Between Mr. Michael Trawler, Lord Verne, and their connections through the Home Office, they had located where Charles had been staying in the seedier side of London. It seemed Charles had yet again been committing crimes of theft and even resorted to murder, based on the body they had found at Charles’s last known location.
Their search had rendered them tired. The three of them, who were normally respectably garbed in crisp white shirts and dark wool coats, wore clothing that was dusty, worn, and spoke of their ongoing exhaustive search.
Now the three of them sat in one of the back rooms of the Home Office, drinking strong coffee and trying to calculate their next, best course of action. It was frustrating, to put it mildly, and heavy on Silverton’s chest was the knowledge that he had brought Maeve into a dangerous situation, and for that he deserved to be condemned.
“I won’t be able to stay much longer.” Verne was eyeing his pocket watch. Whilst his dearest friend was eager to catch Silverton’s twin, his mind was obviously at home with Olympe and her unborn infant. “It is high time we recruited more men from the Runners.”
“Got anything stronger?” Trawler asked, his gaze more assured and less concerned. Trawler, with tawny auburn hair, his fine business connections, and a roguish attitude had no such familial responsibilities to weigh on his conscience.
“Here you go.” Silverton handed the bottle of brandy to Trawler and drained his coffee, the taste harsh and bitter. Unable to sit still despite his tiredness, he started to pace. “I will return to the dockside,” he decided.
“What good is that going to do?” Verne asked. His tone was sympathetic, but there was also an edge of concern to it. “If you finally find Charles, you run the risk of collapsing at his feet from exhaustion.”
That fear had been beating through Silverton too. Now was the time to confess all, and hope his friends cared, no, loved him as much as he loved them since he needed them now in case he failed. An agony of fear that he would somehow forsake Maeve had kept him sleepless through their search. A fear that he had led Maeve into a deadly marriage. That his actions would lead to her death. It kept him tossing and turning at night, and whatever he offered to the silent darkness in exchange to save her, it never worked. He would need to trust others, even if it further endangered himself.
“I need your help.” The fear echoed through his voice. “I was recently informed that I will not live out the year.”
He held up his hand to cut out off the start of surprise from Trawler and Verne’s instinctive movement of reaching out towards him. If they showed too much kindness, Silverton knew he wouldn’t be able to finish. “I married to prevent Charles from inheriting. I cannot be at peace if I know my wife is in danger. When I die, if Charles is still alive, I need you to promise me that you and the rest of the Set will hunt my twin down and put an end to him.”
“You only married to gain an heir?” Verne asked. The judgment in his question was clear. Trawler let out a low whistle from surprise and shock.
Silverton shook his head. “The baby doesn’t matter. As far as I know, there isn’t one. My wife is the important thing. I need you to swear to me. Charles will kill her if he can.”
“I can’t believe you used that poor woman in such a way,” Verne said. “Dammit, Silverton, I told her she could trust you.”
His best friend’s comment cut him, but Silverton knew he deserved worse condemnation.
“I will admit I am not as well versed in title, and the rules around inheritance as you fine gentlemen,” Trawler said, trying to change the subject, “but given his crimes, surely Charles can be disinherited?”
“My mother begged me not to reveal his part in the treason. Her sanity hangs by a thread. Snap it, and I fear what the consequences would be. So, I have kept my silence over Charles’s real identity.”
“Are you arguing that your mother would rather you were endangered?” Trawler sounded dubious.
“Yes—no.” Silverton slapped his hand against his head. His brain seemed to be screaming, a bundle of anxiety and fear yelling at him in increasingly hysterical notes, and all Silverton wanted to do was crawl back to his wife’s warm embrace. Where was his famed restraint and cold heartedness? It had deserted him when he needed it most. All his thoughts were a jumble, and no decision was clear to him. Silverton felt increasingly as if he were stuck in quicksand and simply drowning faster with each desperate turn.
“I am certain”—Verne got to his feet and walked to Silverton’s side, grabbing his friend’s left hand—“that we will find Charles. If nothing else, you owe that to that poor young woman you wed.” Verne’s honest eyes burnt into Silverton, shaming him further.
Whatever Verne had been about to say was cut off by the door being thrown open. In the doorway stood a panting, frantic man. Both Trawler and Silverton drew their weapons, but Verne waved them off as he hurried to the man’s side.
“Well, Slater?”
“My lady—”
“The baby is coming?” Verne asked. His sombre face quickened with vivid emotion, and he made hurriedly towards the door, even leaving behind his own servant in his haste. “I cannot linger now, but do not fear. I will not let you your wife down. You have my word,” Verne added, and he vanished with Slater hurrying after the baronet.
Silence lingered in the room, and it felt like a dagger to Silverton’s gut. How could he ask his friends, the Oxford Set, to protect his wife, when they had other obligations?
“Not the reaction you’d hoped for?” Trawler quipped.
“My request was asked in seriousness.”
“I have few obligations beyond my own pleasure and my business.” Trawler was regarding Silverton intensely. “And it would be no trouble to my conscience to kill a man like Charles. So if you go before me, I will do my best—”
“And you will ensure that Nick, Heatherbroke, even Woolwich promise the same?” Silverton pushed.
Trawler was nodding already in answer to Silverton’s question. His hand played with the rim of his cup. “Were you likely to tell us you were dying if not for your brother?”
Awkwardness settled over him. Verne had already known the answer to this and had not bothered to ask. Some things were better kept to himself; Silverton would rather bottle it up than risk his oldest friends seeing his exposed vulnerabilities.
