The solicitor’s letter was a polite fiction. But the second letter—the one that had arrived three days ago, before news of James’s death had reached London—that letter told the truth.
Oliver reached into his coat pocket and withdrew it carefully, as though it were made of glass. The paper was cheap, water-stained, the handwriting shaky but unmistakably James’s. Oliver had received hundreds of letters in that hand over the years, from Eton to Cambridge to the blood-soaked battlefields of Spain. He knew every loop and flourish.
This was James’s last letter. Written in his final hours.
Oliver,
If you’re reading this, I’m dead. I’ve arranged for this to reach you through channels Penharrow won’t think to intercept. Forgive the dramatics, old friend, but I haven’t much time and there’s much you need to know.
The Earl of Penharrow murdered me. I have no proof that would stand in court, but I know it as surely as I know my own name. I witnessed something I shouldn’t have—a gambling debt being collected through violence that left a man crippled. When Penharrow realized I’d seen, he invited me to his hunting lodge to “discuss terms.” I was a fool to go alone, but I hoped my rank may have protected me. If you’re reading this, I was wrong.
He won’t make it look like murder. Too many questions. An accident, probably. The Welsh countryside is treacherous, after all.
Oliver, I need you to promise me that you will not seek legal justice. Penharrow owns every magistrate within one-hundred miles of his Welsh estates. He’s untouchable through proper channels. But there’s a woman, Megan. Penharrow keeps her at his hunting lodge, guarded like a prisoner. She may be the only witness to his crimes, but more than that, old friend, she is a prisoner. If you can do nothing else, free her.
I wish I had more time to explain, but they’re coming. I suspect I’ll not leave Wales alive. Know that your friendship has been one of the great honors of my life. If there’s an afterlife, I’ll see you there for brandy and cards.
Yours, James
Oliver had readthe letter so many times in the past three days that he’d memorized every word, every desperate scratch of the pen. He’d read it in his study, in his carriage, in the sleeplesshours before dawn. He’d read it until the words blurred and his hands shook with a rage so profound it felt like a living thing coiled in his chest.
He’d been readying himself to head to Wales when the second letter arrived today.
James had known he was going to die. Had known and had used his final moments to write this letter, to ensure that Oliver would know the truth.
And Oliver would ensure that truth mattered.
He folded both letters carefully and tucked them into his coat. Without a word to anyone, he strode from the reading room, collected his hat and gloves from the porter, and descended the steps of White’s into the rain-soaked street. His carriage waited at the curb; the driver huddled miserably on his seat.
“Home,” Oliver ordered, climbing inside without assistance.
The rain had intensified by the time Oliver’s carriage rattled through the streets of Mayfair toward Berkeley Square. He’d felt alone most of his life. His parents died when he was a boy and his uncle, the Duke of Saxton, had only daughters. James had filled a huge void in his life and was the brother he’d never had.
He watched the oil lamps blur past through the water-streaked windows, his mind already moving through the logistics of what came next. Wales was a three-day journey in good weather. In November, with the roads beginning to be mired in winter mud, it could take twice that. He would need to travel light, bring only the essentials, and move quickly.
Most importantly, he would need to move quietly.
The carriage pulled to a halt before his townhouse—an elegant four-story structure in Berkeley Square that had belonged to the Saxton family for generations. A present from his uncle once Oliver had come of age. He ascended without waiting for the footman, taking the steps two at a time.
He’d barely crossed the threshold when his butler materialized from the shadows of the entrance hall.
“My lord.” Hastings took Oliver’s wet coat with the careful deference of a man who’d served the Saxton family for three decades. “I trust your evening at the club was satisfactory?”
“Send word to my valet,” Oliver said, ignoring the question. “Tell Morrison to pack for travel. I’ll be leaving London tomorrow.”
Hastings’s expression didn’t change, but Oliver caught the slight widening of the man’s eyes. “May I ask the destination, my lord?”
“Wales.”
“Ah.” A pause. “Shall I inform His Grace?”
Oliver’s lip curled slightly. His uncle, the Duke of Saxton, was in residence at the family’s country estate near Shrewsbury, no doubt wondering why his heir apparent spent so much time in London instead of attending to his duties. The old man would have opinions about a sudden trip to Wales. He had opinions about everything Oliver did.
“No,” Oliver said. “I’ll write to him myself.”
It was a lie, of course. He had no intention of informing his uncle of anything. By the time the duke learned of this journey, it would be far too late to stop it.
“Very good, my lord. Will you be dining in this evening?”
