by Sari Robins
Before Justin could rise, the man spun on his heels and strode out the door. Justin put his head in his hands. How had he sunk so low?
Arolas charged back into the parlor. “I forget. She wanted you to have this.” He nonchalantly tossed something. The golden ring landed with a quiet thud on the carpet beside Justin. He picked up the small band and stared at it for a very long time. He did not know how much time passed as he sat there staring at the golden orb, but when he looked up Arolas still stood there, watching him with calculating eyes. “It would take a supremely devoted man to undo the damage you have done,” he stated with oily smoothness.
Harsh jealousy tore at Justin’s gut. “And are you assuming the task of consoling Evelyn?”
Arolas smiled wickedly. “I would jump at the chance to do anything for my Evelyn.” His eyes narrowed. “Anything.”
Justin wanted to hate the man, but he could not find it within him, for Arolas could give Evelyn what he could not—a home without the lingering shadow of betrayal. He stood, brushed off his britches, and straightened his wrinkled coat. Curling his fingers around the ring, he grumbled, “There is no need to gloat.”
Arolas studied him, weighing whether he was worthy and finding him wanting. “Did you ever meet Señorita Evelyn’s father, Señor Amherst?”
“No.”
“He was a great man.” Arolas sniffed. “There are not that many these days, so when you meet one, well, he makes an impression.” He waved his hand dramatically. “He was an eloquent speaker. His words would bend your thinking, so subtly that you would not even know that it was he who had changed your mind. He was principled.” Arolas frowned. “Sometimes too much. His country always came before anything else, including his family. So the idea that he would ever put anything before his homeland, well, it is ludicrous.”
Justin felt as if he were staring into a mirrored pool containing a vast store of knowledge but he did not know what questions to ask the oracle. Or whether he would get a straight answer. He licked his lips. “Do you know…what Sir Amherst was working on before he died?”
Arolas’s teeth gleamed white against his olive skin. “Diplomacy, of course.”
“Evelyn was not involved in her father’s ‘diplomacy,’ was she?”
Those dark brown eyes glittered. “What do you think?”
“I would bet my last farthing she was not.”
“Why? Because she is a woman?” He said the word as if it was a high compliment, not a mere circumstance of birth. As if spying was a dirty sport. Well, it was.
“Because she’s not devious. Intelligent, astute, yes, but her mind does not twist with devilish cunning…” Two could play at wide-eyed innocence. “…like what I assume one would need to be involved in the Intelligence business.”
“You sound as if you care for the lady.”
Justin shifted his shoulders, not wanting to face how strongly his feelings for Evelyn had become. “I hold Evelyn in the highest esteem.”
Arolas raised his brow. “Not exactly a declaration of love. But then again, you could not love her to have betrayed her so.”
Justin was so filled with shame that he could not meet the man’s eyes. Only his need to do something to help Evelyn kept him from wanting to crawl into a hole and lick his wounds in disgrace. Since she’d run from him the day before, he’d felt as if someone had ripped out his heart and run a loaded carriage over it. But he was not about to expose his pain to the bloody Spaniard.
He asked through clenched teeth, “Can you help me or not?”
Arolas strolled lazily over to his brandy, lifted the snifter, and sipped slowly. Staring into the glass as if contemplating the brownish-gold liquid, he stated quietly, “Let us suppose that Señor Amherst never faltered from his ‘diplomatic duty’ to his country, and let us also assume that his death was, shall we say, ill-timed, for argument’s sake, of course.”
“Of course.”
“Then, let us also suppose that Señorita Evelyn never partook in her father’s activities, as you suggest.” He pursed his lips, “That would indicate—”
“—that we have a traitor in our midst,” Justin finished for him.
Arolas shrugged nonchalantly. “All presupposition, of course.”
“Of course.” Justin rubbed his chin. “But what does she have that someone wants?” Besides her beautiful, earth-shattering smile.
“Her legacy?” Arolas offered.
