He hesitated a moment, then closed his fingers around the spongy wooden plank. A pitiful weapon, perhaps, but better than nothing.
And yet his mind recoiled at the thought. Could he truly use a weapon—any weapon—against his brother?
It felt impossible. But he would do what he must if it was the only way to stop Davis.
Arthur shifted the plank in his grip and moved more quickly up the narrow stairs, his lungs working, his heart racing in his chest. From exertion. And from fear of what awaited him.
At the top of the stairs, he found a single, tiny door. Beyond that door was the roof of the tower, the narrow crenellations he had seen from the ground—and Davis, if Lydia’s suppositions were correct.
The door wasn’t locked. He grasped the handle, eased the door open, and was briefly dazzled by the brilliant November sun and the crystalline blue of the sky.
When his vision cleared, he saw Davis, the butt of a rifle at his shoulder and the barrel pointed directly at Arthur’s chest.
Beside him was Jasper Hope-Wallace.
Everyone froze: Davis with the rifle, Arthur with his plank, and Jasper with his hand on the pistol at his waist.
And then Davis lowered his weapon. “Arthur?” he said disbelievingly. “What the devil are you doing here?”
Jasper leapt into motion, pushing Davis aside and moving to the threshold where Arthur stood. “Have you come alone? Damn it, was there anyone else down there?”
Arthur felt blood pounding in his ears, his whole body tense, the muscles of his forearm knotted where he held the plank. “I’m alone. Hope-Wallace, what is this? Why are you withhim?”
Davis was looking blankly from Jasper to Arthur and back again. “You know each other?”
“Yes,” said Jasper grimly, “but your brother is meant to be in Scotland right now.” He finished his perusal of what lay beyondthe threshold and turned back to Davis, who was still standing between the stone crenellations, the rifle dangling from his hand. “The parade’s nearly over. I don’t think they’re coming, Baird.”
“Who’s not coming?” Arthur demanded.
At the same moment, Davis said, “How in Christ’s name do you two know each other?”
Jasper shoved the door closed with a bang. “I met Lord Strathrannoch when I was at Kilbride House. And why the hell he is not in Scotland where I specifically told him to remain, I cannot fathom.”
All of Davis’s attention was fixed on Arthur. He was blinking erratically, like a mechanical toy out of proper order. “You were at Kilbride House? Why?”
“I was looking for you, goddamn it! Did you think I would let you take off with the rifle scope and not try to track you down? I couldn’t—I couldn’t allow you to…” Arthur’s gaze flicked to the rifle in Davis’s hands, but the scope he’d designed was nowhere to be seen.
Jasper turned to Arthur, tipping his chin back so they were eye to eye. “Your brother stole your rifle telescope on my orders. He did not intend to use it.”
“On your orders?” Arthur said. “Davis works foryou?”
Davis was staring at them both, his jaw working, his face tense. He looked agonized, his green eyes blazing in the sun.
“Yes,” Jasper said. “Davis has been working for me—for the Home Office—for nearly half a decade.”
Arthur’s mind reeled. Five years—over the last five years, Davis had seemed to abandon everything he’d once believed in. He’d ingratiated himself with the Scottish aristocracy he’d once despised. He’d supported—he’dpretendedto support the Clearances.
All of it had been a lie.
“For eighteen months,” Jasper went on, “we’ve been tracking a group of Bonapartists who mean to assassinate the Duke of Wellington. We stopped their first attempt in Paris on the strength of your brother’s intelligence, but Davis learned that they meant to try again upon Wellington’s return to London. This goddamned rifle scope was meant to convince them to trust Davis. It was meant to be the bait that lured them into the open.”
Davis worked for the Home Office. Davis was not part of an assassination plot. He was working to stop one.
His brother had not intended to hurt anyone.
Relief was a detonation in Arthur’s chest, an explosion so fast and consuming that he felt light-headed. “Bait?” he said hoarsely. “All of this was…”
“A trap,” said Jasper. “A trap we’ve spent months cultivating.” He slammed his hand against the stone crenellations, a quick powerful burst of frustration. “And it has not worked.”
