Page 56 of The Duke’s Suspicion

“Whitby told you of his suspicions.” She leaped to her feet and both he and Remington moved to follow, but she waved them down even as she paced. “You…you believed my journal contained secret information and went to my chamber to find it. Its contents confirmed your hunch.” She paused to look between them, never quite making eye contact. “Spread that story among the guests—Remington must do the same for the staff.”

“How does that help?” Tristan asked. “The real villain will know we’ve got it wrong.”

“Exactly.”

“He—or she—will relax,” Remington explained with a nod of understanding and the beginnings of a grin. “Feel secure. Make mistakes. And you needn’t worry about tipping your hand in the process,” he added. “I daresay no one will be surprised to learn that a high-ranking officer is possessed of privileged information—how privileged need never enter into it.”

“Yes,” agreed Erica. “You’ll simply explain that you’ve…” She tapped a finger against her lip as she considered. “Oh, I know. You’ve left a sensitive document lying about, hoping to catch me red-handed.”

“And hope the real spy takes the bait,” Tristan finished, catching up with her thoughts at last. It wasn’t a terrible plan. But it was the sort of plan over which he’d have very little control, and that unsettled him. “Absolutely not.”

This was not one of the occasions on which Erica crumpled when she met resistance, however. Piercing him with the gem-like intensity of her gaze, she strode forward until she stood before him. “It will work.”

“I won’t do anything to put you in danger—greater danger,” he corrected, seeing her poised to remind him that no one at Hawesdale was entirely safe.

“You won’t be. It will only be confirming their suspicions. Telling people what they expect to hear.” Despite the tilt of her chin, the gleam in her eyes, he could see the soft, vulnerable place at her core. The place in which she believed that all those critics and all those skeptics might not be entirely wrong about her.

He wanted to fold her into his arms, to be the shield she needed when her own grew thin or weak. And to draw her tight against him because then she would be too close for him to see into her soul. This beautiful, terrifying transparency that he could never have imagined—this, this was what it meant to look on another person with the eyes of love. It frightened him as nothing ever had. And he could not look away.

He rose to his feet, but he did not step closer. Because she was watching him, and he could tell from the catch in her breath, the slight widening of her eyes, that she had seen it too.

His heart thudded out its alarm at discovering its unexpected vulnerability. His head, meanwhile, was cataloging the dangers—to her most of all. But there were others. Despite Remington’s assurances, would uncovering the guilty party compromise his identity as an agent? A true villain, caught in the act, might be desperate enough to expose Tristan for what he really was—a fellow spy.

How much was he willing to risk?

Everything. Because he knew that all Erica had ever really wanted was someone who believed in her. Someone who loved her just as she was.

“It’s brilliant,” he said and nodded his acquiescence to her scheme.

Bright spots of color appeared in her cheeks, and her lips curved into a smile he had only begun to learn. But in that moment he knew he would fight for the chance to put that expression on her face again. And again. And again.

Remington cleared his throat as he stood. “I’d say it’s a sound plan. I’ll set about spreading the word.”

“And you can begin by forging a suitably interesting document,” Erica said to Tristan before excusing herself with a curtsy. Remington wavered for a moment, loitering on the point of saying something more, before nodding to Tristan and following her out the door.

The mantel clock chimed eight. An hour or perhaps two until he could expect to find the others at breakfast and begin to sow the seeds of Erica’s misdirection plot. But time enough to begin the document she’d asked him to create.

Not that he needed to fabricate such a document. He could doubtless find something that would suffice among his papers. Nevertheless, he seated himself at the secretary, remembering as he did so the sight of Erica in her dressing gown examining the antique desk, looking for her journal. How much had changed since that moment. And how little.

A private smile lifted his lips. He dipped a pen and set its tip to a blank sheet of foolscap, knowing exactly the letter he needed to write. Not to catch a spy. To catch Erica.

* * * *

When he entered the breakfast room, he found it unoccupied except for Caroline and a footman, who slipped out a side door when Tristan nodded his dismissal.

“Good morning, Miss Pilkington,” he said and bowed. She looked cool and elegant in a blue morning gown, her smooth brown hair carefully arranged. Still, it was clear she must have passed a largely sleepless night. The shadows beneath her eyes, the lines of exhaustion on her face, could not hide from the morning sun. “May I enquire after your mother? Is she improved?”

“How thoughtful of you to be concerned,” she said, rising only to curtsy. “She is resting comfortably. I believe the worst has passed.”

“I am glad to hear it.” He glanced past her at the window and back again. “Perhaps the improvement in the weather will give her some reprieve.”

Caroline nodded, though a hint of skepticism flashed through her eyes. “One may hope.” She returned to her place, a half-empty plate before her and a coffee cup that had already been drained. “She’s suffered from these headaches as long as I can remember, but sadly, her condition has been severe and worsening since the spring, in fair skies or foul.”

“To what does her physician attribute such a change?”

“Papa—” She pressed her lips together and swallowed, as if she wished to take back the word. “Mama has not consulted one.”

Tristan wrinkled his brow but said nothing. Why hadn’t Pilkington insisted that his wife be seen by a competent medical man?