Grey nodded. Perhaps Edward was right. He’d been a spy far longer than Grey. “I won’t forget.”
Edward’s shoulders slumped. Had his brother been expecting a fight? Grey was heartily glad he’d listened for once in his life. Edward waved toward the door. “You two better get going. The sooner this nasty business is behind us the better.”
Grey couldn’t agree more. Madelaine would have enough reason to hate him, but if she learned he was responsible for taking her father to the tower on charges of treason, she’d hate him even more. He wanted things settled, preferably in the duke’s favor.
“Are you ready,” he asked Gravenhurst. “We’ve a hard ride ahead of us, and an even harder confrontation. There’s no doubt in my mind Stratmore won’t like being hauled to the tower by us under suspicion of treason, and the duke already has a mild dislike of me.”
His brother blinked at him. “Why’s that?” Edward asked as he sat down.
“It doesn’t matter. The situation he disliked is no longer.” Grey narrowed his eyes at Gravenhurst, a silent warning to keep what he knew to himself. Gravenhurst gave a barely perceptible inclination.
“You’re sure?” Edward prodded.
“Yes,” Grey said in a tone he hoped Edward would recognize as final.
“All right then. You two be sure to keep Stratmore’s imprisonment in the tower a secret. No one is to know but the three of us, until I or the king say otherwise.”
Grey didn’t like the way Edward was barking orders at him as if he were dull-witted. “I read the letter, Edward, and Gravenhurst did too. We know the king’s wishes.”
“Sorry,” Edward said. “It will take me a while to be used to being in charge without being overbearing.”
“In charge?” Grey repeated.
“With Father dead, Stratmore imprisoned, and Pearson missing for the moment, I’m, by default, the leader of our little circle.”
“So you are,” Grey agreed, trying not to think about his father or Madelaine, or anything but the job ahead of him. “What if Stratmore’s servants question us?”
“They won’t. Stratmore will know what’s at stake if anyone should find out about his imprisonment. Even if he’s not found guilty and hung, his daughter’s future would be jeopardized, if word got out. He won’t want that. I’ve no worry he won’t cooperate.”
“I disagree,” Gravenhurst said. “You assume he’s innocent, though you just told us to proceed as if he’s not only a thief but a conspirator in a plot to overthrow the king. If he’s guilty, he may very well run. His life will probably mean more to him in that case than his daughter making a good match.”
Edward steepled his hands in front of his face, his brow furrowing. Grey was finding it hard focusing on anything but his worry for Madelaine. He struggled to push thoughts of her from his mind.
“You’re right.” Edward moved to stand. “Lure Stratmore away from his house, secure him, and then send the servants away so you can search the house for the king’s paper or any clues. Do not leave any space unturned. If it’s there, if it still exists, you need to find it and destroy it. And if you find anything else of importance, bring it to me.”
“And if we find nothing?”
“Then treat him as if he’s guilty, until the king decides otherwise.”
Within the hour, Grey and Gravenhurst were on the road to Lancashire. They didn’t speak for a while, until they stopped to water the horses then Gravenhurst said, “Do you expect me to believe you’ve forgotten the lady and you can be impartial?”
Grey gritted his teeth together, releasing them after he felt under control. “I do. I know my duty, and duty will always be first to me.”
“Bah,” Gravenhurst mumbled as he dismounted. “Then you’re a daft fool who mistakenly believes himself indestructible. That woman’s your deadly weakness, no matter how strong you think you are. Stay away from her.”
Chapter Eighteen
Even in the tower the social classes were evident, if you had enough money to purchase comfortable quarters, but there were some crimes, such as the ones Madelaine’s father stood accused of, that prohibited the prisoner being allowed to pay for acceptable quarters. For the worst criminals the tower was an abominably dreary place crawling with bugs and rats and filled with the constant nerve-grating moans of those who’d been condemned to wait there until trial or death, whichever fate or the king served them.
Grey had walked through the noisy halls three days prior, his body recoiling at the sights and sounds within the dingy walls. Yet he managed to do his duty and force one foot after the other to take Stratmore to the dungeon where he was to be kept in secret, while he and Gravenhurst tried to get him to confess his guilt and await Edward’s arrival.
