Honor’s Revenge: Masters’ Admiralty, book 4

by Mari Carr

  But in England, knights also changed their first names, taking on the name of one of the Knights of the Roundtable.

  He’d replied “Lancelot” instantly. As a security officer, even just pretending to be a knight chafed. The knights were a bunch of upright, holier-than-thou prigs as far as he was concerned. The fuckers carried swords. Honest-to-God swords. Fucking idiots.

  Arthur, before taking over as the new admiral of England, had been Tristan Knight. The fact that the man’s given name was actually Arthur was just too rich. On the rare assignment, Lancelot’s and Tristan’s paths had crossed. Lancelot had considered Tristan a dandy, putting on airs, working to erase his accent in order to hide his upbringing on the wrong side of the tracks.

  But now Arthur was his admiral, and no one could say Tristan/Arthur hadn’t put his life, and body, on the line for the territory. He’d won Lancelot’s—no, Charlie’s—respect.

  Still, that wouldn’t stop him from needling the new admiral by choosing the name of the knight who’d fucked Arthur’s wife. Lorelei had snorted when he’d selected Lancelot as his fake moniker, muttering “sounds about right.”

  “The lack of family makes this more difficult,” Hugo mused. “Parents or siblings would be the most likely people she’d hide with.”

  “If anyone came asking me mum and siblings a bunch of questions about me, they’d stonewall the wanker. Hard.”

  Hugo closed the folder. “You have a big family?”

  Lancelot smiled and nodded. His family was a subject he could talk about all day. “Yeah. I have two brothers and a sister. I’m the oldest.”

  “Are you a legacy?” Legacies to the Masters’ Admiralty were children born of members. Lancelot prided himself on the fact that he’d been admitted entrance based solely on his accomplishments rather than his bloodline.

  He shook his head. “No. When we were growing up, me mum took in other people’s laundry—ironing and such—then she washed dishes in an Italian restaurant at night. The owner of the restaurant let her bring leftovers home for our dinners every night. If I never see another plate of spaghetti, it’ll be too soon.”

  Hugo laughed. “What did your father do?”

  Lancelot shrugged casually. “Got drunk with his mates in the pub.”

  “Ah.”

  Lancelot heard the tone in Hugo’s voice and quickly reassured him that talking about his father wasn’t a sore subject. “No worries, mate. I’m not carrying around a bunch of baggage about that. Me dad was a right wanker and a mean drunk. Liked to knock Mum around a bit after a few too many. I put an end to that.”

  “How?” Hugo asked.

  “When I turned thirteen, I stepped between them. My dad had never lifted a finger against me or my brothers or sister, so I gotta tell you, when he landed a punch, it was a surprise. The only one. I let loose. Broke the fooker’s wrist, bruised some ribs, blackened both eyes.”

  Hugo whistled. “What did your mum say?”

  Lancelot smiled. “Well, it’s like this. Nobody hurts one of her kids. Father or not. Mum’s got a big heart, and when she loves you, she’s all-in. But when she falls out of love, it’s over. She fell out of love with my dad that day.”

  “It was not so ideal a childhood.”

  Lancelot realized he’d drawn the picture all wrong. “No, no. It was alright, la. My dad wasn’t always a drunk. When he was sober, he was an incredible carpenter and one hell of a musician. I can remember nights when all of us would sit in the living room, bundled under blankets because there was no money for heat, and Dad would play all night while we sang, just to distract us. People are never all good or all bad. Except me mum, of course. She’s a saint to put up with Dad and mePre brothers and me.”

  Hugo ran his hand over his jaw and Lancelot noticed the five o’clock shadow. Dr. Marchand wasn’t a bad-looking bloke. Lancelot guessed Hugo did pretty well with the ladies. He had a clean-cut sort of look with jet-black hair and blue eyes. Lancelot was glad his sister wasn’t here right now, or else she’d be drooling.

  “What about you, Hugo? You a legacy?”

  Hugo nodded. “I am. My family has been in the Masters’ Admiralty for as long as we can remember.”

