Chapter 1 #2
Again, he pulled James’s letter from his pocket and spread it on the cleared surface, reading it by candlelight.
The Earl of Penharrow murdered me.
Oliver had never met Gareth Rhys, the Earl of Penharrow.
He was at least ten-years older than him.
He knew of him only by reputation; a Welsh peer who rarely came to London, who ran his estates with an iron fist and was rumored to be involved in less-than-legal enterprises.
Smuggling, certainly. Slave trading probably.
There were whispers of worse things, but whispers were all they were.
Until now. Penharrow was wealthy enough and well-connected enough that the whispers never became accusations.
James had been investigating him. Why? The letter didn’t say.
Perhaps it had started with that gambling debt, the violence James had witnessed.
Perhaps it had spiraled from there. James had always had a strong sense of justice, a need to right wrongs that had made him an excellent officer and, Oliver thought bitterly, a terrible choice for a spy.
There’s a woman, Megan.
Oliver’s jaw tightened. A mistress kept prisoner. It wasn’t uncommon among certain types of men. Those who confused ownership with affection, who saw women as possessions to be locked away. James had thought her important enough to mention in his dying letter, had begged Oliver to free her.
If you can do nothing else, free her.
Oliver would do more than that. He would free her, yes. , but he would also use her. A witness to Penharrow’s crimes. Bait to draw out the Earl from behind his walls of wealth and influence. A tool for vengeance.
He should feel guilty about using an innocent woman as a weapon, but guilt was a luxury he couldn’t afford, not when James’s body was being buried in some Welsh churchyard, far from home, his death written off as an accident.
A knock at the door interrupted his thoughts.
“Enter.”
Thomas Webb stepped into the study, his posture military-straight despite having been a civilian since his return from Salamanca.
Webb had been Oliver’s batman during the war, assigned to attend to an officer’s personal needs, but their relationship had evolved beyond that of master and servant into something closer to equals, forged in the crucible of battle.
When Oliver returned to England, he’d brought Webb with him, installing him as head of household security, a position that gave the former sergeant enough prestige to satisfy society while allowing him to remain close.
“My lord? Hastings said you wanted to see me.”
Oliver gestured to the chair across from his desk. “Sit.”
Webb hesitated—old habits die hard—but complied. He was a compact man, built like a boxer, with graying hair and a face marked by powder burns and old scars. His hands, resting on his knees, bore the calluses of a man who knew his way around both sword and pistol.
“James Hartley is dead,” Oliver said without preamble.
Webb’s expression hardened. He’d known James, had served under him briefly before being reassigned to Oliver. “How?”
“Murdered. Made to look like a riding accident.”
“Bastards.” Webb’s voice was flat, emotionless, but Oliver saw the rage in his eyes. “Who?”
“James told me it was the Earl of Penharrow. A Welsh peer.” Oliver slid James’s letter across the desk. “Read.”
Webb read in silence, his jaw working. When he finished, he looked up, and Oliver saw the same cold calculation in his eyes that had made him such an effective soldier.
“When do we leave?”
“Tomorrow. I need time to arrange affairs here to make it look like ordinary business. We’ll travel as surveyors. I’ll use a false name. You’ll be my assistant.”
“Weapons?”
“Everything we can carry without drawing attention. Pistols, knives. I’ll have my saber from the war. We’re not going to Wales to negotiate.”
Webb nodded slowly. “This woman, Megan. You mean to take her?”
“Yes.”
“And if she doesn’t want to come?”
Oliver’s smile was cold. “Then I’ll explain that her choices are limited to accompanying me or remaining Penharrow’s prisoner. I suspect she’ll see reason.”
“And if Penharrow comes after us?”
“I want him to.” Oliver leaned back in his chair, his fingers steepled.
“In fact, I’m counting on it. James said the man is untouchable through legal means beyond the English borders.
But if we lure him back to England, we can charge him through the magistrates here. You know my pull in the home office.”
Webb stood, squaring his shoulders. “Then I’m with you. James was a good officer. A good man. He deserves better than an unmarked grave and a lie.”
Oliver rose as well, extending his hand. Webb took it, and they shook. Not as master and servant, but as soldiers preparing for war.
“We leave tomorrow before my uncle ascertains my plans,” Oliver said. “Tell no one where we’re going. If anyone asks, we’re inspecting property in the north near our estate in Shropshire. It borders Wales so it won’t raise suspicions.”
“Understood.” Webb moved toward the door, then paused. “My lord? What will you do if we find evidence of worse crimes? James mentioned trafficking.”
Oliver’s expression went very still. “Then I’ll bring his criminal empire down around his ears.”
When Webb left, Oliver returned to his desk and pulled out fresh paper and ink.
He had carefully worded missives to write to his steward, his solicitor, his banker.
Also to his mistress, the beautiful young widow, Lady Helen Frankton.
This was a good reason to break off the arrangement.
The young woman was beginning to see a future as his wife, and he wasn’t sure she was the woman he could spend his life with.
Mainly because his uncle liked her, and he was sure she fed his uncle reports on him.
The letter to Helen would be tricky as she was likely to run to his uncle and everything needed to appear normal, routine. No one could suspect that the Marquess of Astor was about to disappear into Wales on a mission of vengeance.
As he wrote, his mind kept returning to that one line in James’s letter.
If you can do nothing else, free her.
Oliver would free her. But first, he would use her to destroy the man who had murdered his closest friend. It wasn’t honorable, perhaps. It certainly wasn’t gentlemanly.
But then, Oliver had left his gentility on the battlefields of Spain, along with his innocence and any illusions about the nobility of mankind.
All he had left was his word, his sword, and his rage.