Webb read in silence, his jaw working. When he finished, he looked up, and Oliver saw the same cold calculation in his eyes that had made him such an effective soldier.
“When do we leave?”
“Tomorrow. I need time to arrange affairs here to make it look like ordinary business. We’ll travel as surveyors. I’ll use a false name. You’ll be my assistant.”
“Weapons?”
“Everything we can carry without drawing attention. Pistols, knives. I’ll have my saber from the war. We’re not going to Wales to negotiate.”
Webb nodded slowly. “This woman, Megan. You mean to take her?”
“Yes.”
“And if she doesn’t want to come?”
Oliver’s smile was cold. “Then I’ll explain that her choices are limited to accompanying me or remaining Penharrow’s prisoner. I suspect she’ll see reason.”
“And if Penharrow comes after us?”
“I want him to.” Oliver leaned back in his chair, his fingers steepled. “In fact, I’m counting on it. James said the man is untouchable through legal means beyond the English borders. But if we lure him back to England, we can charge him through the magistrates here. You know my pull in the home office.”
Webb stood, squaring his shoulders. “Then I’m with you. James was a good officer. A good man. He deserves better than an unmarked grave and a lie.”
Oliver rose as well, extending his hand. Webb took it, and they shook. Not as master and servant, but as soldiers preparing for war.
“We leave tomorrow before my uncle ascertains my plans,” Oliver said. “Tell no one where we’re going. If anyone asks, we’re inspecting property in the north near our estate in Shropshire. It borders Wales so it won’t raise suspicions.”
“Understood.” Webb moved toward the door, then paused. “My lord? What will you do if we find evidence of worse crimes? James mentioned trafficking.”
Oliver’s expression went very still. “Then I’ll bring his criminal empire down around his ears.”
When Webb left, Oliver returned to his desk and pulled out fresh paper and ink. He had carefully worded missives to write to his steward, his solicitor, his banker. Also to his mistress, the beautiful young widow, Lady Helen Frankton. This was a good reason to break off the arrangement. The young woman was beginning to see a future as his wife, and he wasn’t sure she was the woman he could spend his life with. Mainly because his uncle liked her, and he was sure she fed his uncle reports on him.
The letter to Helen would be tricky as she was likely to run to his uncle and everything needed to appear normal, routine. No one could suspect that the Marquess of Astor was about to disappear into Wales on a mission of vengeance.
As he wrote, his mind kept returning to that one line in James’s letter.
If you can do nothing else, free her.
Oliver would free her. But first, he would use her to destroy the man who had murdered his closest friend. It wasn’t honorable, perhaps. It certainly wasn’t gentlemanly.
But then, Oliver had left his gentility on the battlefields of Spain, along with his innocence and any illusions about the nobility of mankind.
All he had left was his word, his sword, and his rage.
CHAPTER 2
Wales – 5 days later
The village of Llandrindod Wells sat in a valley between two mountains, a collection of stone houses huddled around a church and a tavern like sheep seeking shelter from a storm. Oliver and Webb arrived on the fifth day of their journey, mud-splattered and weary, as the sun began its descent behind the western peaks.
The tavern—The Red Dragon, according to a weathered sign that creaked in the wind—was the largest building in the village after the church. Oliver pushed open the door to find a low-ceilinged room thick with pipe smoke and the smell of ale. Conversation stuttered as they entered, then resumed at a lower volume, the locals eyeing them warily.
Oliver chose a table near the fire, close enough for warmth but positioned so he could see the door. Old habits from the war. Webb settled across from him, his back to the wall, his eyes already cataloging the room’s occupants.
A young serving girl approached, perhaps sixteen years, with dark hair and downcast eyes. Oliver ordered two ales and a meal in his careful Welsh which couldn’t hide his Englishness,watching her reaction. She nodded without speaking and scurried away.
“We’re five miles from Penharrow’s hunting lodge,” Webb said quietly in English, hoping no one here would understand. “According to the innkeeper’s wife two villages back, this is the nearest settlement. His servants come here for supplies.”
