Page 85 of Go, Rogue

Barclay sighs. “If you must know, there’s political pressure on the East India Company. Pressure that will be relieved in time—if no substantive proof of wrongdoing is produced. Substantive proof that you have locked in a steel box.”

“How do you know what’s in there? How do they?”

“Your betters know everything. It would be best if you didn’t forget it again. And do remember where the key is. I’ll have to keep you here until you do, and I’d really rather not.”

Barclay scrunches up his nose as if McGann’s death would be distasteful to him. Probably because his skeleton will be hard to do away with or because the smell might alert the neighbors. Not because he’ll have killed his own goddamned brother.

McGann watches Barclay’s face disappear and knows there’s no scenario where he’ll be left alive, even if he hands over the key right now. The idea is ludicrous.

The Company wants absolute assurance that the photograph is destroyed—and, he knows, absolute assurance that he is destroyed too. And his brother just wants the coin the contents of the box will provide for him. Once Barclay has that, there’s no reason he’ll keep him alive either.

McGann squeezes his eyes shut. He wishes he could think clearly. He wishes he knew who else wants that lockbox. He wishes he knew where Catherine is and that she is safe.

If wishes were horses, beggars would ride.

He wishes he knew what the hell that saying even means. He’s heard it his entire life and it occurs to him he’s no idea. He sighs and opens his eyes.

There’s only one course of action he can think of, and that is to remove himself with all possible haste from this root cellar. He just has to figure out how.

The injuries in his leg flare at just the thought of movement, but he ignores the pain and reaches out to feel the stone walls that surround him. They’re smooth—made of river rock, likely—and slick with moisture. The masonry that joins them is of good quality, too. Damnit. Evenly distributed, with few cracks or hard edges to act as footholds.

Where is shoddy stonework when a man needs it?

Not here.

It figures that even a duke’s root cellar would be made better than most people’s houses. But well-made as it is, he has no other choice but to try and scale the wall. He locates a small crack to wedge his fingers into and heaves his legs up to his middle, despite the searing pain the movement causes him. But he can find nowhere to land his feet on the smooth walls, slippery with the morning condensation. He falls back to the ground with a hard thud.

And then he gets up and tries again.

And again.

Each time, he climbs a little higher, only to crash harder when he falls.

Bloody. Fucking. Hell.

He sits down, exhausted and feverish, and eats the last of the moldy carrots. He casts a sideways glare at the parsnips. He’s not quite so low as to be made to eat parsnips. Not yet anyway.

But he will if he has to. He’ll do anything if he has to. Anything to escape this cellar. Anything to give Barclay the comeuppance the arsehole deserves. Anything to ensure Catherine is safe.

Anything.

Catherine wakes to tea, toast, and Mrs. Masters’s excited plans for a tour of the rose garden and a picnic.

“There are twenty-two varieties here,” she’s saying as Catherine takes a sip of tea in the brightly lit morning room. “Including the Victoria. Named after our queen, of course.”

“How wonderful,” Catherine replies, mustering as much enthusiasm for roses as she can. “Will Mr. Hawthorne be joining us for the picnic?”

Rogers has said he’ll come today and let her know what he’s found. His Mr. Hawthorne to her Miss Hope. It really is a wonder she’s managed to keep all the names straight, considering how distracted she is.

She’d wanted to tell him last night that Barclay is here, but she didn’t have his address to send a note. And she knows well enough that a spinster governess can’t just go around asking where bachelors might have taken their lodging.

Drat it all.

She wants to do something—anything—to help find Andrew. And she doubts a tour of the rose garden is the thing. But it’s what she has for the moment, so it’s what she’ll work with.

“Now that I’m settled properly,” Catherine goes on, “due to your largesse, of course, I’d like to express my gratitude to Mr. Hawthorne as well. For his assistance,” she adds hastily at the delighted look Mrs. Masters is shooting her way. She certainly doesn’t want the woman to get the wrong idea about that. She does not need her host to play matchmaker with her and Rogers, of all people.

“Not that I’m aware,” Mrs. Masters says. “Although, I don’t believe I know what Hawthorne had planned to do for the day. He is quite the enigmatic character, is he not?”