Page 19 of The Duke’s Suspicion

With one fingertip, Tristan traced the rim of his glass. “Of course.” Whitby knew something of regret. Restlessness. The loss of honor—though through no fault of his own. “So you were sent—or came—to Hawesdale to investigate.”

“An agent intercepted a letter about a month ago, making mention of your return and the possibility that valuable information could be acquired at Hawesdale thereafter. Neither the sender nor the intended recipient have been identified. When I arrived in the country I hoped to be able to nose around without rousing suspicions, talk with your servants, anyone who might have access to your papers or other possessions. Instead I found a houseful of guests, all invited by the duchess to welcome you home, it seems. And all with a little something to hide.”

In his mind’s eye, Tristan scanned the length of the dining room table, reviewing the assembled guests. “Surely neither the Lydgates nor the Newsomes can be serious subjects of investigation.”

It was Whitby’s turn to shrug. “Did you know that Mr. Newsome’s youngest brother was a naval officer aboard a ship that went down? Rumor has it there are survivors being held in a French prison.”

And probably wishing they had drowned, Tristan thought, as he glanced toward the window and watched rain streak down the glass. But he could not deny that the vicar might have come to Hawesdale hoping to uncover information about his brother’s whereabouts.

“And Beresford?” Though it would be a stretch to describe the man as an enemy, Tristan found himself hoping his stepmother had not been taken in by the youngish widower’s oily charm. A lecher, almost certainly. But a spy?

“Been muttering about bad investments and dashing off notes of hand for his losses at the billiards table,” Whitby told him.

Tristan nodded. A man desperate for money might do anything to save himself, even commit treason. “What about the Pilkingtons?” He had too much experience to dismiss them out of hand. Did Whitby’s suspicions lie behind Guin’s halfhearted endorsement of the proposed match between him and Caroline?

Whitby laughed. “Nothing beyond the fact that the young lady prefers her gowns in the Directoire style, which Mrs. Newsome has hinted may mean she is a republican of easy virtue.”

Tristan mustered a smile and lifted his glass to his lips. “Have you learned anything else?”

Whitby shook his head, but only after the slightest hesitation. Someone unaccustomed to reading behavior or looking for clues would never have noted it.

“Captain…” The warning note in Tristan’s voice was unmistakable.

Still, Whitby weighed his words before continuing. “I wonder how much you know about that firebrand you rescued.”

“Miss Burke? But how could she be involved? She arrived in Westmorland only today.”

“Are you certain?”

The simple, quiet question struck him with the force of a blow. Despite his experience in the field, he’d committed two grave errors in the space of a day. He’d let down his guard. And he’d trusted another person to tell the truth.

With exaggerated care, he returned his glass to the table. “So she was not accompanying her sister the novelist on her wedding trip to the Lakes.”

“She might very well be. But it’s not a connection to ease suspicions. Her sister’s work has undeniably seditious implications.”

“Published before the rebellion?”

“After. But written earlier, as her publisher confirms. And the man she married—”

“Ashborough?” He’d persuaded himself the name and title were a fabrication, and his mind was unusually sluggish to grasp the facts of the case.

“Marquess of. But you might better know him as ‘Lord Ash.’” Tristan scoured his memory for the name but came up empty. “Notorious gambler and ne’er-do-well. Earlier this year he came very near to facing his peers over a little matter of treason,” Whitby continued. “And his uncle still insists Ashborough was in Dublin at the start of the rebellion, aiding and abetting the men who have since become his brothers.”

“His wife’s brothers, you mean.”

“Which is to say, your Miss Burke’s brothers. Suspected of involvement in the Society of United Irishmen.”

Along with the man she had planned to marry? Tristan’s lowered gaze caught the gleam of firelight across the brass buttons and gold trim of his uniform, and he recalled Erica’s expression as she’d spoken of the man. Had he been killed by British soldiers? Vengeance could be a powerful motivation for many things.

“But the uprising has been put down,” he insisted.

“Are we certain? The rebels have proved remarkably persistent. And twice now French forces have come to Ireland’s aid. Could a third effort be in the works?”

Tristan laughed dismissively. “I think I would know.”

“Exactly.” Whitby folded his arms across his chest. “But what might change if one of Britain’s best agents in France were suddenly discredited? Exposed? Removed from his post?”

Several of the foulest curses Tristan knew, in a variety of languages, sprang to his tongue. But he found himself reaching for the one whose pronunciation still eluded him. It’s blasphemous, you know. Those cognac-colored eyes, wide with concern for his very soul. Pretended concern?