“I would assume the authorities have covered that corner,” Justin replied guardedly.
“So it must be something else. Perhaps something she knows but does not know she knows?” Arolas tilted his head, studying Justin once more. “Why did you come here today? You knew she would not see you.”
“I had to try.” Justin looked away. “I have a duty toward her.”
“Ah, so with you, like Señor Amherst, duty comes first. You English. I will never understand you. You are so honor-bound you forget the simple pleasures in life. The love of a good woman, the hug of a small child’s arms around your neck. You miss so much.”
“I do not see your loving family crowding about you,” Justin replied stiffly.
The confident gentleman shrugged. “All in good time. And do not think that I will place anything before them.”
Justin bowed, facing Arolas again. He was impressed by the man, despite the fact that he was jealous of the bastard to the core. What he would give to switch places. To be the one coming to Evelyn’s rescue, consoling her, making things right. “If we have nothing further to discuss, I will bid you farewell.”
“And you as well. I confess, my lord…” It was the first time he had properly addressed Justin. “…you are not like the other ‘diplomats’ I have met.”
“How so?” Justin asked, intrigued.
“You do not seem to have the same taste for it, the blood, I mean. You seem to actually have some semblance of remorse. An unhealthy trait for a man in the diplomatic field, I might suggest.”
“Well then, it’s a good thing I’m not a diplomat, Señor. I am merely a man attempting to do the best he can to fulfill his duties.”
Arolas smiled wickedly. “Aren’t we all?”
Chapter 17
Perspiration lined his brow and soaked his armpits, his breath came in harsh gasps, and his heart banged against his rib cage with his efforts, but Justin stuck the pitchfork into the hay for the hundredth time in an hour and flung the heap into the loft. He was trying to sweat the self-loathing out of his system but could not get past the odor of manure and rotten fruit wafting around him.
He did not know which was worse, the idea of Evelyn hating him forever, or the thought of her living with the smooth, princely Spaniard. The man probably had a harem in every capital, and…Justin tossed away the idiotic musings, even more disgusted with himself.
He had more important things to consider, like the health of his great nation and the likelihood of a traitor in their midst. If Sir Phillip Amherst was not a turncoat, then who was? The mighty Sullivan? Conjecture was useless without more information, something Wheaton was ensuring he went without. He wanted to scream in frustration but instead heaved another load of hay and tossed it onto the pile.
The eerie glow of lamplight cast ghoulish shadows up in the loft, and he wished they would rise up and materialize so he could have something to slaughter besides his sense of self-worth.
He paused to wipe his clammy brow with the sleeve of his shirt. The only sounds in the darkened stables were his rasping breath and the nighttime rousing of the slumbering animals. His soft hands pinched and burned with blisters as his station decried the manual labor he was relishing so piercingly tonight.
He deserved the pain. It was nothing compared to what Sullivan must be facing. Justin only hoped that the man’s actions warranted it. It would be the only saving grace for this chaos; otherwise, he was the un-bidden tool of a traitor within his own ranks. He was beginning to question the existence of a targeted French threat to the monetary system.
The facts were not adding up to anything remotely equal to menace. Nothing, so far, justified what he’d done to Evelyn.
He stuck the fork in a pile to resume his penance when he heard boot steps pounding past the front of the stables. People rarely traversed the alley this time of night. Heaving the tool, he jumped down and silently strode to the door, leaning against the rough wooden slats to listen.
“The Spaniard’s outside with two men. She’s inside the little house.” A scratchy voice sniggered menacingly. “Alone.”
The sweat froze on Justin’s face like a film of ice. He counted at least six, no, seven sets of boots clomping past, heading toward his brother’s sanctuary nearby.
His heart pounded while he waited until they had passed, and then he lunged for his coat. He dug in the pocket, pulling out his only weapon. One pistol, one shot. It would have to do. He hoped that Arolas and his men were well armed. Rushing out the door, he grabbed a small whip coiled on a notch on his way and prayed he was not too late.