  “Are they teachers like you?”

  Hugo snickered though the question seemed innocuous enough. “I actually do very little teaching anymore, more writing and research, which is why I was available to come on this trip. But, no. Let’s just say my parents don’t exactly brag about their son, the professor.”

  “Why the hell not? If I had the word ‘doctor’ attached to the front of my name, me mum would have a neon sign in the front parlor window flashing 24/7 to let the neighbors and any random stranger who walked by know it.”

  “I come from a very affluent family. My mere is an ambassador, Pere is a member of Parliament, elected to the National Assembly. My ‘oncle’ is a high-ranking judge.” Hugo finger-quoted that moniker, letting Lancelot know that uncle was the name used within his parents’ trinity. It wasn’t uncommon for trinities to refer to their third as aunts or uncles, in order to hide the truth of their association in a less open-minded society.

  “Still not sure why they’re not proud. Sounds to me like you went into the family business. Doctor of political science and all.”

  “I suppose I did. In a much less prestigious way.” Hugo’s fingers tapped against the file folder on his lap. He clearly wasn’t comfortable talking about his family. “Teaching and research are considered bourgeois by my parents. They’ve made it very clear they would have preferred I’d pursued politics as a career rather than a study.”

  Lancelot had a dozen more questions about Hugo and his family, but he decided to let the other man off the hook. Especially when Hugo turned away, looking out the passenger window at the passing scenery. The two of them were going to be in close proximity for the next few days, and then they’d return to their homes, separated by the Channel. Knowing Hugo’s life story wasn’t pertinent to this op.

  “Wonder if Alicia’s parents felt the same way,” Lancelot said, by way of segue.

  Hugo glanced back at him. “Pardon?”

  “She’s a teacher. Did they think it was lowbrow?”

  Hugo opened the folder once again, his shoulders relaxing with the change of subject. “She taught English at the American high school level. According to the file, she retired from her position, very abruptly, several months ago.”

  “So if we don’t find anything at her home, we could always try the school.”

  “Possibly.” Hugo glanced out the window again, and Lancelot got the sense his companion didn’t consider a visit to the school necessary, but with so little to go on, he wasn’t sure they’d have a choice.

  “There’s a chance she remained in touch with some of her former students or colleagues.”

  “Perhaps,” Hugo replied vaguely as he continued flipping through the pages. Even Lancelot could see there wasn’t much there. A few measly pieces of paper. Precious little to work with.

  Lancelot switched lanes, passing a large tractor trailer. “So all we’ve got is her last known address and place of employment?”

  Hugo hesitated just long enough to send up an alarm in Lancelot’s mind. Then the other man nodded. “I realize it’s not much, but if we can discover anything that might help us stop the mastermind, it’s worth the trip, the effort. Perhaps, if we are very fortunate, we’ll find information at her home we can use to piece together her involvement. Maybe we won’t even need to locate Alicia herself.”

  Lancelot said nothing. Even if they found a manifesto that explained everything, Alicia had killed one of their own and knew too much. Alicia was walking dead.

  Still, the fact that Hugo thought information was more important than catching her was interesting, in part because that lined up with what the fleet admiral had said. Lancelot was curious about Hugo’s part in this investigation.

  Lancelot knew exactly why he was there—kidnap Alicia and somehow get her to the Isle o
f Man for questioning, or find a secure location and torture her for information.

  And then kill her.

  Whether she died here or on the Isle of Man was only a question of location. In the end, she would pay for her crimes, and what she knew, with her life.

  What he couldn’t figure out was how the political science professor from Paris fit into this?

  “How did you get recruited for this job?” Lancelot asked.

  Hugo’s gaze remained on the paper in his hand, but Lancelot could tell he was no longer reading.

  He’d told Hugo he could read people, their body language, their expressions. Hugo was no exception. Hell, Hugo seemed easier for him to read than most. Which meant he could see that whatever Hugo said next would be a lie. Not that he was in a position to cast stones, but…

  “Don’t,” Lancelot said, before Hugo could answer him.

