Honor’s Revenge: Masters’ Admiralty, book 4

by Mari Carr

  “Nice try. When you did the books, you stopped to read them.”

  “This is what books are for.” Hugo finished that cushion and looked in despair at the rest. There were so many.

  When a cell phone rang, Hugo grabbed for his pocket.

  Lancelot grinned. “Nice try, but it’s mine. Keep searching.” He tapped the phone. “Knight.”

  Hugo was still looking at Lancelot, preparing a caustic remark, when he saw the other man’s eyes widen, his face taking on a slightly green tinge.

  Lancelot turned to fully face Hugo.

  “Yes, Fleet Admiral,” Lancelot said. “Our investigation is going well.”

  The fleet admiral was calling?

  Merde.

  * * *

  LANCELOT SANK into the large armchair beside the bookcase. He wasn’t expecting it to rock back and nearly cursed into the phone.

  “Your investigation is going well…” Eric cursed. “Don’t lie to me.”

  “We’ve just started,” Lancelot said. “We are, even now, in Alicia’s house, searching it.”

  “And what have you found?”

  “There’s evidence that she purposefully stripped the house of any identifying—”

  “So nothing. You haven’t found any-fucking-thing.”

  Lancelot thumped his fist against his forehead. “No, Fleet Admiral.”

  “You know, I’m really starting to hate this bitch,” Eric said.

  Lancelot blinked. “You’re only now starting to hate her?”

  Hugo grabbed the phone out of his hand and put it on speaker. Lancelot yanked the phone back, holding it flat on his palm. Hugo sat on the arm of the chair, his knee touching Lancelot’s side.

  Lancelot resisted the urge to put his arm around Hugo’s waist to hold him steady. He wasn’t an idiot. He could tell the other man was attracted to him. To make matters worse, he was attracted to Hugo as well, though he didn’t know what the hell to do with that feeling.

  “Yeah, before it was more of a business I’m-going-to-kill-her. Now it’s starting to get personal.”

  The fleet admiral was a strange, and terrifying, man.

  “Fleet Admiral, this is Hugo.”

  “Why aren’t you talking to the Exeter student, Sylvia Hayden?”

  Lancelot shot Hugo a confused look. “Who?” he mouthed.

  “Fleet Admiral,” Hugo said. “We had to promise the Grand Master that we wouldn’t come near the Trinity Masters’ headquarters or any of the members. It’s one of the conditions to us being here.”

  “Well then don’t tell her. Lie, you dumbasses.”

  “Our next step was to investigate the school where she taught,” Lancelot said, feeling his way around this conversation, wondering who Sylvia Hayden was. Hugo had been holding out on him. So had the fleet admiral, but that was to be expected. “We were going to break in.”

  “No minors,” Eric barked. “We don’t question kids.”

  “Of course not.” Lancelot might be a security officer, but even he would never do anything so heinous, though he was struggling to follow this conversation. Eric had just told them to question this kid.

  “Because kids are unreliable witnesses,” Eric said.

  “And because it’s wrong?” Hugo asked. Then he looked at Lancelot. “Pardon, did you say we were going to break in?”

  Lancelot merely stared at the other man, making sure Hugo could see how pissed he was that the Frenchman had been keeping valuable information to himself. He’d punch Hugo’s fucking lights out once they were off the phone.

  “Wrong,” Eric said slowly. “Yeah, sure, let’s go with that. But you don’t need to worry about that, do you? After all, Sylvia is a former student. She’s twenty-four now.”

  “Former or not…you are certain she’s a potential member of the Trinity Masters, oui?” Hugo asked.

  Lancelot winced, fairly sure Hugo was about to get told off for questioning the fleet admiral, but Eric merely grunted before saying, “You want to know how we got the information, don’t you?”

  “I think he just wants to know if it’s reliable,” Lancelot said, despite his anger, metaphorically stepping in front of Hugo to protect the other man. “Is it possible that the information about this Sylvia woman came from the Trinity Masters themselves? A trap, to get us to break their rules?”