He heard the grunts and scuffle of boot steps before he could discern the shapes of fighting men. He rushed forward, barely making out the skirmishing bodies. In their wisdom, the authorities had not bothered to waste good light on the back alleyway. He easily spotted the gracefully catlike Arolas as he whipped his sword back and forth, keeping three of his attackers at bay.
Justin did not recognize any of the other men. He squared his stance and uncoiled the whip, snapping it tautly against one of Arolas’s assailant’s hands, lashing the knife right from the man’s grasp.
“Goddam!” he railed, and turned. Square jaw, big hands, black-painted face. So Mr. Sullivan had not been his attacker the other night in the stables. The burly man roared and launched himself at Justin. Justin spun on his booted heels and, using the pistol butt, whacked the man on the back of his shoulder. The brute screamed with agony. Before Justin could congratulate himself for his deductive reasoning, Arolas shouted as he held off two knife-wielding attackers, “Two men got past—Evelyn’s inside!”
Justin raced past clusters of combatants and through the threshold door to his brother’s sanctuary. The flickering glow of lamplight lit a scene out of his worst nightmare. His blood chilled in his veins.
Through the corner of his eye he took in the ashen-faced man lying slumped against the bookshelves, a knife protruding from his belly. But Justin’s gaze was glued to the bastard pressing Evelyn into the couch with his beastly body while he tugged open his breeches. A meaty fist clamped around her neck while she screamed and fought wildly, her arms and legs flailing ineffectively against his greater bulk.
Justin jumped on the bull and grabbed his shoulders, ripping him off her. The man whipped around, backhanding Justin into the wall, jarring him so hard that his teeth rattled. The bastard lumbered over to Justin, terrorizingly near. Justin whipped up the pistol and fired. The blast was so deafening that his head spun. Blood splattered everywhere and the man fell backwards, a circle of red gore where his chest had been. The room shook with the shock of the bull’s slow crash to the floor. Smoke billowed from the spent pistol, and the acrid scent of gunpowder filled Justin’s nostrils.
He swallowed, trying to clear his head. He looked over at Evelyn. She was staring at him like he had grown two heads. Well, one could argue that he had. She tugged together her tattered clothing and heaved herself off the green couch, heading for the door.
“Evelyn! Don’t go out there!” he screamed, and it sounded like an echoing whisper in his ears. He pushed himself up to follow, but she charged back inside in a thrice. Her chest was heaving, and her eyes were wide and frightened.
She ran past him and ripped open the door to the back storage room, peering frantically inside. He knew there was nothing useful in there, just some bizarre sketching and watercolors. He grabbed the whip off the floor where it had fallen and was about to go out to help Arolas when he saw the gun in the other fiend’s hand.
Despite the knife in his chest and the deathly hue to his skin, the man’s hand barely shook as he aimed it at Evelyn’s back from his perch on the floor. She turned, and her eyes widened even more.
“No!” Justin screamed, and threw himself forward. A thundering crack resounded for the second time in the small room. Pain seared his chest worse than the fire of God’s wrath. He crashed headfirst into the far bookcase, ramming his skull with a hammering jolt. The shelving tumbled down on top of him, and his last thought as the heavy bookcase crashed onto his body was, It’s not fair, I still had so much left to do.
Chapter 18
“I cannot even stand to look at the man’s face,” Evelyn cried, pounding her fist on the scratchy wooden tabletop. “There’s no way I’ll nurse the vile bastard back to health so he can try to kill us once again!”
“Justin Barclay took a bullet for you,” Angel countered.
Evelyn ran her hand through her tousled hair, realizing it had been days since she’d last had a bath. The frantic escape from London to this remote village in the country had not allowed time for grooming. “Perhaps it was another of his deceptions. The man seems a master at manipulation.” His betrayal still burned hot in her heart, making her quick to discount any decent thing he might have ever done, including save her life. “Or perhaps he has grown to care for you.”
