“I’ll have a tray in my study, thank you.” Oliver moved toward the stairs, then paused. “Hastings, send for Webb as well. Tell him I need to see him in my study immediately.”
“Of course, my lord.”
Oliver climbed the stairs to the second floor, his wet boots leaving dark prints on the Turkish runner. Inside, his household hummed with quiet activity, servants moving through their evening routines, the distant clatter of dishes from the kitchens below. To anyone observing, it was an ordinary Thursday evening in the Saxton townhouse.
No one would suspect that their master was planning a risky escapade.
Oliver entered his study and closed the door behind him, finally allowing the mask to slip. He stood in the darkness for a long moment, his hands clenched at his sides, the rage and grief warring within him with such intensity he thought he might shatter from it.
James was dead.
The words kept echoing in his mind, a litany he couldn’t escape. James, who had pulled him from beneath a dying horse at Salamanca. James, who had gotten drunk with him the night before Talavera and sworn that if they survived, they’d retire to the country and raise horses. James, who’d been the only person to write to him regularly during those dark months after his parents died, when Oliver was thirteen and suddenly alone, raised by an uncle who saw him only as the heir who must be properly molded now that his father was no longer alive to intervene in the old duke’s plans.
James, who had been more brother than friend.
Oliver moved to the sideboard and poured himself three fingers of whiskey, downing it in one swallow. The burn was welcome, grounding. He poured another, then carried it to his desk.
The desk was mahogany, massive, its surface covered with the correspondence and ledgers that came with being heir to a dukedom. Oliver swept it all aside with one arm, sending papers fluttering to the floor. Let Morrison sort it out. None of it mattered now.
Again, he pulled James’s letter from his pocket and spread it on the cleared surface, reading it by candlelight.
The Earl of Penharrow murdered me.
Oliver had never met Gareth Rhys, the Earl of Penharrow. He was at least ten-years older than him. He knew of him only by reputation; a Welsh peer who rarely came to London, whoran his estates with an iron fist and was rumored to be involved in less-than-legal enterprises. Smuggling, certainly. Slave trading probably. There were whispers of worse things, but whispers were all they were. Until now. Penharrow was wealthy enough and well-connected enough that the whispers never became accusations.
James had been investigating him. Why? The letter didn’t say. Perhaps it had started with that gambling debt, the violence James had witnessed. Perhaps it had spiraled from there. James had always had a strong sense of justice, a need to right wrongs that had made him an excellent officer and, Oliver thought bitterly, a terrible choice for a spy.
There’s a woman, Megan.
Oliver’s jaw tightened. A mistress kept prisoner. It wasn’t uncommon among certain types of men. Those who confused ownership with affection, who saw women as possessions to be locked away. James had thought her important enough to mention in his dying letter, had begged Oliver to free her.
If you can do nothing else, free her.
Oliver would do more than that. He would free her, yes. , but he would also use her. A witness to Penharrow’s crimes. Bait to draw out the Earl from behind his walls of wealth and influence. A tool for vengeance.
He should feel guilty about using an innocent woman as a weapon, but guilt was a luxury he couldn’t afford, not when James’s body was being buried in some Welsh churchyard, far from home, his death written off as an accident.
A knock at the door interrupted his thoughts.
“Enter.”
Thomas Webb stepped into the study, his posture military-straight despite having been a civilian since his return from Salamanca. Webb had been Oliver’s batman during the war, assigned to attend to an officer’s personal needs, but their relationship had evolved beyond that of master and servant intosomething closer to equals, forged in the crucible of battle. When Oliver returned to England, he’d brought Webb with him, installing him as head of household security, a position that gave the former sergeant enough prestige to satisfy society while allowing him to remain close.
“My lord? Hastings said you wanted to see me.”
Oliver gestured to the chair across from his desk. “Sit.”
Webb hesitated—old habits die hard—but complied. He was a compact man, built like a boxer, with graying hair and a face marked by powder burns and old scars. His hands, resting on his knees, bore the calluses of a man who knew his way around both sword and pistol.
“James Hartley is dead,” Oliver said without preamble.
Webb’s expression hardened. He’d known James, had served under him briefly before being reassigned to Oliver. “How?”
“Murdered. Made to look like a riding accident.”
“Bastards.” Webb’s voice was flat, emotionless, but Oliver saw the rage in his eyes. “Who?”
“James told me it was the Earl of Penharrow. A Welsh peer.” Oliver slid James’s letter across the desk. “Read.”
