott shook his head. “Tell us something we don’t know.”
“Right.” Northwoods nodded and cleared his throat again. “Made a bundle, at first, but more recently…” Thin fingers reached up to pluck at his cravat, then his collar, then back down again to twist in the reins. The earl could hardly sit still. “He’s suffered more losses than gains. And he’s… dangerous. When he feels threatened, you wouldn’t believe the lengths he’s willing to go to.”
Now they were getting somewhere. “Why don’t you enlighten us?” Malum said.
Northwoods’ expression crumpled in a brief lapse of control, but for that fleeting moment, he looked every bit the desperate man he was.
“Crossings ordered the fire at the hunting lodge,” he said at last. “He was after evidence—correspondence between him and Roland Rutherford.”
“My father,” Standish clarified.
“Yes… From what I understand, those letters would have revealed their discussions about certain… investments.”
“To fund more shipments,” Beckworth said.
Northwoods nodded quickly. “Exactly. But Rutherford refused to give them up. So, er, Crossings ordered the lodge burned to the ground.”
Standish’s jaw tightened, and there was a haunted look in his eyes. “And my family?”
Northwoods flicked his tongue out to lick his lips, looking hesitant once more. “Crossings didn’t care who got hurt.”
The silence that followed was thick, tense.
“And who did his dirty work?” Malum asked.
“A man called Beasley. But he’s dead now, too.” Northwoods’ gaze shifted.
This information was exactly what Malum had expected, had hoped for, but although Northwoods seemed to be saying all the right things, his posture didn’t line up with his words.
“But why the fire at theDomus? Was that supposed to be some kind of warning?” Malum asked.
Northwoods’ brows furrowed. “I don’t know anything about that.”
So, either Northwoods hadn’t been informed… or Crossings wasn’t behind it after all. Perhaps Malum had jumped to conclusions. Perhaps it had been set by one of his other enemies. Regardless, it hadn’t been an accident.
“Why would we believe you about any of this?” Standish asked.
Northwoods leaned forward, his desperation bubbling to the surface. “I’ll swear to it! I’ll testify, give names, dates—whatever you need.” His voice cracked, and his beady eyes shot around their group, his earlier confidence shattered completely. “Please, Your Grace. I just want to be done with him.”
Malum narrowed his eyes, studying the man before him. The earl didn’t look like a man who was unloading his conscience—just the opposite, actually.
Northwoods was distressed, yes, but this… This felt off.
Or were Malum’s instincts failing him once again?
"And what of Lady Amelia’s father?" Beckworth asked, breaking his silence.
“Foxbourne knew too much.” Northwoods’ eyes darted away again, and for a moment, he seemed on the verge of bolting. “Crossings threatened to kill the marquess. I imagine his body will turn up eventually.”
“Who else was in Crossings’ way?” Westcott’s voice was cold as steel.
