Page 95 of A Rogue at Stonecliffe

Asquith stepped forward, plucked the confession from her hand, and began to read.

Annabeth watched him, frowning. Sloane had told her that he and Asquith didn’t know about the race. She was positive that Sloane hadn’t known; his surprise had been too real. But apparently Asquith had known and simply hadn’t told him. Sloane had said Asquith collected secrets, knew things about a large number of people. So it probably wasn’t surprising that he’d discovered her father’s secret.

But how had he done it? Who could have told Asquith about the race? Only the two men involved knew what had happened. Asquith wasn’t a friend of her father’s; Papa wouldn’t have let it slip during an evening of drinking with him. Of course, the French had learned of it somehow and used it against her father, but it seemed implausible that her father or Russell would have let it slip to both the French and English spies.

Asquith nodded and looked up. “Good.” His face was stamped with satisfaction. Or perhaps relief. Or both.

In that moment, looking into Asquith’s eyes, she knew. It was Asquith. There was no turncoat in his organization. Rather, the turncoat was Asquith himself.

“Well,” he said as he folded up the paper. “Now we can go on to question this suspect of yours. Who did you say it was?” He started to slip the folded paper inside his jacket, but Annabeth snatched it from his hands.

“I didn’t say.” She shoved the paper into her pocket. She wasn’t going anywhere with Asquith.

“We can talk to him and then, I think, we should look again at that desk you mentioned,” he said affably.

“It’s very kind of you, but that is too much to ask. I’m sure you have many other things you need to do.” People to kill, countries to betray.

“No, no, it’s not a problem at all,” he assured her. “It would be my pleasure. Come, get your bonnet and let’s go.”

He reached out to take her arm, but she slid sideways to avoid him. “No, I’ve realized I should wait for Sloane. I should talk it over with him.”

“Nonsense.” Asquith’s jaw tightened but he kept his jovial tone. “I promise you, I am better at this sort of thing than Sloane.”

“I fear I feel a headache coming on,” Annabeth lied. She didn’t need any acting skills to look sick. “I should go upstairs and lie down to ward it off.”

Asquith’s eyes narrowed, and the amiability dropped from his face. She was certain he’d realized she had figured out his secret. In a hard voice, he said, “I insist.”

“No. I have changed my mind. I’m staying here.”

She turned away, but before she could take two steps, his hand wrapped around her arm like iron and he jerked her to a halt. Annabeth twisted to face him, trying with all her strength to pull her arm from his grasp.

Then she saw the small pistol in his other hand, leveled at her. “You’re coming with me.”

CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

SLOANE SAT AT his desk, writing. He had arisen far too early to make a call at Lady Lockwood’s house, and he should give Annabeth some time to cool down...although he had the feeling that she would probably avoid him like the plague no matter how much time she had. His stomach tightened. Well, that was something he’d brought upon himself, and he’d find some way to deal with it. He was good at getting in where people didn’t want him to go.

To pass the time, he had gone to his study to work. He needed to get these business matters out of the way, anyway. But he had worked only an hour when Antoine entered and said in his very un-butler-like way, “There’s a man here to see you, boss. Fancy sort like your father.”

Sloane’s brows went up. “Like my father?”

“Yeah. Says his name is Russell some-English-name-I-can’t-pronounce.”

“Feringham?” What the devil was he doing here? Sloane felt a momentary quiver of doubt—had he been wrong to believe Feringham yesterday? He slid out the shallow middle drawer of his desk a fraction and casually rested his hand on the pistol inside. “Send him in.”

Antoine disappeared, and a few moments later Russell came in the door, his manner tentative. Sloane took his hand off the pistol. If this was a man about to assassinate him, he probably deserved to be shot for being so clueless. “Feringham. Have a seat.” He nodded toward the chair in front of his desk.

“This is probably nothing,” Feringham began. “I hated to bother you, but... I had a good deal of trouble sleeping last night. I kept thinking about poor Hunter. And, anyway, I remembered this thing he gave me.”

Sloane straightened. “What thing?”

“I can’t see how it’s important. But after you and Annabeth said that someone had killed Hunter, I thought about what you asked. Did I see anyone at Hunter’s and was he acting oddly and all that. And I remembered that note.”

“What note?”

“It was what Hunter said when he gave it to me that was odd. He said I should keep it, because it was protection. Or it would protect me or something like that. He said I was the person he trusted. I really can’t remember his exact words. It was the same time he told me he was going to confess, you see, and that’s what I was thinking about.”

“Show me the note.” Sloane stood up, leaning over the desk. “Did you bring it?”