In order to lessen the chance of the guards or anyone who might see Gravenhurst or Grey coming or going from the dungeon, they both agreed to stay there until Edward arrived and Stratmore’s fate was decided. After one night in the shadowy darkness of the dungeon, Grey understood why the tower dungeon was referred to as the pit of Hell. Dampness permeated the walls, the floors, the air, and worst of all, the bug-infested cot Grey had to sleep on. And though the pitiful pleas for release were barely distinguishable down here, the muffled moans did carry through the air, down the winding stone steps, and seep under the locked, dark wooden door. The constant hint of noise was like an annoying whisper in Grey’s ear. He’d taken to humming to himself to block out the sounds of misery.
But it was neither the dampness nor the noise that kept him up at night. His worry for Madelaine did that. If Stratmore was guilty, what would become of her? So far the man had maintained his innocence, but his shifty eyes hid something. By the third day of being locked in the tower, trying unsuccessfully to get Stratmore to admit his guilt, Grey was relieved when Edward arrived, but his relief was short lived.
“What do you mean, Stratmore murdered Pearson?” Grey asked, facing Edward in the small confines of the entranceway to the room they had Stratmore locked in.
Gravenhurst, who’d been preoccupied shoving the bread and cheese Edward had brought them into his mouth, audibly swallowed his food before speaking. “Let me get this straight.” He stood from where he’d been sitting at a filthy table. “You’re telling us Stratmore murdered Pearson—a brother in arms?” Gravenhurst’s voice had dropped to a low whisper.
“I’m telling you that I found Pearson dead.” Anger vibrated Edward’s fierce whisper. “Stabbed repeatedly in the gut. Beside his body the word ‘honor’ had been drawn in the dirt with an X through it. The conclusion is obvious.”
“How does that prove Stratmore’s guilt?” Grey demanded.
“Honor is the word engraved on the inside of Stratmore’s ring that the king gave him,” Edward said patiently.
Grey shook his head. “I don’t believe for a second the man would be so stupid as to kill a fellow spy, and then engrave his name in the dirt as a calling card to lead us straight to him. Besides, what would be his motive for killing Pearson?”
“Money.” Gravenhurst’s voice was toneless. “It’s well known his coffers are extremely low, and he and the king have fought much of late. Maybe Stratmore’s turned traitor, and he’s being paid by the Frenchies to gather information. Mayhap Pearson found out, or maybe Stratmore’s been paid to kill us one by one so Napoleon, the rutting bastard, will win the war.”
“You’ve been a spy too long,” Grey said, not liking how Edward appeared to be considering Gravenhurst’s ludicrous suggestions. It was one thing to proceed with caution, but it was quite another to proceed on a mad conjecture. “The man is not so stupid as to trace the word ‘honor’ in the dirt for everyone to see.”
“But he didn’t write it,” Edward said. “Pearson did.”
“His dead corpse told you so, did it?” Grey demanded.
Edward flushed at this, but met Grey’s gaze with sharp green eyes. “I checked Pearson’s fingertips. They were caked with dirt. The word had been written in blood. His bloo
d. I know because I forced myself to bend his stiff arm and hand and write another word in the dirt to see if the width of his fingertip and the markings on his skin would match what was in the dirt. It did. Perfectly. There’s no doubt in my mind Pearson wrote the word honor and then crossed it out.”
Grey focused on breathing through his clenched teeth and fought the desire to punch his brother in the nose. “If Pearson wanted everyone to know who murdered him why the hell wouldn’t he have just written Stratmore’s name?”
“I can’t say, Grey. I’ve not got access to the dead man’s thoughts, so all I can do is speculate.”
Grey jerked his gaze away from the insect climbing the wall that he’d been focusing on to try to calm himself and met his brother’s gaze. “I don’t see what this has to do with the king’s paper. If Stratmore is selling secrets to the French or killing spies for money, what would he need the damned paper for?”
“Nothing.” Edward pulled out a chair to sprawl in it. “I don’t have the answers yet, but I plan to get them.”