  “Excuse me?”

  “If you can’t tell me the truth, say that. Don’t lie.”

  Hugo studied Lancelot’s face closely. “How did you know—”

  “I told you. I’m very good at reading people. Which is how I know you don’t want to lie to me. You hesitated. If we’re going to work together, we need to be able to trust each other—with the things we can say, and even the things we can’t.”

  “I cannot tell you why I’m involved in this investigation.”

  Lancelot gave him a brief nod. “Then I won’t ask again.”

  “Thank you.”

  Lancelot glanced at the petrol gauge. They were running low. Then he rubbed his eyes, which had started to feel gritty. While it was only seven o’clock in the U.S., his body was reminding him it was midnight. “Time to find a hotel for the night. Start again fresh in the morning.”

  The dark circles under Hugo’s eyes told him his traveling companion was starting to hit the same wall. “This sounds good.”

  “Maybe we can find one that has a pub in it. We can grab some food and a couple beers.”

  Hugo smiled. “That sounds even better.”

  Chapter Four

  Hugo sank onto the extremely large couch in Alicia Rutherford’s sitting room. While much of the city of Charleston reminded him of parts of France, the interior of this home was classically American—large furnishings with an eye to comfort rather than aesthetic appeal, a ridiculously huge kitchen and refrigerator, and built-in closets rather than proper wardrobes.

  They’d arrived in the city the night before last and stowed their things at the elegant accommodation provided by the Trinity Masters. Lancelot had wanted to ignore that “request” from the Grand Master and check into a hotel, but Hugo insisted that they couldn’t afford to anger or insult the Grand Master and have their permission to be in this country revoked. Hugo had been the one to send brief messages each evening to the email address they’d been given, stating only that they had yet to interview anyone.

  Yesterday, they’d searched both bedrooms of Alicia Rutherford’s house and found nothing. Today, they’d searched the kitchen, garage, and were now working on the less formal of two living spaces. His hope that, in her haste to flee, she might have either left or been unable to come back for something informative, was dwindling.

  Lancelot plucked another book from the shelf, held it by the spine, and shook it. Nothing fell from the pages. He replaced it on the shelf, with perhaps more force than was entirely necessary.

  It was nearing the end of their second day of searching Alicia Rutherford’s home, and so far they had nothing to show for it. Which meant Hugo was going to have to break down and admit to Lancelot that there was another reason they’d come to Charleston.

  Sylvia Hayden.

  Hugo hadn’t thought about the young woman in years, but the moment the fleet admiral told him he was sending him to the States to search for Alicia, and mentioned the girl’s name, many pleasant memories came flooding back.

  Hugo had traveled to Illinois seven years earlier to serve as a guest lecturer at Northwestern. Sylvia had taken his class. Younger than her fellow students, she had impressed Hugo with her maturity and intelligence. She frequently remained after class and the two of them engaged in lively debates. She was the kind of student who wasn’t afraid to be wrong, which was rare, and Hugo had found it a sign of great intellect. Only those unsure of their own intelligence or worth feared to admit they were in error.

  He’d also known she had feelings for him. A crush, as the Americans would say. Hugo had made sure to offer her no encouragement on a romantic level, and instead treated her like the intellectual equal she was.

  When the semester ended, they said their farewells and he returned to Paris. For several years after, he had received a Christmas card from her, and he’d kept up with her writing, delighted when she started to make a name for herself as a poet and visual artist. He’d purchased all three of her published works, but he’d never expected to see her again.

  Now…he might have to.

  Hugo pulled off the ski cap he wore with gloved hands. Lancelot had insisted on the gloves, hats, and stocking feet, in order to make sure they didn’t leave any trace of their search. After all, they were technically breaking and entering, though Lancelot had proven skillful with a lock pick and in disarming the home alarm.

  “Put your hat back on,” Lancelot murmured.

  “I doubt we need to be so careful,” Hugo said. “There is nothing here.”

  “Too much nothing.” Lancelot finished that shelf of the bookcase. His shoulders sagged and he joined Hugo on the couch, groaning as he sank into the cushions. “Hat,” the other man muttered even as he closed his eyes.

