Page 4 of A Rogue at Stonecliffe

Temptation wriggled through Sloane. Money and a ship. A clear path to the wealth he wanted. The ability to support a wife, to give Annabeth the kind of life he wanted to, the opportunity to marry her far sooner than he’d dared to let himself hope.

“Still, money doesn’t bring much comfort when you’re dead.”

“I have heard that a certain girl has caught your eye. That you’re eager to marry her. But surely Miss Winfield—”

Sloane shot to his feet and loomed over the man. “Don’t speak her name. Do you think I’d make her a smuggler’s wife? A spy’s widow?”

“No one need know what you do for a living. Smuggling is, after all, kept a secret.”

“I sincerely hope you’re not that naive, for England’s sake, or else Napoleon will be riding down St. James before long. There would be rumors, suspicions. ‘How did he suddenly get all that money? And why did he purchase a ship? And of course, he’s always been wild. Lord Drewsbury despaired of him.’ It would be an ongoing scandal, and Annabeth and her family would be the ones who suffered. Even worse if I was arrested and hanged.”

“We can give the excisemen a nod.”

Sloane snorted. “It wouldn’t exactly be secret then, would it? On the other hand, I could be caught as a spy in France and executed there, and she wouldn’t even know what happened. I’d never subject her to that kind of anxiety and unhappiness. Or to the kind of rumors and speculations that would abound after my disappearance. It’s unthinkable.”

“But if she—”

“Leave Annabeth out of this,” Sloane thundered.

Asquith said nothing, his demeanor as calm as if Sloane had asked if he wanted tea. After a moment he said mildly, “That might be a bit difficult.”

Sloane stared at the man, an icy tendril suddenly working its way up his spine. “What do you mean?”

“It would be difficult for her and her family to avoid a scandal if her father was arrested.”

“Arrested!” Sloane dropped back down in his chair. Now his nerves were tingling all up and down him, the hairs on his arms and neck rising, signaling danger. He strove for a scornful tone. “What are you on about? Mr. Winfield—”

“Mr. Winfield is a spy.”

“What?”

“He’s working for the French.”

Sloane gaped at him. “What?” He stood up again. “You’re insane.”

“No. He works in the government, you know.”

“Yes, but he’s not—what would he know?”

“Papers pass through his hands every day. They are inconsequential to most people—but they specify supplies, movements, a number of things very valuable to the enemy. And he is trusted by a more senior official, to whose office he has easy access. He’s an affable man who everyone around him is happy to talk to and gossip with.”

“But...but...” Sloane shoved his hand through his hair and began to pace. This was utterly inconceivable, but why else would this man be here? “Why? Why would Hunter Winfield spy for the enemy?”

“They say he’s always short of money.”

“I can’t see that he’s gained any sudden wealth.”

“No, with him, I think it’s blackmail.”

“What could anyone blackmail him with?” Sloane asked.

“I’m not sure why he agreed in the first instance. It doesn’t really matter. The fact is, Paris has whatever document he originally stole for them, and they have used that to make him hand over more information, more important information. The fact is, he’s a threat to the nation.”

“Annabeth—God, the scandal. Does it have to be revealed? Couldn’t you just feed him false information?”

“We have been since we learned of his treachery. But if the French discovered he is a double agent, I would shudder to imagine—”

“Then stop him!” Sloane barked. “Make him resign his position.”