Gravenhurst drummed his fingers on the table. “If Stratmore is guilty then we’ve stopped him. He’s locked up here, and our secrets, as well as our lives, are safe.”
Edward shook his head. “It’s not so simple. Someone tried to shoot me when I was leaving Pearson’s house. I tracked them to the woods, but I couldn’t find them.”
Fatigue crashed into Grey, and he reluctantly pulled out the last chair and sank into it. “So you really think Stratmore was working with someone who is still out there?”
Edward nodded. “And if I’m right, that person will be coming for us.”
Grey rolled his shoulders to combat his mounting tension. Evidence was piling up against Madelaine’s father. Evidence that seemed hard to deny.
Gravenhurst leaned forward. “Keep the faith, Grey. Edward isn’t always right. Only usually.”
Edward took a drink from his flask, then wiped the back of his hand across his mouth, eyeing Grey with what appeared to be amusement mingled with respect. “No, I’m not always right. But I’ve never been wrong when it comes to my work.”
Grey glanced at Gravenhurst who nodded in confirmation.
“Then what do you propose we do? Stratmore isn’t confessing, and I’d venture to say the threat of death won’t even break the man.”
“I’d have to agree,” Edward said thoughtfully. “So we won’t threaten him. We’ll strike at the one person he cares about.”
“You can’t mean to use…” Gravenhurst began, but got no more than that out before Grey’s fist crashed into this brother’s nose, sending him sprawling backward onto the floor with blood gushing down his face.
White fury consumed Grey as he towered over his brother. “You’ll use Madelaine to break her father over my dead body.”
Edward glowered up at Grey while searching for a linen square. Growling when he found his pockets empty, he snatched the rumpled cravat that Gravenhurst shoved at him. After the bleeding of his nose was stopped, he lowered the blood-soaked cravat, his eyes narrowing into dark, green slits. “Am I to take it,” he said, in a voice muffled by his blood-clogged nose, “that you care for the lady?”
“Take it any damn way you please,” Grey snarled, unable to bring his temper down. “You won’t use her. I won’t stand for it.”
Shrugging off Gravenhurst’s help, Edward stood and dusted himself off. “Need I remind you that you vowed to serve the king over all others?”
“You need not,” Grey said. His father would be damned disappointed if Grey failed at being a spy on his very first assignment. His stomach burned with the poison of what he had to do. He could not fail the king, and he had to somehow protect Madelaine. “Whatever you have in mind for Lady Madelaine, I’ll be the one to do it.”
“You’re sure?” Edward’s eyes lost their hard edge, softening now with sympathy. “Wouldn’t it be easier for you to let Gravenhurst or myself handle the lady? If what I have in mind doesn’t work, then we’ll have to use her, deceive her, and maybe even put her life in danger.”
He recoiled at his brother’s suggestion. “I’ll do it,” he said, determined to protect Madelaine from his brother, her father, and whoever else might be lurking out there. He’d promised to protect her, and that was one promise he’d keep, no matter what he had to do not to break it. He may have given the king his vow, but he’d given Madelaine his heart.
With the Queen gone from the castle for the last month life should have been perfect for Madelaine. Yet despite, her solid friendship with Elizabeth and having as much time to slip away and practice archery as one could hope for, unhappiness shrouded each day that Grey failed to return. The least he could have done, if he had a sensitive bone in his body, was to write a letter and let them know he’d arrived home safely.
Maybe he was not writing because he’d decided that courting her was more trouble than she was worth, but he should be kind enough to send word to his sister. Elizabeth had almost died for goodness sake. Didn’t the man know worry could put a person back in their sick bed? Convincing herself she had to write Grey for Elizabeth’s sake, Madelaine put pen to paper and demanded he write to his sister immediately if he wasn’t planning on coming back before they were all old and gray.
She reread the letter when she was done. It was good. Commanding without being harsh, and she’d managed to resist mentioning how much she missed him nor had she reminded him of his promise to come back for her. She folded the letter to seal it, but her backbone dissolved as she thought of never seeing Grey again.