“Harrumph! The man does not have a feeling bone in his body.” Just the thought of his lean muscular physique and how she had allowed him to touch her made her want to spit nails.
Angel’s handsome features hardened as he rose from the wooden stool. “We’ve been over this before, Evelyn. We took him along with us because he is our most critical source of information. I’d bet my last farthing he knows who’s behind the scheme against you, who may have killed your father.”
“It’s not worth learning any possible information he may know. I cannot do anything about Papa now, and claiming my inheritance is just not that important.” She crossed her arms. “Mr. Tuttle can chase after my legacy, on the unlikely chance that I can still claim what is rightfully mine. Once it is safe to travel, I intend to be handily out of the British government’s reach.”
“What about Sully?”
She swallowed.
He pressed, “Sullivan has disappeared from New-gate, last seen being herded out by six guards. No one knows where he is, or even if he is alive.”
She ignored the searing pain tearing at her heart. Sully had to be alive. She did not think she could handle another loss. She rubbed her hand over her eyes to keep the unshed tears from spilling free. This was a nightmare, but all too real. She shuddered and took a deep breath, knowing she would do anything to save Sully.
“I will find out what he knows,” she stated flatly.
Angel stared at her hard, his chocolate brown eyes narrowing. “Take good care of him, Evelyn. Although he is somehow involved in the government plot, he is still a marquis and an earl and he has no heirs in his line. He can be very valuable to us, if the need arises.”
“Sully is worth fifty of him.”
“Perhaps to you, but not to the English.”
The specter of her father lying dead in her arms flashed through her mind. She shuddered, pushing away the thought. “I’ve never tended someone with a gunshot injury. Perhaps we can retain the doctor’s assistant or someone from the village to care for him.”
“The doctor removed the bullet; you just need to keep the wound clean and the fever away. Moreover, we need to keep as low a profile as possible. You need to be the person hearing his tales, no one else.” Evelyn recognized the tight, resolved look on Angel’s handsome face. His mind was set. Besides, he was right; although she would hate every minute of it, she was best suited for the job.
Sighing, she looked around the spartan kitchen that would be her home for the foreseeable future. “Very well. Shah and I will tend to him.”
“Remember, the doctor seemed equally concerned about the head injury.” He donned his long black cloak and black hat. “The caretaker is paid through the e
nd of the month. He and his wife will leave provisions every other day by the end of the lane. They have no interest in coming closer.”
“What did you tell them?”
He smiled, but it was not a jovial thing. “They are good Christians who’ve fallen on hard times. They need the money but do not want to know about the sin transpiring in their cottage.”
She grimaced. “The only sin transpiring here will be me drawing out the knave’s toenails if he does not tell me what I need to know.”
Angel leaned forward and kissed her on each cheek. “Take care, Evelyn.”
She laid her hand on his arm. “Angel?”
He paused, then squeezed her hand. “I know, caro. I know.”
She pressed her lips together to keep from crying. She nodded stiffly. “Thank your father for me as well.”
“He would like the men who murdered your father to see justice, as much as I would, perhaps more.”
“I fear I’ve given up on justice. I just want Sully safe.”
He strode toward the door and opened it wide. The cool country air drifted in. An owl hooted in the distance.
Angel paused in the threshold and turned. “Remember, Evelyn, the marquis is the key to unraveling at least part of this mystery and may prove to be our final gambit. He might even turn out to be an ally, in the end.”
She shivered. “He has no honor; no matter the odds against us, we are better off without him on our side.”
“It seems we could use all the help we can get.” He stepped through the doorway into the cold black night and slammed the door closed behind him.
Evelyn rose from the rickety chair and barred the entry. She leaned back against the rough wood grain and wrapped her arms around each other, hoping to fortify herself for the task ahead.
No use putting off the inevitable. She pushed away from the door and strode to the adjacent room.