Page 27

Even Camden wasn’t entirely certain he’d be safe from Keane’s vengeance, though he’d rescued Bethea from the devious plans Montieth had for her.

As he made his way to the parlor reserved for the appointment with Sir Walter Makepeace, he turned his thoughts to the list tucked inside his boot. He’d found it after a thorough search of Etherington’s person.

The idiot hadn’t even bothered to try to hide it in the coach.

His arrogance had been his downfall in more ways than one.

Two weary red-clad soldiers stood guard outside the private parlor. They gave him curious glances but remained silent as he knocked briskly.

Knock. Knock. Knock.

After receiving a curt request to enter, he strode into the room.

Bryston was already there, resting a shoulder against the wall. He dipped his chin in a wordless greeting.

Standing before the fireplace, Sir Walter Makepeace examined a document. Barely six inches over five feet and so slight, he looked as if a strong wind might blow him over, many were the fools who’d underestimated the advisor. A brilliant strategist possessing a keen intelligence, he had the king’s ear for a reason. As was his habit, he wore a gray jacket and breeches. Only his waistcoat ever changed color. Today, it was a dark green and ebony striped affair.

He acknowledged Camden’s entrance with a penetrating glance and a sharp nod before his attention veered to Etherington.

Three bored, heavy-lidded soldiers stood guard near the traitorous Englishman.

As if an honored guest, Phillip Etherington sat picking at a plate of food, a serviette tucked into his collar, his nose a swollen beacon in his face. The simple fare might well be his last meal.

Camden would’ve let the cur starve, and he couldn’t help but wonder at the traitor’s preferential treatment. Did Makepeace think treating Etherington civilly would loosen his tongue?

The smile Etherington slid Camden raised the hairs on his scalp.

Leaning back, Etherington nonchalantly took a sip of wine. “I was explaining to Sir Walter how your betrothed happened to be in my company.”

His tone indicated he clearly didn’t believe Bethea and Camden were trothed.

Bryston went perfectly still, but like any agent worth his salt, his expression didn’t reveal his astonishment. He, of course, knew damn well Camden was no more affianced to Bethea Glanville than he was able to sprout wings and fly back to the Highlands.

Arms folded, Camden regarded the Englishmen with the same favor he would a corpse fished from the North Sea after a month. “Did ye also tell him why ye agreed to abduct her so that Montieth could violate her, and thereby force her to wed him?”

Slowly straightening to his impressive six feet four inches, Bryston wrapped his hand around the handle of the dirk at his waist. The look he exchanged with Camden spoke volumes.

He also well knew Keane’s fury, and if Sir Walter didn’t dispose of Etherington and Montieth, Keane would. Bryston tipped his hawkish gaze toward the ceiling in silent communication, and Camden answered with a barely discernable movement of his eyes.

Without a word, Bryston slipped from the room.

Bethea would be safe until Camden returned.

Sir Walter, a devotedly religious man—fanatical some would say—looked appropriately appalled. “Contemptible behavior.” He turned his sad, hound dog brown-eyed gaze upon Camden. “How fares your affianced? Is she overwrought? Is there anything I can do to ease her distress?”

“She’s restin’ in my room.” The less Sir Walter knew about Bethea, the better. He wasn’t above exploiting the situation if he thought in any way it might be used to bring him favor with His Majesty.

In truth, he’d pondered several times why Robert Walpole had chosen Sir Walter to head the uprising suppressions. Makepeace’s political experience leaned toward commerce and foreign affairs, rather than civil rebellion.

“Good. Good.” With a slant of his head and an extended arm, he indicated Camden should precede him into an adjoining room. Once out of Etherington’s earshot, Sir Walter asked, “Have you the documentation?”

Camden bent and pulled the paper from his boot. Wordlessly, he passed it to the advisor.

“Have you read it?”

Camden shook his head. “Nae. Ye said ’twas classified.”

With an affirmative grunt, Makepeace unfurled the parchment, his white, wiry eyebrows contorting as he read the list of names. Rather than gloating or celebratory, he raised those soulful eyes to Camden’s. “A bloody shame.” He tapped the paper. “Good men here. Good men caught up in misplaced loyalty.”