And Hounslow Heath had since become a fashionable haunt for ladies with restless imaginations.
Saint-Clair’s mocking snort echoed through the ruins. “TheSatiristlikes to rake the dirt for truth. I may be an Englishman, but my blood once guarded the gates of Normandy for Viking jarls.”
Dominic picked up his coin, rubbing his thumb over the motto that haunted his dreams. “I read the article. I found the lady’s dissolute brother at a demimonde party.”
While Miss Harland undressed for bed, he had dulled his thoughts the only way he knew how—dragging the sot into the hall and shaking a confession from his scrawny frame.
“Lady Askew lost a small fortune at cribbage and was afraid to tell her husband. I sent a note to Montfort.”
Saint-Clair arched a brow. “You, at a demimonde party? I’m almost tempted to check you’re not wearing a mask.”
“I’ll explain when we discuss personal affairs.” He would trust these men with his life. They’d be astonished to learn he’d agreed to watch the stars and drink chocolate.
Montfort must have used sleight of hand to take his coin. One moment it lay between them, the next it had vanished.
“I did what I do best. Entered Lady Askew’s house while they were at Vauxhall. Found the receipt of sale from apawnbroker in Covent Garden, tucked inside her stocking drawer.”
Saint-Clair smiled as he faced Stanton. “You published a rebuttal along with the broker’s statement and informed the authorities?”
Stanton nodded. “Lord Askew published an apology. Bastian Saint-Clair remains a myth.”
“And so we ride on, culling liars.”
They fell silent, the lies that bound them never far from their thoughts.
“How is Adrienne?” Dominic asked.
The faint amusement in Saint-Clair’s eyes died at the mention of his sister. “Still afraid to sleep, even after all these years.”
Dominic often lay awake reliving that night. The dawn appointment that marked them all as outcasts. They had been witnesses. Still allowed to walk as free men. Saint-Clair had not been so fortunate.
“Anything else to report?” Saint-Clair said, though he was rarely hopeful these days. “No gossip? No rumours? Or will the truth forever elude us?”
“Mallory’s brother is considering a return to England,” Dominic said. Debauchery loosened tongues as easily as it loosened morals. “There’s still talk you stole into the house at night and abducted their sister. That you keep her prisoner in a stairless tower.”
“Vienna Mallory.” Saint-Clair scoffed. “I’d wager she eloped with a pirate, threw him overboard, and now captains the deadliest ship on the high seas.”
“The Mallorys never forgave you for surviving,” Montfort said.
“They got justice. I’m a man in invisible chains.”
The bronze wolf lay between them, amid dust and fallenmortar. A reminder that none of them had walked away unscathed.
Saint-Clair took his coin and turned it once across his knuckles before catching it. “Adrienne is restless and longs to return to town. I cannot allow that. She resents it.” He slipped the coin into his pocket. “Enough about me. Stanton?”
“The Sentinelcontinues to print facts, not fiction. Work remains my only indulgence.”
Dominic cleared his throat. “That’s no longer true for me.”
They looked at him like he’d stepped from the ruined cloisters in a burial shroud. Their expressions did not soften once he’d explained his predicament.
“Harland may not be the villain?” Saint-Clair gave a curious hum. “Interesting. There’s hope for me yet.”
“You’ve moved Miss Harland into your home?” Stanton spoke like he wished he could print it in the morningSentinel.
“Into a cottage on the estate.” One he visited more than he should. One he did not leave easily. “A temporary arrangement. Until I’m convinced she’s safe.”
The word temporary rang thin.
