Twenty
An hour before the household gathered for supper, Jonathan waylaid Dom in his study. His fellow spy looked up with raised eyebrows as Jonathan entered and firmly closed the door behind him.
“Come in, Hackberry,” he said with a slight drawl, lifting his snifter of brandy. “Would you like a drink? Looks like you could use one.”
“Using your maid was beneath you.”
Dom's glass paused halfway to his lips. “I beg your pardon?"
“Leda's fiancé. You paid him to search for the key while you were away. I told you Miss Darlington doesn’t have it.”
“What the hell are you talking about? Leda’s engaged?”
Jonathan’s outrage died away quickly. “You didn’t know? God’s blood. It’s good you are seated. I’ll pour my own drink.”
As he helped himself to the brandy, he could hear Dom’s fingernail clicking against his glass.
Jonathan turned to face him. “Your maid is betrothed to a revolutionist. I caught him stealing jewelry from your guests to support the cause. Are you missing anything of value? You had better check.”
“Shite!” Dom slammed his glass on the desk. “I don’t need the Janissaries snooping around the villa. Where is he?”
“Gone, and I don’t think he will be back.” Jonathan sipped the brandy, studying his colleague.
Dom’s fingers tightened around the snifter—released and tightened—released and tightened. Like he wasn’t seeing the glass at all.
“Your maid tried to stop him. I hope you will take pity on her.”
He scoffed. “You are becoming too soft. It’s all that time you spend with Miss Darlington.”
“You know why.”
“Let me guess,” Dom said. “Still no progress on deciphering Wedmore’s journal.”
“You’re wrong. The ladies solved the riddle.” He sat in the chair opposite Dom’s desk. “There’s a lot to decipher yet, but Wedmore’s entries aren’t what I expected.”
“How so?”
“It appears he was surveilling a group of men at a tavern. Merchants mostly, and a duke’s family members. Ever heard of Stanhurst?”
Dom frowned. “He’s a right arsehole, that one. His son and I were in the same form at Eton. Neither of us was eager to go home.”
“Which son?”
“Lord Geoffrey, the youngest. Why? Is he named in Wedmore’s journal?”
Jonathan nodded. “Like I said, there is more to uncover, but I’m beginning to wonder if the intelligence on Wedmore is wrong.”
Dom stared, the muscles in his jaw bulging, his face ruddy. “I knew she was getting to you,” he said eventually. “You have your orders. We don’t question. We fulfill our duties.”
“Maybe we should start. Blind obedience never made sense to me.”
“You’re talking about a traitor to England,” Dom said, raising his voice.
“Are we? What does Wedmore stand to gain from Napoleon regaining power? He has loved ones at home—his aunt, his nieces.”
“Not every man loves his family. Some only care about themselves and their ambitions.”
“But Wedmore isn’t that way.”
“You’ve never met the man. You don’t know anything about him.” Dom bit off his words, taking a deep breath. When he opened his eyes, he tapped his finger to the desk. “Listen to me, Hackberry. I can do this for you.”
“It’s my mission.”
“And you’re failing by asking the wrong questions. Instead of thinking about Wedmore’s motivation, ask yourself what you have to lose if you don’t stop him.”
Jonathan’s muscles tensed. The air was stagnant, heavy. He placed the snifter on Dom’s desk and stood, slowly leaning toward him. “If you touch her, Regina, or Xavier, you will regret it.”
“Faith! Is that what you think of me?” Dom frowned as he reclined in his chair. “I don’t hurt innocent people.”
“No, you’ll only use them as bait.”
Dom’s laugh was sardonic. “You’re no better, Hackberry. Otherwise, you never would have brought them to the villa or had me follow them.”
Jonathan rubbed away the sharp pain in his chest. “I’ll inform your guests that you won’t be joining us for supper this evening.”
Dom simply shrugged, and Jonathan left his study with an even heavier load on his shoulders.