He had been wrong about Davis. He hadwrongedDavis. And he had not—he had not protected him from their father’s influence. Had not even known that his brother needed his protection.
His voice came out unsteady. “Wait. Hold a moment.”
His brother was leaning over his horse’s mane now, pushing ahead. “I didn’t need him. Or you or Strathrannoch. I made my own way.”
The resentment on Davis’s face was as familiar to Arthur as the shape of his own hands. He knew it in every bone and sinew; it colored so many memories.
But not all of them. He could look at his brother’s dark head, bent over his mount, and see the boy who’d thrown the trout, one by one, back into the river.
And then Davis looked up. His knuckles had gone white on the reins. “But oh—Christ, Arthur. This time I cannot do it alone. We have to get to her in time, and I need—I—” His voice cracked, his words stumbling to a halt unfinished.
But he did not need to finish. Arthur knew what he meant.
“Aye,” he said. His own voice was hoarse, barely audible over the sound of his gray’s hooves on the street.
He knew precisely how hard it was to ask for help when youdid not believe that you deserved it. When you did not think it would be freely given.
Anger, fear, regret—none of that mattered now. Nothing mattered except making sure that Lydia was safe.
“We’re almost there,” he said roughly.
Davis did not look at him when he spoke. “I can’t let her be hurt because of me.”
“It’s all right,” Arthur told his brother. “We’re going to make it in time. I swear it.”
Chapter 27
To my dear br— J—
—fragment of a note left at Belvoir’s, ink-smeared, illegible
Lydia was starting to suspect that Claudine Thibodeaux did not have a weapon on her person.
If she’d had one, Lydia was fairly certain Claudine would have pulled it out and fired the third time Lydia knocked over the inkwell.
Unfortunately, Didier’s pistol was still trained on Lydia’s chest and had been since the moment the Thibodeaux had come through the door. They’d been expecting Jasper in the office, but they had not been disappointed to find her instead. In the confusion, it had become clear to Lydia that though they still did not know Jasper’s true name, they had uncovered the fact that he was her brother from the note he’d left in her chamber at Kilbride House.
Lyd, he’d written,I’ve been called back to London. I’ll break the news of your marriage to Mother. Stay here in Scotland with Strathrannoch.
They knew Jasper was her brother—and they knew he was a spy.
The larger revelation to Lydia, though, was the fact that Davis had not been working with the Thibodeaux, as she’d believed, but rather for the Home Office alongside Jasper.
Traitre, Claudine had called him. Traitor.
Lydia’s first reaction had been a relief so potent it nearly knocked her from her chair. Arthur—Arthur was going to be so happy. His rifle scope would not be used for violence. His brother—his beloved baby brother—had not intended to hurt anyone.
But her relief had been short-lived. She’d been mistaken about the Thibodeaux’s plans—they all had. Once the Thibodeaux had worked out Davis and Jasper’s association from the letters in her chamber, they had altered their scheme.
Now, it seemed, they meant to mount an attack on the Home Office itself. And they thought to use Lydia as bait.
His pistol pointed at her chest, Didier had informed Lydia in no uncertain terms that she was to write to Jasper at the Home Office and tell him to come and find her at Belvoir’s. They meant to lure him here and then—
Well. They had not said precisely, but Lydia did not think it boded well for Jasper.
She’d dithered and dallied, allowed her voice to tremble pitifully. For once, the tears that came easily to her eyes felt not like a vulnerability but a strength.
Let them think her helpless. Let them believe she was not a threat. She held Georgiana’s pearl-handled pistol tight against her thighs.
