Page 78 of A Rogue at Stonecliffe

“That is why Father retired to the country for the rest of his life,” Annabeth mused. After a moment, she said, “It doesn’t seem that Papa’s confession will be very useful for Mr. Asquith. It doesn’t tell us the identity of the man who blackmailed him.”

“No. Your father was remarkably silent about anyone but himself. But if I can discover the identity of the other man involved in the accident, I think that may very well tell us who gave your father up to the French.”

“You think the master spy is the man Papa raced? That they are one and the same?”

“He and your father were the only people who knew about the accident. Obviously your father’s valet had no idea of it, and surely the dead man’s family would have learned of it if anyone in the village had witnessed the accident. So it seems likely that your father’s competitor was the man who blackmailed him—or that this man gave this information to the blackmailer, in which case he could identify the spy.”

“Yes, I see that. But why would he have done that? Surely he was Papa’s friend.”

“That sort of tragedy could end a friendship. Besides, he didn’t have to be a close friend, just someone your father might race. Another gentleman at the club.”

“That leaves a great many people for suspects,” Annabeth pointed out.

“Unfortunately, yes,” Sloane said grimly. “But some are more likely than others. And too close to home.”

“Who do you mean?” She looked at him in confusion, then her face cleared. “Oh. You’re thinking about your father.”

“Yes.” It had been at the back of Sloane’s mind since he’d read Winfield’s confession. “It would be someone foolish enough, drunk enough, and too fond of gambling to turn down a bet. That’s a portrait of Marcus.”

“That’s absurd,” Annabeth said. “It couldn’t be your father.”

“Why not? It’s not as if the man has a strong moral code.”

“No. But his faults are weaknesses. I can believe that he could have done as Papa did—impulsively, unintentionally commit a terrible sin. But it simply isn’t in him to murder my father in cold blood. Or to be a spy. He’s not the kind of man to plot and scheme and keep secrets.”

“As I am?” Sloane asked, raising a brow, but his insides relaxed a little. “You’re right. Marcus has too loose a mouth to keep that accident a secret for years, especially when he’s in his cups. And he hasn’t the competence to be a spy.”

“Sloane...” Annabeth’s face softened and she reached out her hand to him, then stopped and let it fall back in her lap. “I know he was, well, not a good father in many ways, but he wasn’t wicked. He was weak, like Papa.”

“Mr. Winfield was a tower of strength compared to Marcus,” Sloane said with a wry twist of his mouth. “Your father stopped the gambling and racing once he had you in his life. My father never could. Whatever his faults, Hunter loved you with every fiber of his being.”

“Oh, Sloane, you mustn’t think your father doesn’t love you. I’m sure he does in his own way.”

“No doubt.”

“As you love him,” she added.

“In my own way?” He smiled faintly.

“You take care of him.”

“I pay for him. That’s easy enough, and it keeps him from being an embarrassment to me.”

“Of course. Because you are so concerned about what people say.” She gave Sloane a teasing smile, and it sent a little pang through his heart. It was foolish to want this, to ache for familiarity and ease, to wish that everything had been different. Because, of course, the past could not be changed, no matter how much he wished it.

“Lady Lockwood would be the person to ask the names of the men Mr. Winfield raced against, I suppose,” Sloane said, changing the topic.

“Yes, she and Lady Drewsbury.”

“And your mother of course.”

“No. I can’t tell Mother about this. It would devastate her.”

Sloane raised an eyebrow, sending Annabeth a pointed look.

A blush rose in her cheeks. “Yes, yes, I realize that I decried you not telling me about my father’s treachery. But this is different.”

“Isn’t it always?” he murmured.