Page 61 of When a Rogue Falls

“This came for you a short time ago, Mister Jones,” said Adan.

Gus took the letter and quickly examined it. The corners were creased and there were a number of grubby marks on the front. Dirty fingerprints told the tale of the note having passed through many pairs of hands before finally reaching him.

“Thank you,” he said.

He turned the letter over, and the image of a griffin on the seal had him quickly dismissing Monsale’s steward.

It’s from Château-de-La-Roche. Please don’t let it be bad news.

Gus cracked the seal and unfolded the paper. In his mind, he quickly translated the French in which it had originally been written.

Dear Augustus,

If you are reading this letter, then you are not dead.

Things have gone from bad to worse since you left.

My uncle has gathered a large store of weapons at the château.

He means to go to war with the Lamballe gang and will not listen to me.

Please do not return to Saint-Brieuc—it is no longer safe.

Evangeline

This was the worst possible news. Armand La Roche was a gentleman farmer not a warrior. The villains he was intending to go up against were all battle-hardened former soldiers. Men who had seen years of tough fighting under Napoleon.

“He doesn’t stand a chance.”

Gus glanced at the blanket which covered his knees. His wound was mostly healed, with only muscle tenderness still giving him any real trouble.

The truth was, he had remained at Monsale House because he couldn’t think of anything better to do. He had steadfastly refused Stephen’s repeated pleas for them to discuss the future of the smuggling operation. Even Monsale’s efforts had been rebuffed.

Who knew that a duke could pout when he didn’t get his own way?

Just because the rest of the rogues of the road were one by one retiring from a life of crime, didn’t mean he had to follow suit.

“Besides, what else would I do?”

Peeling the blanket off, he got to his feet. He read Evangeline’s note once more and made a decision.

“I can’t just sit here and smell the bloody roses.”

It was time he went home, made his apologies to his parents for his shoddy treatment of them, and packed.

He had heard the siren call. His friends needed him. TheNight Windwould once more sail to France.

Augustus Trajan Jones was going to war.