Page 44 of The Duke’s Suspicion

“No need to be coy. We’re all anglers in the same boat, here.”

“I don’t—”

“Did you reel him in last night?” He spoke over her, shaking his head, her protests unheard. “A few moments, or an hour, in the darkness—surely you had enough time. Women have ways of making men talk…even the famously tight-lipped Major Laurens, I’ll wager.” His expression was just shy of a leer.

Although her brain had been primed by a constant stream of disjointed disorder, Erica could make little sense of his rambling speech. “What is it you believe I’ve done? Of what are you accusing me, sir?”

“It’s really too bad you’re on the wrong side,” he said with another mournful shake of his head. “I’ve met your brothers in arms, you know. In Paris. A sharp set of fellows, the United Irishmen. Principled, after their way. But none quite as savvy as you…”

Paris. The United Irishmen. Various leaders of the cause had been forced to flee to France. But what had taken the captain into the path of those men? Suddenly she remembered the day of her arrival. Whitby’s story about the suspicious poets. Could he be some sort of spy himself? An agent of the British crown?

“The scream was an inspired touch,” he continued, sounding reluctantly impressed. “At first I wondered why you’d done it. But what defense could he offer, in the face of all those people? And as for you…well, you got just what you came for. Now when you slip away from Hawesdale, everyone will imagine they know why.” His slightly unfocused gaze traveled leisurely down her arm, coming to rest once more on her journal. “What’s next, Miss Burke? Oh, how I’d like to know what you’ve got up your sleeve…”

A chill slithered across her skin, following the same path as his eyes. We’re all anglers in the same boat, he’d said. “Are you saying you believe me to be—? That the Duke of Raynham is a—?” No. Not the Duke of Raynham. He’d called him Major Laurens. The officer. The hero. The…

“Shhh…” Whitby lifted one finger to her lips while stifling his own laugh.

She leaped up, journal in hand. “You’re drunk, Captain Whitby. I’m not sure you ought to be telling me all this. And I’m quite sure we shouldn’t be here alone.”

He rose too, steadier on his feet than she expected, and leaned closer. Too close. The stench of liquor overwhelmed every other scent—as if he’d splashed more of it on his clothes than he’d tossed down his throat. Perhaps his drunkenness was an act, an attempt to get her to say something she’d regret, something she hoped he’d forget? But his pale eyes glittered menacingly, and she guessed he’d swallowed a fair share of the brandy too.

“Frightened?” he whispered. “Don’t be. We’re not really alone.” His eyes darted about before coming to rest on her face once more. “This is the proverbial glass house. Any fool should know that someone’s always watching.”

Ordinarily, she would have looked around her, but instinct told her not to take her eyes off him. Perhaps Mr. Sturgess would come in. Or servants in the kitchen would hear if she—

His bitter laugh sent another puff of brandy-scented breath into her face. “I wouldn’t advise screaming. You’ve used that gambit once, and I don’t believe a lady can claim she’s been compromised twice.”

Oh, what did he want from her? A plea rose in her throat, but she could not shape it into words.

While they had been speaking, the room had been growing steadily dimmer. Whitby glanced upward, and lines of smug satisfaction settled over his face. “You might have got what you came for, Miss Burke. But it doesn’t look like you’ll get away with it, after all.”

With those words, he turned and left as he’d come, each step a shade more deliberate than a sober man’s would have been. Just as the door latched behind him, a rumble of thunder rattled the room from floor to ceiling. So that was what he’d meant about not getting away. Rain once more lashed against the glass, and she shuddered as if struck.

But her reasons for wanting to be able to leave Hawesdale were not at all what Captain Whitby had insinuated. Was the man mad? She, a spy?

The surrounding greenery absorbed her nervous laughter. She’d heard people call her elder sister a patriot, not always meaning the term as a compliment. And her brothers, of course…along with Henry… Well, if Whitby suspected their connection to the United Irishmen, their involvement in the uprising last May, he was not wrong. But how her whole family would laugh if they ever heard anyone suggest she might be a spy. Spies were clever and secretive, while she was famously flighty. Why, forgetting her journal was what had landed her in this mess to begin with, and—

The book tumbled from her suddenly nerveless grasp and landed at her feet, the soft whap of leather against stone lost to the tattoo of rain on the roof. Captain Whitby believed she was a spy because…because Tristan believed she was a spy. Or vice versa. Either way, they had convinced themselves that she’d been gathering secrets at Hawesdale. Military secrets. Diplomatic secrets. And recording them in her journal.

Her pulse hammered in her breast, her ears, her…finger? Raising it to her eyes, she watched a perfect, tiny globe of blood form. A page of her journal must have cut her in passing. Salt and a faintly metallic tang greeted her tongue when she pressed the wounded fingertip to her lips, an unwelcome reminder of Whitby’s touch, a macabre mockery of the last kiss she’d experienced in this room.

Every look Tristan had given her, every word he’d spoken…their encounters spun across her memory like the distorted scenes cast against the wall by a child’s magic lantern. Always, at the back of his mind, he’d been thinking of her as a spy. As the enemy.

He’d even proposed marriage. More laughter bubbled to her lips—decidedly manic, this time—but made no escape. Was there no limit to how far he’d go to get what he wanted? To uncover every secret she kept? Even the priceless gift of these hours in the conservatory…

Any fool should know that someone’s always watching.

Mr. Sturgess, the duchess, even Viviane… Feeling suddenly exposed, she scrambled for shelter, stumbling toward the door, no more steady on her feet than Whitby had been. No, she’d tripped. Tripped over her journal, which lay abandoned on the damp flagstone where it had slipped from her grasp. Once, the mere sight of its worn leather cover had been calming, the doorway to a place where her weary mind might find respite. But now…?

She turned back, resisted the impulse to kick it away, snatched it up instead. Heat flared through her arm, the same pulse of energy that had laid low the nosy soldier in the pub. So Tristan wanted to know what was inside her journal? Inside her? Very well.

After shoving aside a spiky Agave americana to clear a space at the nearest table, she sat down, found the pencil stub, flipped to an empty page, and began to write.

* * * *

The gentlemen dined alone—all but Whitby, who was nowhere to be found.

Neither, as it happened, was Erica.