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The earl puffed his chest out, giving a superior nod. “It contains the signatures of every Scottish peer and laird vowin’ their support in overthrowin’ that German imposter sittin’ upon the throne.”
Once more, Bethea slapped a hand over her mouth to stifle her shocked gasp.
Traitors. They are both traitors.
She must inform Keane at once. He’d know what to do with the information.
Having lived in the Highlands and been sheltered by Keane, Bethea knew little of Scotland’s politics. What she did know, however, was plots such as this led to innocent people dying, clans dividing, and families splitting.
And much, much, heartache and suffering.
“Well done. Well done, indeed.” Scratching beneath his wig, Etherington gave a crackling, humorless chuckle. “I must be away, but I’ll be in touch soon.”
Montieth grunted, followed by a couple of thunks.
She presumed he replaced the books on the shelf.
“I need to return to my guests, as well.” He gave Etherington a sly glance. “I have my eye on a delectable lass I intend to make the next countess.” He licked his fat lips and cupped his groin. “I’ve been hard as marble for a fortnight now, and the whores I’ve bedded havena relieved my lust. I canna wait to swive the girl. I’m positive she’s a virgin, and ye ken, I have a fondness for them.”
Bile bubbled up Bethea’s throat, and she swallowed reflexively against the sour burning.
“Mmm.” Phillip Etherington made a noncommittal sound as he tucked the folded parchment into an inner coat pocket. “Will she be your third or fourth countess?”
Third or fourth?
Bethea’s stomach cramped, and bile throttled up her throat so swiftly, she thought she might be sick. Right there on the floor.
Montieth had been married that many times before?
And what, pray God, had happened to his other wives?
“The lass will be my fourth,” Montieth said, not a hint of sorrow or remorse in his tone. “Two previous countesses died in childbirth and the last from a fever.”
Well, that answered that question.
“I am desperate for an heir. Miss Bethea Glanville is young and healthy. Good, strong Highlander stock, rather than the insipid noble-borns with weak constitutions I’ve married before.” Scratching his wide arse, Montieth pranced toward the door, passing wind as he went.
What a foul clod.
“You’ve asked for her hand, then?” Etherington picked a bit of lint from his sleeve, his demeanor revealing he didn’t give a hog’s fart about the subject. In truth, he seemed distracted. His mind elsewhere, that peculiar vacant gaze of his inching around the study.
Bethea changed her evaluation of him. He wasn’t a crow at all, but rather, a serpent.
“I mean to approach her guardian, and I’m confident he’ll accept my suit.” Montieth waited for Etherington to join him at the door. “If no’, I havna a qualm about takin’ her by force. Roxdale will come around then. If she’s despoiled, he’ll have nae choice.”
Like hell, he willna.
A dozen agitated heartbeats later, the door snapped shut, and Bethea forced herself to slowly count to two hundred before she moved so much as a hair. Her mind whirled, and her heart beat frantically.
They needed to leave. Immediately. And then head straight back to the Highlands.
Determination in her step, she crossed the room and grasped the handle. But no sooner had she lowered the lever, than Montieth and the snake violently shoved her back into the room.
Crying out in alarm and shock, Bethea stumbled backward several paces. Once she’d regained her balance, she drew herself up and met Montieth’s leering gaze unflinchingly. Quite proud of her outward composure, she slid her focus to Etherington’s stone-cold perusal.
Inwardly, she quaked like a newborn foal attempting to stand for the first time.
The earl advanced on her and seized her wrist in a cruel grip. “Och, I believe we may have found ourselves a spy, Etherin’ton.”
