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Her sharp inhale stopped him midsentence. Clara hated the idea that Wyatt was in danger, but Priscilla might be in danger with him. She pressed her fingers to her lips as she allowed his words to sink in. Then she dropped them again, her thoughts racing. “What do you mean by political? Does this have to do with the recent discussions in Parliament over age and gender restrictions on the workers within coal mines? I know that Lord Ware argued for the bill and my family supports it too, even though we own a mine ourselves. To think of children being allowed to work in such conditions… Who opposed the motion? Do you know? Are they behind the threat?”
Mr. Fitzroy winced. “No. Nothing like that.”
“Mister Fitzroy, please feel free to be specific. I’m reasonably well read and knowledgeable on a fair number of topics. I’ll understand whatever you say. I don’t like idleness, as I’m sure you’ve noticed, and if I can help in any way—”
“Actually, I think you can.”
“Really?” That surprised her. As a general rule, men did not ask her for help. And Mr. Fitzroy had seemed particularly irritated with her yesterday. The fact that he suddenly wished for her aid struck her as unusual. “How?”
“I’m worried that the plot may involve the Earl of Kinross as well and I—”
“Aslin?” Her voice trembled right along with the rest of her. Was he in danger? Did he know?
“What I need to know is—”
“Mister Fitzroy, I need to know the sort of danger that Ware and Priscilla, and by extension the new earl, are in. Please, tell me what’s happening.”
Ralph cursed under his breath. Ware and Priscilla were in no trouble at all. This was why he was ill-suited to subterfuge.
He’d attempted to skirt past one little untruth to get some much-needed information. But she was sniffing about his lie like a dog searching for a bone. If he wasn’t careful, she’d discover it.
She might look angelic and be fidgety, which he’d originally thought might be flightiness, but he’d been completely wrong.
She was asking all the right questions. Yesterday it had been his position—or false position—as a valet. Not that it was a difficult conclusion to make. But today, she’d narrowed in on his lie and was about to dismantle the falsehood in short order.
What did he say?
He ought to have come up with something more elaborate with his hours in the carriage to collect his thoughts. But he’d been distracted by the way sun accentuated the pearl of her skin and the flash of green in her gaze. And then there were her lips…
“Do you remember those articles in the paper about the man going around in a domino and cape?”
“The Bushy Hero?” she asked, stopping again with a sigh, but not of impatience. This was the noise a woman made when she was swept away by romantic fancy. “Of course I remember him.”
Ralph’s nostrils curled the slightest bit. Granted, he’d been half of the Bushy Hero, stalking criminals in the night. And it was heroic, he supposed. When it wasn’t downright dangerous. It had been Wyatt’s idea, a way of redeeming his past injury and proving to himself he was a worthy man.
But the deeds hadn’t been romantic. They’d been gritty, and dark, and frequently dangerous. He supposed good women painted those sorts of things in idyllic colors. It allowed them to place stock in the deeds of men.
But part of him wanted to explain why she shouldn’t.
She might get caught up in a man who wasn’t all that good or just or right. To be fair, Wyatt was all those things. But most men who stalked the night were simply villains.
He gave himself a shake. Best to stick to the web of deceit he was attempting to weave. “He…” Ralph paused. “He sent a letter to the queen.”
Her brows lifted, her lips parting as she stopped to stare at him. “The Bushy Hero sent a letter to the queen.”
Ralph kept going, hoping he’d find a way through this conversation. “That’s right. And in it, he insinuated that—”
Now her brows furrowed. “What?”
Ralph swallowed, slipping his free palm along his hip. When had he begun sweating? “That he’d overheard a plot to steal the jewels of the guests at the funeral of the Earl of Kinross.”
Clara gasped, her hand flying to her chest. “Oh my.” Then she stopped. “What do jewels have to do with Wyatt?”
Ralph blinked twice. Shite. What did jewels have to do with Wyatt? “He’s got this diamond-encrusted insignia ring from his father. Worth a small fortune.”
Clara nodded. “And the thief?”
Ralph breathed a sigh. He might be reaching the other side of this dark tunnel. “That’s what we don’t know.”
