Page 95 of Go, Rogue

She knows who he is immediately because he looks something like Andrew. They share the same height and the same green eyes. But whereas Andrew’s eyes are emerald-colored and beautiful, an entryway into the unplumbed depths of his character, Barclay’s are empty and shallow. Too much like James’s. Too much like that man in the alleyway with the knife.

It really is true, she thinks, what eyes can tell you about a man’s soul.

“What is the meaning of this?” Barclay demands. “How dare you enter my home without my permission?” The last, while phrased as a question, is certainly not presented as such.

“Your Grace,” Catherine says, sinking into the curtsy she has been trained for her entire life. “Allow me to introduce myself. I’m Lady Catherine West, and I—”

“Elizabeth!” The man who must be Sir Cleveland, Elizabeth’s uncle, enters the drawing room a moment after the duke. “What in heaven’s name are you doing here?”

The duke turns to the governor-general, a short, rotund man that Catherine imagines would be rather jovial under other circumstances. “You know these miscreants?”

“Why—” Sir Cleveland sputters in the face of the duke’s outrage. “This is my niece.” He looks around the room, bewildered. “And the chief constable. Whatever is going on here?”

Catherine steps forward again. “We’re looking for a missing man, sir,” she says. “A member of the Home Office. And,” she pauses for effect, knowing what she’s about to say is a partial fabrication, but one she hopes will serve her purposes. “Your brother, Your Grace. I’m sure as his relation you’ll want to be as helpful as possible in our search for him.”

“Brother?” Barclay sneers. “I’ve no such thing. Now remove your persons from my property immediately. And do refrain from spreading your disreputable gossip about my household.”

“Disreputable gossip?” comes yet another voice, this one with the heavy Gaelic accent that she’ll never mistake for another again. “What in bloody hell do you mean by that?” Andrew limps into the room, followed by Rogers. She exhales in relief at the sight of them.

“I may be disreputable,” Andrew goes on, “but I’m your blood whether you like it or not.”

Catherine wants to rush to them, but she doesn’t. There’s too much tension crackling in the air—a storm on the verge of breaking—and it won’t help anyone to be caught in the middle of it.

“Mr. Hawthorne,” she says to Rogers. “It’s good to see you well. Other than the—” she touches her fingers to her eye where he sports a dark, plum-colored bruise.

“You are the missing Mr. Hawthorne, I presume?” the chief says. “If he is the gentleman we’re meant to be searching for, perhaps we ought to—”

“No,” Catherine cuts him off. She isn’t about to leave now, not when everyone is gathered together. Not when they can once and for all put this behind them. She turns back to Rogers and Andrew. “Tell them,” she says.

“Mrs. Masters,” Rogers acknowledges Elizabeth with a short bow. “And Sir Cleveland. Good to see you again.”

“Enough!” Barclay’s face and neck begin to turn red with rage. “I won’t have you people in my home a moment longer. You will leave at once!”

“Your Grace,” Sir Cleveland begins, but is interrupted when Rogers snaps, “That’s enough from you, Your Grace. I asked Captain McGann to accompany me here to take formal possession of the lockbox you stole.”

“Chief,” Barclay gestures to the assembled crowd. “Show them out.”

“Give us the lockbox, Barclay,” Rogers goes on, ignoring him. “By order of the queen. Believe me when I say her orders supersede yours by a long mile.”

“Constable! Do something!” Barclay is shaking now, sweat beginning to bead his forehead.

The chief turns to Rogers. “May I ask the nature of your orders?”

“You needn’t bother,” Sir Cleveland says. “He’s Home Office. Whatever his orders, they do come directly from the queen.”

“Then I’m sorry, Your Grace,” the chief says. “We’re duty bound to do as the Home Office directs.”