Charlotte opened her mouth to answer, then paused, considering her answer. “She is a free Black woman, but she was once a slave.”
The archangel raised a brow. “Does she work for you?”
Charlotte nodded.
“Does she receive wages?”
“No, but—”
“Then she is a slave. Despicable.” He waved a hand, dismissing her protest.
Charlotte had no intention of telling him that she would have paid Addy had she any money.
“What exactly is your business with Mr. Pettigru?”
Charlotte shook away the hair that had fallen in her eyes. Somewhere she had lost her bonnet, and her bound hands itched to brush the loose tendrils from her face. “That, sir, is none of your concern.”
“I see. How long have you been Mr. Pettigru’s . . . companion? Who else do you service?”
Charlotte stared. “Are you suggesting I am a—I am Cade’s—” She swallowed, unable to find the words. Cade was a friend, her brother’s friend— nothing more. Hot, heavy shame coiled in her belly at the insinuation. The angel arched his brows, his expression arrogant and knowing. Charlotte seethed. He knew nothing. Instead of ignoring the comment, she spluttered, “How dare you, sir!”
Middleton held up a hand. “Miss Burton, if you do not wish us to make assumptions, kindly explain for yourself.”
Charlotte continued to glare at the archangel. “Cade is—was my brother ’s best friend in Charleston. We never—he was never . . . ” She looked down.
The archangel stepped forward, once again crowding her into the berth. “If you are not Pettigru’s mistress, then what is your business with him? He said he would come for you. What are you to him?”
“I told you. We’re friends. This was just a friendly visit,” she lied. She would never tell these bastard English why she was really here, how much pain and anguish their kind had caused her. Tears pricked at her eyelids, and she willed them away. Emotion would not sway this man. Like all warriors, he feared it.
“And you came all this way to visit Pettigru?” Middleton asked. “How long has he been a family friend?”
“Who are his contacts? His sources?” the archangel inquired. “How will he find you?”
Charlotte shook her head. The questions were becoming a rapid barrage, and she couldn’t concentrate as the men’s voices melded into each other’s. Who, why, when?
“Dash it all!” the archangel finally exploded. “Miss Burton, are you or are you not spying for the French?”
“What?” Charlotte stared at him, then at Middleton. “Are you both mad?”
“Cade Pettigru is a spy,” the archangel growled. “An enemy working with the French government and the Americans against England. My friend, a loyal Englishman, died today at Pettigru’s hand. I will not allow another of my countrymen to die at the hands of a spy or”—he gave her a hard look— “the soiled hands of a slave owner.”
Charlotte narrowed her eyes. “Who are you?” She glanced at the other men. “Who do you work for?” She was afraid she knew, but she had to ask anyway.
The archangel bowed low, sweeping his hand across his chest. “Lord Alfred Dewhurst, baron and agent for the British Foreign Office.”
Charlotte’s knees gave way, and she was glad to have the berth beneath her. Oh, George, but she was doomed now. British spies! How had she managed to stumble into the very men she most wished to avoid? “Please,” Charlotte murmured, “I am not a spy, and neither is Cade. This is all a terrible mistake—”
“No, Miss Burton. There is no misunderstanding,” the archangel said. “Cade Pettigru is a spy, and by association, you are as tainted with guilt as he. Now I suggest you either tell us what you know or you’ll be tried for treason and”—he lifted a strand of her copper hair—“burned for the witch you are.”
Chapter Two
Freddie groaned as the first wave of nausea hit. The men had released his cousin Sebastian’s yacht from its moorings, and it was now drifting steadily down the Thames. London Bridge swayed before Freddie’s eyes.
“Lord Dewhurst,” one of the crew said. “We’re under way.”
Freddie nodded.
“Are you well, my lord?”
