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“The previous owners descended from a branch of the Chisolms,” Wardale began. “They were well liked for the most part, even though the first baron betrayed the Jacobins in exchange for more land and a title from the Crown. Robert Chisolm, the last baron, was typical of large landowners of his time. Kept things going along as best he could while making as few changes as possible. He married an heiress, which helped keep the castle from falling into too much disrepair, but they never had any children. She’s left for the Riviera, while his heir was a distant cousin living in America without the means or inclination to own a Scottish castle. They were quite happy to have me take the place off their hands.” Wardale’s feline smile indicated that it had been a very good deal indeed.
“But this unrest, as you described it, was unexpected,” Rafe supplied.
The smile vanished. “To put it mildly. I’ve made it widely known that I plan to bring Castle Blackwood and the surrounding land into the modern era: electricity, running water, and new roofs for the tenants, a new schoolhouse for the village—and I have the capital to do it. Yet a small, very vocal faction can’t get past my place of birth. These Scots have been emboldened by the calls for Irish Home Rule and have gotten it in their heads to demand the same thing.” He then reached into a drawer and threw a packet onto the desktop. “These are just a fraction of the letters I’ve received since the sale of the castle a few months ago. I offered to keep the original staff on and gave pensions to those who wished to retire, but that wasn’t enough to appease everyone.”
Rafe leafed through the small stack of paper. They were all short and to the point, and written in the same childlike scrawl, though the writer bothered to switch hands for a few:
Leave ye English RAT.
Banish the SNAKES from Scotland.
The only good Englishman is a DEAD one.
“Might it not be better to contact Special Branch?” Rafe asked as he set down the papers. “They certainly have more experience in these matters than I do.”
Wardale scoffed at the suggestion. “They’re no better than a pack of street thugs. I need discretion. That’s why you’re here. Besides, it isn’t only the threats I’m concerned about.”
“Yes, I understand some documents had gone missing.”
Wardale nodded. “They were taken from the desk in my bedroom. The perpetrator must have known I was receiving sensitive information. That sort of thing isn’t usually announced on the envelope, you see.”
“And usually not sent to civilians,” Rafe couldn’t help adding.
Wardale raised an eyebrow. “I know you must think me a fool, Davies. I suppose I can’t blame you, given the circumstances, but I am exactly the sort of man this government needs. One who knows how to get things done. Not another mindless bureaucrat determined to needlessly tie everything up in red tape.” It was on the tip of Rafe’s tongue to point out that adherence to that so-called red tape helped ensure the rule of law, but he remained silent as Wardale went on.
“I asked your brother to contact you specifically. The PM is aware of the work you have done involving that nasty business with Sir Alfred. He thinks you have great promise. And know how to keep things quiet.”
Rafe narrowed his eyes. After spending most of the last decade abroad, he had returned to London specifically to deal with the mess the late legendary spymaster had created. His goal hadn’t been to cover up the misdeeds of Sir Alfred but rather to prevent such an occurrence from ever happening again. “Then you must also be aware of my feelings about powerful men who are left unchecked.”
Wardale chuckled. “You’re awfully self-righteous for someone who makes his living lying to people.”
Rafe paused before he answered, choosing his words with the utmost care. “I believe that my work can save lives by avoiding unnecessary escalations that lead to conflict.”
“Then you can see why this mole must be found and this group of rabble-rousers snuffed out before it goes any further.” Wardale leaned forward, his dark eyes glinting with purpose. “You and I both know an independent Scotland will never happen, yet these men are willing to destroy anyone and anything in their path. Help me stop them.”
Rafe didn’t exactly object to the idea of an independent Scotland. And he knew better than most that the Crown would never relinquish one of its jewels unless forced to, but he avoided answering by posing a question. “Why do you suspect one of your guests is involved?”
Wardale snorted. “The timing is a little too convenient, wouldn’t you say? The documents went missing onlyafterthe house party began.”
“Perhaps this is unrelated to the threats you have received.”
“It bloody well may not be related, but in the meantime, I want all avenues explored.”
“I suppose you won’t tell me what the documents contained?”
“No,” Wardale ground out. “Those papers carry sensitive information that would be ofgreatinterest to Her Majesty’s enemies and threaten Crown rule. If you do succeed in finding them, it is in your best interest not to read any of it.”
Either these documents really did contain highly sensitive information that even someone like Rafe couldn’t be privy to, or they discussed something deliciously tawdry. He tried to conceal his curiosity.
“Noted. Have any of the guests been in your bedroom?”
Wardale’s gaze immediately shuttered. “I don’t suspect any of the ladies.”
“That isn’t what I asked,” Rafe said as politely as he could manage.
“But that’s all you’ll get,” Wardale snapped. “Focus on the men. Start with those with Scottish ancestry.”
The tension that had been slowly gathering in Rafe’s shoulders twisted sharply. “May I remind you that I’m here as a favor—”
