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Content with his choice, Rowles thought about Joan in his Cambridge home. It was a perfect picture in his mind, one that brought a swell of peace and love to his spirit. Cambridge was where he’d truly felt at home, and Lord willing, one day he’d be able to return and do more than visit.
“Your Grace.” The butler came in with his silver tray, a missive with the Penderdale seal resting in the middle. “There’s a messenger awaiting a reply.”
“Thank you.” Rowles lifted the missive and set it on his desk. With a brass letter opener, he peeled the wax and unfolded the letter.
Rowles,
There’s been a development, and I require Joan’s assistance. However, since you are aware of her involvement with my line of work, I thought it the right thing to let you know and seek your permission, of sorts. Likely Joan would have my head should she know I was asking you. However, I know that if the tables were turned, I’d wish to know as well. Please reply with your sentiments concerning the situation.
Regards,
Morgan
Rowles frowned as he reread the letter. He understood what Morgan was asking and was unsure how he felt about it. It was one thing to be there on a mission, another to trust her without his presence, without seeing to her safety with his own eyes. She’d not needed him before, and he was certain she’d like to continue assisting the War Office even when they were married, but that didn’t mean he didn’t feel concern.
He scribbled a reply and sent it off, praying he’d made the right choice. It had been a simple reply, only four words:Do what you must.
But they conveyed a thousand meanings.
He refused to be the domineering husband who controlled his wife’s every move, and Joan wouldn’t have loved him had he been that sort of man. But it was at great cost to his mind and heart that he sent those words.
Yet he also knew Morgan. He’d not put his sister in danger and would forfeit his own life, should it come to that, to keep her safe. That assurance gave Rowles the power to let her go.
He grinned to himself even as he thought the words.
As if he could stop her in the first place.
It was for that reason, and many more, that she’d captured his heart.
Thirty-six
If I am not in the state of grace, may God place me there; and if I am, may God so keep me.
—Joan of Arc
Joan studied the man before them. With hands bound and resting on the well-worn table, his mannerisms were easy to interpret, at least so far. Morgan’s foul mood radiated within the room like a blazing fire as he pelted the man with questions. There had been another attempt, another forgery sent to try to move the prisoner from house arrest to another prison. Morgan had intercepted it, and Joan had confirmed their suspicions. There was nothing left to do but interrogate the criminal that others wanted silenced forever.
“Who?” Morgan asked, leaning forward on the table separating them from Walter Brewer. “Who were you in contact with before your arrest?”
The man appeared different from what Joan had expected. A man with a gentleman-like manner and cool blue eyes that studied them both with extreme mistrust.
Then again, if she’d been nearly sent to the London Tower after having only a sentence of house arrest, she’d be suspicious as well. Little did he know that the reason hewasn’tsent to London Tower was becauseshehad found the forgery. Irony never ceased to amaze her.
“I was locking up the magistrate’s building, maybe seven months ago. I was about to leave when a figure in a dark cloak stopped me and demanded I reopen the doors.” He lifted his hands.
Joan listened with fierce intensity. “And? What did you do?” she asked, forgetting that she was usually a silent member of the interrogation.
“Well, I didn’t wish to lose my life that night, and he carried a wicked-looking knife. It probably would have been better though. Quite a bit of trouble my cooperation has led me to. I let him in, and he took a few documents, then said if I cooperated, I’d be rewarded.” He shrugged. “I’m not above a little reward, you see.”
“I can imagine. Go on,” Morgan intoned. “Was there a name? Can you remember anything distinctive? Perhaps draw his face.”
“I can give you the name. It’s Penderdale.”
Morgan froze.
Joan sucked in breath, then calmed her reaction so as not to give anymore away.
“Penderdale?” Morgan repeated, the word sounding foreign, even though it was so familiar.