  Hugo looked at him, the shock on his face making it clear he hadn’t thought of that.

  Eric grunted. “Good, you’re paranoid to the point of psychotic. Just how I like my people. Actually, it did come from the Trinity Masters, but they don’t know it.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Jane Dell,” Eric said.

  “Oh, well, that changes things.” Lancelot relaxed a bit.

  “Who is Jane Dell?” Hugo demanded.

  “She’s scarier than me,” Eric said. “And also a little old British lady. Double terrifying.”

  Hugo mouthed, “I don’t understand.”

  “Jane Dell was British Intelligence for over forty years, and a member of the Masters’ Admiralty,” Lancelot explained. “Through her husbands, and her work, she has connections and acquaintances everywhere. But most importantly, one of her grandsons was a legacy to both the Masters’ Admiralty and the Trinity Masters. Marek is one of the few people who knows about both societies, and he wasn’t planning on joining either, but then he fell in love with two Americans. He’s a member of the Trinity Masters now…but I’m guessing he still talks to his grandmother.”

  Eric jumped in. “Marek has no idea how much information he revealed. Jane was able to make some educated guesses about who the Trinity Masters are recruiting, based on their conversation. Lorelei—another British woman I would back in a fight—has an ongoing search running for new information about our pet psycho, Alicia. When Jane’s report with the list of recruits was added to the database, it flagged one of the names as being connected to Alicia. Sylvia Hayden.”

  “Okay,” Lancelot said, wondering why he hadn’t been given this information from the get-go. Once more he stared up at his companion.

  Hugo must’ve noticed Lancelot’s murderous glare. He cleared his throat and looked a little nervous. Good.

  “Sylvia’s name threw up another flag,” Eric said. “She’s connected to Hugo.”

  “A tenuous connection,” Hugo warned. “Seven years ago, I was invited to guest lecture a political science class at Northwestern. She was my student.”

  “Tenuous, but it’s better than the fook-all we have now,” Lancelot said. “I say we stop searching and go talk to this former student.”

  Hugo hesitated.

  “If you’re about to lecture me, Dr. Marchand—again—about not wanting to involve her…” Eric’s voice deepened. “Don’t.”

  Hugo straightened his back, looking nobly affronted. “Alicia Rutherford is a ruthless killer. Involving Sylvia in this investigation would endanger her. We must think on the ethical ramifications.”

  “Lancelot, smack him upside the head for me.”

  Without hesitating, Lancelot reached up and whacked Hugo on the back of the head.

  Lancelot didn’t speak much French, but he knew a fair number of curse words. Hugo was using most of them as he jumped up from the arm of the chair.

  Lancelot smiled at his partner in crime, feeling better since he got to smack the other man.

  “That is for being a naive ass who assumes I give a shit about morals,” Eric said. “I give a shit about keeping our people alive. Don’t get me wrong, without people like you, people like me would be cave savages, and there is a time for existential doubt about morality. But this isn’t it.”

  Personally, Lancelot was still more than a little irritated that both of them—Hugo and the fleet admiral—hadn’t told him about this lead. If it had been up to him, he would have started with questioning an acquaintance, instead of wasting time on searching the house, which his instincts had told him would be a waste of time.

  This also explained part of why
Hugo had been sent—his previous connection with this woman, Sylvia.

  It seemed they both had secrets.

  “Go question the woman,” Eric said. “That’s not a request, Dr. Marchand. It’s a goddamn order.”

  “Moral implications of involving Sylvia aside, I am…wary of the Trinity Masters.”

  “Like I said, good. But I want you even more paranoid. If the Trinity Masters have Sylvia on a short list, and Sylvia knows Alicia…”

  “Fook.” Lancelot put the pieces together, and his gut tightened. This situation was potentially far more dangerous than he’d known it would be when he’d gotten on that plane. Anger at the fleet admiral for sending him in blind was pointless. He’d been a soldier. He knew orders didn’t always come with a “and here’s why” explanation.

  “What?” Hugo demanded.

  Eric’s voice held little emotion when he said, “Alicia might be working for them or with them. You two might be operating behind enemy lines.”