What good would being stoic do her if he married another? Carefully, she opened the letter, dipped her quill in ink and penned one last line. I do miss you terribly, in case you doubt my feelings. She sealed the letter and took it to be sent before she could reconsider how desperate the last line probably made her seem.
She didn’t expect the letter to make Grey magically appear, though she half hoped it would, so several days later when Elizabeth confided that her eldest brother Edward was coming to collect her and take her home—as it had been decided by the family that Court life might be too stressful on someone recovering from near death—Madelaine had to hurry from the room before Elizabeth saw the tears threatening to spill over.
Once in the safety of her room, Madelaine dashed the tears away as she paced back and forth. Just because Grey wasn’t coming did not mean he didn’t still want to court her. Perhaps, something had arisen at home that required his attention or maybe Elizabeth’s eldest brother simply wanted to be the one to collect Elizabeth since he’d not seen her in so long.
There was no point in believing the worst, until the worst was confirmed. And if it was? She flopped down on her bed with a groan. If Grey had changed his mind about her, she would simply have to carry on. Exactly how, escaped her at the moment, since she was quite certain she had fallen in love with him.
Two days later, Madelaine was helping Elizabeth pack her last few things when a knock resounded at the door followed by a gruff, “Elizabeth. Might I enter?”
A broad smile spread across Elizabeth’s face. She dropped the shawl she’d been folding and gripped Madelaine’s arm. “That’s Edward. Perhaps Grey has come as well!”
Despite Madelaine’s best intentions not to get her hopes up, the emotion swelled inside her. Elizabeth swung open the door, and Madelaine barely managed to gulp back her cry of joy. Instinctually, she moved toward Grey, but stopped when his gaze locked on her. She’d seen that frigid look before when he’d sized up Lord Thorton, but this was worse than Grey’s murderous gaze of anger. He stared at her as if he’d never seen her before, as if she were a stranger.
“What’s happened?” She didn’t care that it wasn’t her place to demand any answers. Grey blinked, his expression changing from cold to warm, as he seemed to so easily do. He didn’t fool her. A haggardness of body and spirit clung to him. It wasn’t just the beard and blood-shot eyes that made her think so. He was different. There was a hardness to his eyes
that he’d not possessed a month ago.
“Let’s all go into the chamber,” Elizabeth’s eldest brother suggested.
Elizabeth pulled Madelaine back inside with her, and they settled on the bed. The men didn’t sit, but loomed over them, until finally Elizabeth’s eldest brother offered Madelaine a cursory nod. “I’m the Duke—” Grey’s brother abruptly stopped his introduction, his face whitening. “You must be Lady Madelaine?”
Madelaine nodded, but before she could say anything else, Elizabeth scrambled from the bed and stood toe-to-toe with her eldest brother. “What do you mean introducing yourself as a duke?”
“You bloody clod,” Grey snarled at his brother as he took Elizabeth by the arm. It almost seemed he intended to hold her up. Madelaine furrowed her brow. “Liz,” Grey said in a soft voice. “Mother and Father are dead.”
“What?” Elizabeth whispered. The confusion clouding her face mirrored Madelaine’s feelings.
“Dead,” Grey tried again with such heartbreaking gentleness that Madelaine’s nose and throat burned with the sudden need to cry.
“I don’t believe you.” Elizabeth’s voice was raspy.
When her declaration was met by silence, she repeated herself louder. “I don’t believe you,” she screeched, her eyes turning wild, her fingers clawing at her brother’s arms for release.
Madelaine couldn’t move. The scene transfixed her in horror to the bed. Politeness demanded she quietly exit, but she could not make her legs work nor bring herself to abandon Elizabeth and Grey for the sake of politeness.
“They are dead,” Grey reiterated.
“You’re lying,” Elizabeth accused, even as tears streamed down her face. “Why are you lying?” Her voice rose to a higher pitch. Grey gazed at Madelaine. The helplessness in his eyes broke her heart. She stood, intent on taking Elizabeth from him and holding her friend gently to try to make her hear the truth, but Elizabeth’s brother, The Duke of Ashdon, stepped forward and took Elizabeth from Grey.
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