The Wolf's Pursuit (London Fairy Tales #3)(39)

"Disappointed."

"Me, too," Hunter agreed. "Though I imagine we are disappointed for two entirely different things. There is, er, something that needs your attention. As you know, I still work for the War Office. It seems that some of the codes you created are being broken and given to the French."

Lainhart shook his head violently and pointed down.

"Right. I do not have the capability to understand the codes and the three men who are suspected are ones who worked directly under you. Before you retired, was there any one of them you suspected?"

Lainhart closed his eyes and pointed up then very slowly wrote on the chalkboard. "All."

Hunter cursed. "All of them? You suspected all of them?"

Lainhart nodded.

"Why haven't you gone to anyone? Why haven't you said anything?"

His grandfather drew a line through the word and wrote again. "Need more evidence."

Hunter sighed. "I will find more evidence. You can count on that."

Lainhart leaned forward and coughed. Hunter held him so he wouldn't fall from the bed, but the minute he touched him, Lainhart stopped coughing. His knobby hands pulled at Hunter's jacket, and then he turned his head slightly to the nightstand and gave a firm nod and released him.

Hunter reached into the nightstand and pulled out a thick envelope. Evidence, it had to be. If anything, it would at least help Hunter find whom his own grandfather suspected the most.

The old man shook his head and pointed his finger up into the air. Hunter waited patiently while Lainhart drew a line through the word and wrote again.

This time it did not take long. He held up the board and pointed to the phrase, "Find killer."

Hunter felt the blood drain from his face. "What killer? Of whom are you speaking?" Were they not just talking about codes a few minutes ago?

"L-l-lucy," Lainhart ground out, his speech slurred. Sweat poured down his face as he shook his head back and forth. A tear escaped his eye. "F-f-f-inddd."

So Lainhart had gone mad. "It was an accident. She was not murdered."

Lainhart began yelling and thrashing his head back and forth. "N-n-no!"

The door to the room burst open. The old butler hobbled in and began yelling. "Is your plan to kill him, then? His heart is too weak! Leave at once!"

Hunter didn't need to be told twice. His heart twisted in his chest. How he wished that Lainhart was right, for if Lucy had been killed, that meant Hunter could do something about it now, which he couldn't.

He nodded to the butler, and made his way down the hall and down the stairs. It wasn't until he'd almost reached the door that he remembered he'd left the large packet on Lainhart's bed. Quickly, he turned, and cursed. The butler stood just behind him.

"His grace wanted you to have this. Please, do not return until you have good news."

It was possible the whiskey was talking, but the butler's one eye seemed to penetrate through Hunter's soul. Strange, his eyes were familiar. Hunter leaned forward to examine the man's face further.

"My interests lie with women, I assure you." The butler grunted and thumped Hunter on the back before leading him toward the door.

"I wasn't, that is to say, I was just examining your face to see—" Hunter scratched his head. "What did you say your name was?"

The butler gently pushed Hunter out onto the step. "I didn't. Now have a good day."





Chapter Seventeen





Wolf—

Then allow me to make myself clear. If you were in my bedroom (and yes, I dare say bedroom again — careful not to drool) I would most likely mistake you for a hairy intruder and shoot you on the spot. Though have a care, I do not wish to see blood on my floor. Perhaps then I would just push you out the window and allow the ground to break your fall. Wolves always land on their feet. Or wait, am I getting you confused with a more intelligent species?

—Red





Gwen tried desperately to seem interested when Trehmont began discussing his desire to set himself apart as a gentleman of fashion.

"For you see, French blood runs alive and true through these sturdy veins of mine. Class and fashion are in my blood, much like passion. Tell me, my dear, have you ever been with a Frenchman?" He waggled his eyebrows and laughed, though to be fair, his laugh was more of a gurgle. Apparently having a perpetual cold was another one of the things that luckily ran through his sturdy veins.

Gwen folded her hands tightly and tried desperately to keep herself from screaming at the infuriating man. She was here to do a job. If she must flirt in order to gain information, then at least she could know that after this horrid carriage ride, she would be able to plunge into a bath and wash the filth of this encounter away.

"I do not believe that topic is appropriate for an afternoon ride, my lord." She patted his hand, careful not to jerk back when he grasped it between his clammy fingers.

"Ah, but I forget, you are pure." The way he said pure made her very much doubt his intentions. Would she never be viewed as such?

Trehmont pulled back on the reins and stopped the curricle. "Shall we walk for a spell?"

Perhaps she could spook the horses in hopes that he would be more concerned for his curricle than her?

He offered his hand. Why the devil wasn't he wearing gloves anyway? She could practically feel the sweat from his hand seep into her kid gloves. Disgusting.