  War. The Grand Master’s word. Not his.

  Lancelot flexed the hand not holding the phone. “I understand, Fleet Admiral.”

  “You need to have some escape routes planned and a cover story when you question this woman. For an escape, your best bet is international waters.”

  “That’s one of three emergency contingencies,” Lancelot assured him.

  “No, no, no, no, no.” Hugo swished one hand through the air, sounding and looking very Parisian for a moment. “You do not think that the Americans are working for the mastermind?”

  “Maybe one of them is the mastermind.”

  “But…but surely—”

  “I hope I’m wrong.” Eric’s voice was low and serious. “I sent you because I thought you could handle it. Prove to me that was a smart decision.”

  Hugo and Lancelot exchanged a glance. “What do you want us to do, Fleet Admiral?” Lancelot asked. “The Grand Master told us not to go near anyone connected to the Trinity Masters. Speaking to this former student might anger Juliette Adams.”

  “If she asks, lie. Deny you know about the connection. If she’s smart, she won’t believe you, but it will buy time. That’s the backup plan. Plan one is to talk to this woman, get information, find Alicia, bring her back alive for questioning. Do it right, and the Trinity Masters never have to know you talked to Sylvia.”

  Hugo grimaced, taking off his hat to run his hands through his hair. Lancelot pinched the bridge of his nose. “Yes, Fleet Admiral.”

  “Good. Lorelei is sending you more information, encrypted. Lancelot, she’s setting you up a cover story to use on the poet. Don’t die.” With that encouraging sentiment, the fleet admiral hung up.

  Lancelot stood and tucked his phone into his pocket. “So…Sylvia.”

  He expected at least a little bit of remorse from Hugo, but the other man simply looked grave. “How much danger are we in?”

  Lancelot wished he could lie, but Hugo deserved the truth. “Far more than we realized.”

  Chapter Five

  Hugo knocked again, but considering he’d already done the same thing five times before, he didn’t expect anyone to answer the door.

  And no one did.

  He sighed, and then watched as Lancelot crossed the porch and plopped down on a rocking chair. “Nothing else to do but wait.”

  Hugo hadn’t slept well as he replayed the conversation with the fleet admiral over and over. If they were here, in Charleston, for any other reason, he might actually enjoy the historic port city with its cobblestone streets and antebellum houses.

  He claimed a spot on the porch swing.

  Sylvia Hayden, Alicia’s former student—and his—lived on a quiet side street that was reflective of his vision of small-town America. Kids rode bicycles up and down the sidewalks, large shade trees provided a pleasant respite from the warm sun, two women across the street were talking over the hedge that divided their lawns, laughing and sharing recipes while casting curious, suspicious glances at him and Lancelot, the way he’d always assumed nosy neighbors would.

  According to the additional information Lorelei sent, Sylvia had moved in with an elderly grandmother after graduating from the Iowa Writers’ Workshop with an MFA in creative writing. He’d known that much, just as he’d known she was a brilliant student who’d completed her high school studies at sixteen, and college at twenty.

  After completing her graduate studies, she’d been awarded a creative writing fellowship by the National Endowment of Arts, which allowed her to focus on her poetry. She already had three books of poetry and art published, which was unheard of for a poet, let alone such a young one. Sylvia specialized in “modern romanticism, a new take on the old South, with all the complexities therein”—a description Hugo had read in the editorial review for her first book of poetry. In addition to writing, she was a talented visual artist, specializing in charcoal sketches, which she published on social media for her millions of followers.

  After reading her poems and scrolling through her social media, Hugo had expected her to live someplace more…cosmopolitan. Perhaps it was his own bias. After all, some of the best English language literature had been written while their creators were in Paris.

  According to the report from Lorelei, Sylvia’s grandmother passed away last year, leaving the house to her.

  “Nice place,” Lancelot mused. “Lots of space between neighbors. You don’t see that very much where I’m from. My family’s house was a row house.” He glanced toward the street. “Wide roads, too.”