  Hugo tugged on his hat and then leaned back. Perhaps there was something to be said for ugly yet comfortable. He could easily fall asleep here.

  “Maybe I should call Lorelei,” Lancelot murmured. “See if she can dig up another home address.”

  “If there was, she would have shared it already.”

  “There’s still the school to search,” Lancelot reminded him. “Even if she ‘retired.’” The quotes Lancelot put around that word were all but visible.

  “I have little hope we’ll find anything at Exeter Academy except more of what we’ve found here. Nothing.”

  “She’s gone to ground,” Lancelot mused, eyes closed. “And either she never had anything here, or she came back long enough to strip this house, leaving us fook-all.”

  “And undoubtedly done this with her office at the academy.”

  “Which means it’s time to start talking to people.” Lancelot sat up, bracing his arms on his knees. Hugo opened one eye, admiring the way the man’s biceps and shoulder muscles bunched. “I think we start with the neighbors. We’ll need a cover story.”

  “Private investigators?” Hugo asked. “I’ve always wanted to pretend I was one. Like on American TV.”

  “How’s your American accent?” Lancelot asked.

  “It’s good, pard-ner,” Hugo replied.

  “What was that?” Lancelot’s eyes were wide.

  “A Texas accent,” Hugo defended.

  “Well, we’re fooked.”

  “What about you?”

  “I’m from Liverpool, la. Pure Scouse. The people here talk too slow. Lots of syllables that aren’t supposed to be there.”

  “This is very true. It took me ten minutes to order my coffee this morning, and I think the woman who made it knows more about me than my last lover.”

  Lancelot snorted. “Maybe we need to hire a private investigator, someone local. If they talk to Alicia’s known associates, get us a lead, we could take it from there.”

  “Can we do that?” Hugo asked.

  “No. Fookin’ ’ell. We can’t hire an American—too risky. The Trinity Masters are already watching us.”

  “We would only tell the PI what we already told Grand Master Juliette—we’re looking for Alicia Rutherford.”

  “True.” Lancelot paused as if considering it, and then shook his head. “That’s a last resort. I’m hoping
either the neighbors or something we find at the school will lead us out of Charleston, and we’ll be able to operate without the Trinity Masters spying on us.” Lancelot pushed to his feet, then reached down and grabbed Hugo’s hand.

  Electricity zinged through him at the knight’s touch.

  When Lancelot pulled Hugo to his feet, their bodies brushed, trapped as they were in the space between a blocky coffee table and the couch.

  Hugo looked up into Lancelot’s eyes. He raised a brow, a mute question. Did the Englishman feel what he had?

  Lancelot frowned, confused.

  Ah. That was all the answer he needed. Though Hugo was a legacy, he’d never considered actually having sex with another man. His fathers were both straight, and though he didn’t know for sure, Hugo was fairly certain they’d never taken their wife to bed at the same time. Growing up, all three parents had their own bedrooms, which meant Hugo and his sister were either a product of immaculate conception, or his parents crossed borders briefly in order to procreate.

  Lancelot hadn’t grown up with trinity parents, and while he was easygoing and looked like the sort to be up for anything, Hugo doubted he’d ever slept with a man. So this…attraction, Hugo thought, for lack of a better word…was new to both of them.

  Lancelot grunted and took a long step back. “We have work to do. Finish searching this room, then we have one more living room, plus the bathroom.”

  “Exciting,” Hugo muttered. He started pulling cushions off the couch. He hadn’t imagined this mission would involve so much manual labor. “I am an award-winning, highly respected scholar.”

  “And now you’re a mediocre investigator,” Lancelot said.

  “Mediocre?” Hugo unzipped the case around the cushion. “I have never been mediocre in my life.”

  “Big talk.” Lancelot was flipping through the next shelf of books. “But so far you haven’t found anything. That means you’re mediocre.”

  “You should be doing the couch.” Hugo struggled to shove the cushion back into the casing.