Helene's silky voice flared through him. She was wrong. Passion ungoverned had turned France into ashes and blood. She was too young. She had no idea how dangerous it was to stir fire without knowing how to bank it. Perhaps he should teach her.
His way.
Images treacled inside his mind, slow and hot—her flushed skin beneath his hands, her breath caught on his name, the delicious tremble of surrender. A lesson in control.
His pulse drummed against the collar of his shirt. It took every ounce of willpower to remain seated, to pretend to care about Farley when the only thing he wanted was— No. He flexed his fingers. Exhaled through his nose. Forced his attention back to the conversation. This was dangerous. The newspaper was real. The war was real. His desires were not.
He flexed his hands beneath the table, the tension locked in his knuckles.
She needed to sign the contract. Ink on paper would cage this chaos. Until then, he'd walk the wire between duty and madness.
Thornley stabbed his finger onThe Clarion. "The vote for raising the military budget will go to the Parliament floor at the end of the season. Without the extra funds, the Peninsula Campaign will flounder."
"We'll sue him for libel," William declared. "The prospect of spending time in prison should curb his invectives."
Rodrick laughed, leaning back in the chair.
William narrowed his eyes. "I was not aware this was a joke."
"Have you met Farley?" Rodrick drawled. "Strange chap. Fancies himself a martyr. If you arrest him, his popularity will soar. He'll keep writing from prison and thank us for the extra publicity."
He pushed the periodical toward William. William stopped it with a flat palm before it hit his chest.
Of course, Rodrick would know the writer. His web of spies reached into every crack of society. Information was his currency, chaos his preferred medium.
William's jaw tensed. "What do you suggest?"
Rodrick studied his nails. "I'll send a few men to remind him of his mortality. A whisper in the dark. A shadow at his door. Writers are anxious creatures—it won't take much to convince him that ink and blood spill the same way."
"Physical coercion?" William leaned forward, the air between them taut. "How does that serve the country? If our duty is to guard against civil unrest, we cannot descend to the level of lawless barbarians. We don't fight fire with fire—we deprive it of oxygen."
Rodrick cocked his head. "Moral duty. Is that what we call it now—what we do in this dust-choked room?"
"I call it order," William replied, voice even but steeled. "And yes, I believe in it. Because without it, there's only appetite. Mob rule. Men ruled by impulse instead of reason."
Rodrick gave a low whistle. "The Duke of Albemarle—fortress of virtue." He leaned back in his chair, voice going soft, almost fond. "Funny thing about virtue—it makes a man more dangerous than any criminal. At least criminals know they're up to no good. Take Robespierre. Lawyer. Idealist. Defender of the people. Then, one morning, he decided to execute poets, priests, and children. All in the name of what he thought was good."
William stiffened.
Trust Rodrick to twist every truth into a snare. His motives might be as murky as the Thames at midnight, but William's were not. He fought to preserve England because he knew what happened when men cast off restraint—they tore apart nations.
"If the axe starts swinging," William said quietly, "I know I won't be the one holding the handle."
Rodrick's grin spread like ink in water. "I can always teach you how to wield it."
Thornley lifted his hands placatingly. "Gentlemen, we should cool the animal spirits, eh? Viscount Montfort's methods are hardly orthodox, but I must agree with him. The matter at hand requires expedience. In the time it takes to lock Farley behind bars, we might lose the war, and Napoleon would dance all over the continent."
William eyed his self-proclaimed mentor. "Are you condoning violence?"
Gasping, Thornley shook his head. "William, really, I—"
"Then it is settled. A lawyer will pay a visit to Mr. Farley in the morning."
A chair scraped against the floor as Thornley departed.
The tension in William's chest coiled tighter. His eyes flicked to the clock—five forty-five. He gathered his papers, ready to leave.
Rodrick stepped into his path.