  Hugo rocked slowly on the swing, marveling at how comfortable and homey it was. He lived in an elegant two-bedroom flat that was walking distance to École des Hautes Études en Sciences Sociales and near the Seine. It would have been beyond the means of a professor, even one as highly paid as he was. He told colleagues he’d inherited the place from a wealthy relative.

  In truth, Hugo was a billionaire, with a vast personal fortune, thanks to the investment guidance he’d received when he’d come into his large trust fund. He lived in the two-bedroom flat—which was an obscene amount of space for a single man in a place like Paris—but he owned the entire building and the one next to it.

  Living modestly—at least compared to how he could live if he chose to—was a way of hiding the truth about his nontraditional family. If he’d boasted about his wealth, someone might start asking questions, the kind of questions that might risk their secrets.

  As much as he loved his flat, there was no elegant chaise or tiny balcony bistro chair that could compare to the unique comfort and contentment of this porch swing.

  He and Lancelot had spent the better part of last night at some British-inspired pub Lancelot had found online, discussing how to approach Sylvia. Lancelot had had a craving for a “chippie”—fish and chips—but given the amount of grumbling he’d done about the quality of his meal, it was safe to say that desire was going to go unfulfilled until they returned to England.

  They’d decided to simply approach her. Hugo felt they’d known each other well enough—though admittedly years ago—that he could stop by for a visit. Hugo would introduce Lancelot as an investigator from London, who was helping him interview people and do civic research for a book. Lancelot didn’t exactly look like the sort who liked to dig into old records in the back rooms of municipal buildings, but they’d come up with a way to explain that.

  Lancelot blew out a low whistle. “I just fell in love.”

  Hugo started to roll his eyes—then he saw her, and realized who’d captured Lancelot’s attention…and heart. “Ah. Sylvia. She’s…beautiful.”

  She had been cute as a young girl, fresh-faced, wholesome.

  This svelte woman seemed to walk without touching the ground. Graceful, peaceful. A slight breeze blew through russet waves of hair that curled over her delicate shoulders and fell down her back. Every time she crossed between the patches of shade provided by the large oaks, the sun revealed strands of burnished copper hidden amongst the brown. Her skin
was tawny, warm, and reflected her mixed heritage—they’d learned from the file Lorelei had sent that Sylvia’s grandmother had been black.

  She was halfway up the walk that led to the porch before she glanced up and noticed them.

  Hugo realized they’d probably miscalculated by making themselves at home. Two large males sitting on her porch wasn’t the best way to approach her after so many years apart.

  However, there was no fear, no trepidation. A smile exploded. “Dr. Marchand!” She started toward him, clearly intent on hugging him. Before she could climb the stairs, the breeze picked up and she dropped her notebook, several pages blowing across the yard. “Oh!”

  She started to chase them, and he and Lancelot hopped up and raced over the grass to help her. They managed to recapture most of the papers, but one got away.

  She shuffled through them as they handed them back. “Damn.”

  Hugo tried to hide his grin as she—like most others in the south—added an extra syllable to the word, so it sounded like she’d said dayum.

  “You lost something important?” Lancelot asked.

  “A poem I’ve been working on. I prefer to write longhand, outside.” She glanced the direction the paper had blown. “Well, looks like I’ve cast my words to the wind. Set them loose to wreak havoc on the world. Hmmm.” She pulled a pencil from a small purse she carried, opening the notebook to jot something down. “Someone will find that, and it will inspire them. To love or violence. The same, both dangerous, both deadly.”

  Lancelot looked at him, but Hugo merely smiled. She hadn’t changed much. Maybe some of that innocence was lost, tempered by a clarity of understanding about the reality of human nature, but not jaded.

  Once she was finished writing, she tucked the pencil away, then reached for him. He accepted her friendly embrace, and kissed the air above each cheek. “Sylvia. It’s been too long.”

  “It has. It really has.” Then she looked beyond him to Lancelot. “Oh wow. Up close, you’re very beautiful,” she mused, her eyes traveling the length of Lancelot. “And quite tall.”