The room was much the same as she remembered it, with its masculine, sombre carpets and grey wallpaper, sparse oak furniture visible through the partly open curtains. There was Silverton’s desk, large and wide, taking up much of the room, and from where Maeve was stood, she could see the desk was filled with drawers. There was a broad window by it whose view was a stark contrast of spring-like blossom. His chair was pulled close to the desk. The room was lined with bookshelves, and in one corner was a handsomely ornate cellaret, although it seemed as if it had been emptied of alcohol.
Maeve’s breath eased out of her. This was Silverton’s dearest space, she knew it, recognised his lingering bergamot scent in this study, and it made her feel a touch safer.
It beggared belief to realise this was the first place she had ever met Silverton—almost brutish in appearance, a gentleman in name, but so much more to her in her heart than that easily given moniker. How quickly the long weeks spent together could change a person, transforming Maeve into a woman she barely knew and revealing a softer, gentler side to the stranger she’d agreed to wed.
Pushing herself from the doorway, she hurried across to the desk. Laying her knife on the dusty surface, she proceeded to prise open the drawers as quietly as she could. Her ears pricked for any sound. After the initial flurry of noise, the Hall had fallen unpleasantly silent again. Maeve was not enough of an optimist to think it meant anything good. No, she was convinced the stillness she was experiencing was much the same sensation that animals felt when they were being hunted.
Maeve’s hands dropped away from the desk in frustration; it was too obvious a hiding place. Silverton would have placed the pistols somewhere subtler. The problem was, where could that be? Her foot nudged the edge of the carpet, a roll of it lifting and curling up. As Maeve stared at it, she distinctively heard a noise from outside in the hallway. Immediately, she ducked down behind the desk, hoping against hope she would not be visible as the door swung open.
The stillness continued as whoever was at the doorway paused to survey the study. It must be him, she thought, the twin brother who tormented Silverton, who had tortured and manipulated young women for years, but the man made no noise. The door swung closed again, and Maeve let out her held breath.
She stayed crouched low to the floor, but her hands returned to the carpet, moving it back. The uneven set of the wooden flooring provided a slight clue. With one tug, she loosened it and revealed a space below. A well-hidden stash of items and documents that included a handsome flintlock, requiring little preparation to be ready to use.
A grim smile crossed her face as Maeve reflected that this made sense for her husband, to have his pistol so close, yet not easily seen. She removed it from its hiding place and stood up, the weapon heavy and cold in her hands. With fumbling fingers, she adjusted the pistol, preparing it for use. A gun like this could be used twice, then would need reloading.
As quietly as she could, she manoeuvred past the desk and towards the door. Something flashing caught her eye; a glinting gleam bounced off the knife from the parted curtain. Looking back over her shoulder, she knew immediately that it would have been visible from the door.
A blast echoed through the doorway.
Staggering backwards, Maeve flew to the side of the room, away from the doorframe. Her father’s voice spoke in her head, telling her never to turn her back, as she levelled the pistol at the doorway. If her attacker shot again, he would have to be out of bullets, and then she would have her chance to fire back. Maeve lifted the gun in readiness.
But instead, the shattered doorway eased open, and in stepped the unmistakable sight of Silverton’s brother. Not for a moment could there be any doubt. He was both worse with his appearance because of his bloodthirsty look, and yet in contrast to Silverton, he still looked like the lesser man. A personage who was familiar because of his features and yet was utterly unknown to her. Charles Brennan slipped into the study, his frame elegant, his face cruel, and his dark grey eyes focused entirely on her. Never had Maeve felt a desire to be out of her own skin more than when he stared at her, as if he was trying to understand her.
“You must be Charles Brennan,” Maeve said. She was pleased to note her voice was steady. “I can’t say I am pleased to meet you. Although, that shouldn’t be a surprise. I would imagine no one is ever happy to see someone like you.”
For a flash, a knowing half-smirk passed across Mr. Brennan’s face that hinted at a charm he must have once possessed. It vanished in a second, and Maeve was sure she had been mistaken because, when he spoke, there was no warmth to his words. “And you, the dreaded sister-in-law. It is strange so little was spoken of you in Town. Still,” he drew out this sentence as if he was musing, “that might play for my advantage. For yours too.”
Maeve had not been entirely listening, her gaze locked on his pistol. At such close range, such a weapon’s impact would be deadly, if only from the infection it might cause.
“You needn’t worry about this.” Charles waved it through the air with a nonchalance that was unnerving. “Not if you are agreeable to my plans.”
“Where’s Silverton?”
“Such touching affection.” He almost seemed to find her question funny. “I doubt Gregory has ever cared for anyone beyond those who are of use to him. But you must know since no one could ever spend longer than an hour with my brother and not know that. His transitionary nature is legendary.”
“Such a ploy would never have been necessary if you hadn’t arranged for him to be poisoned,” Maeve shot back. “It is your fault.”
“I will admit,” Charles said with a sigh, “I never thought my brother would react quite so strongly. Or so out of character. Who knew there was a sentimental streak there?” He laughed. “In truth, I thought he’d run off to find our useless and rather eccentric cousin—but it seemed dear Gregory wanted his own heir. It’s an unusual choice since he didn’t have nine months to ensure the child was here. He doesn’t have nine days, even. That’s the problem, I suppose, with not having a ready and willing mistress to provide one with a spawn. He had to turn to you. Which means he must have bribed you since I’ve never heard of you. I can only assume it would be money.”
Maeve forced herself not to protectively cover her belly or the tiny life which was nestled there. She knew with absolute certainty that Charles Brennan would level and fire at her stomach were he to know about the babe.
Aiming her own flintlock at the centre of Charles’s chest, Maeve forced herself to swallow down both her fear and revulsion. If she could keep him talking, it would give her sister time to look for her. Two guns would be better than one. Nonetheless, convincing the man opposite her that she could be won over by money seemed sensible. After all, what would Charles do if he knew how greatly Maeve loved his brother?
“What a precise guess. He did pay me.”
“I do not guess,” Mr. Brennan smiled. “It was merely the only logical conclusion.”
“Now you know it was money that motivated our wedding, and I want to get paid.” Maeve warmed to her lie as she continued, “I want to ensure my lord is safe, so I can get my payment.”
“What a venal creature you are,” Charles said. He sounded almost impressed as he watched her with new respect, although he did not lower his own pistol. “I will, of course, be more than willing to compensate you.”
“Provided I agree with your plans, I suppose?” Maeve asked.
He was far too close for Maeve’s comfort, and there was a distinctive unwashed smell to him. Unable to stop herself, her mouth twisted; her stomach was thankfully previously emptied so nothing came out.
Before Charles could reply, the study door shifted ajar, and another man entered. It had been several days since she’d seen Silverton, and in that time, he had suffered—a purplish-brown bruise was forming below his left eye, and when his gaze moved to her, it was heated with a fury she had never witnessed before. A small cry rose to Maeve’s lips at the sight of him, but Silverton looked back to his brother with a blazing anger, as if she wasn’t there.
“Charlie, she doesn’t concern you,” Silverton said. In one hand, he had a pistol and in the other a duelling sword.
