The Duchess War (Brothers Sinister #1)(87)

“Do you have blankets?” Robert demanded. “Food?”

“What are you doing here?” Oliver replied in an unnaturally cheerful voice. “You’re on your honeymoon now. You’re supposed to be in Paris.”

“This is my fault.” Robert set the lantern down and stepped forward, dropping his voice. “I wrote those goddamned handbills. I never wanted you involved at all. It’s my fault you’re in that stinking cell.” Not a figure of speech, that. He’d come close enough to scent the air wafting from that little slot. Stinking was putting it mildly.

“Well, I surmised you were the author,” Oliver said after a short pause. “They sound like you, if you know what I mean. It was fascinating reading. Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I knew someone was obtaining false convictions for criminal sedition,” Robert huffed; his breath was white in the cold of the room. “I wanted to find out who it was. I’m the one person they couldn’t charge. If I’d told you, you might be considered an accomplice.”

“Ah. Clever.”

“Not clever enough, obviously. I’m shocked that I arrived in town in time. I imagined they would have rushed you through to conviction.”

“Apparently not.” Oliver sighed. “They’re waiting for a witness to arrive. Do you remember Lord Green, from our Cambridge days?”

“Lord Green? Yes, I remember him—but what the devil is he going to say? Have you seen him more recently than I have?”

“No, not since the time we had that last wager over the chess game, three years back. But they’ve called him to testify, and I have no idea what the devil he’s going to say.”

Chess again. It couldn’t be a coincidence. What it all meant, though… Robert shook his head.

“Well, you’ve a witness, too. I’d like to see a jury vote to convict you when the Duke of Clermont attests that he did it himself. That you knew nothing of it.”

He brought his hand up to the slot. But instead of being able to grasp his brother’s hand, or clap him on the shoulder, his fingers met a cold metal grate, the bars spaced too closely to allow more than his smallest finger through. He could only brush his brother’s fingertips.

“Here now,” the gaoler called. “None of that—passing of knives and the like where I can’t see it.”

Robert dropped his hand in frustration.

“I’ll be back in the morning,” Robert promised. “We’ll work everything out then. I’ll order a bottle of champagne in anticipation of your release.”

“Better make it a gallon of carbon oil.”

“Carbon oil?”

“This cell has lice.”

Robert winced. Dark, smelly, louse-ridden—he’d done this to his brother. The self-recrimination boiled up inside him. But if Oliver could manage good cheer…

“Good thing, then, that I couldn’t slap your shoulder,” he said.

“Ha.”

He turned to go. “I give you my word. I won’t let them convict you.”

But as he turned, he realized that a second figure had joined them in the dark—someone shorter than Robert and wider. In the darkness, he caught only a suggestion of hard muscle and imposing strength.

“No,” the man said, looking at Robert. “You won’t. I’ll hold you to that, Your Grace.”

The figure took another step forward, and the light from the lantern caught his face.

“I give my word, Mr. Marshall,” Robert repeated.

Oliver’s father looked at him. Simply looked, but he projected a quiet menace without saying a word.

“Father,” Oliver said behind them. “Stop glowering. You’re embarrassing me.”

“Hmm.” Mr. Marshall stepped forward. “We came as soon as we heard. Your mother is seeing to a place to stay. She should be here in a few minutes, once she gets past the gaoler’s wife.”

That, Robert decided, was his cue to vanish. He had to be gone before the rest of Oliver’s family appeared.

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” he promised and slipped out before he could burden Mrs. Marshall more than he already had.

There was a cabstand in the square down the street. He was on his way there when soft feet pounded up behind him.

“Wait,” a woman’s voice called. “Your Grace.”

Robert blinked in surprise and turned. A cloaked figure raced toward him and threw back her hood.

“Miss Charingford,” Robert said in surprise.

“Listen to me,” the woman said urgently, “and listen well. Stevens threw Mr. Marshall in gaol to embarrass you.”

“He succeeded. In that and more.”

“He thinks you’ll be in Paris throughout the trial. That he’ll have your man of business—”

“He’s not my man of business,” Robert spat.

“Whatever he is. Stevens thinks he can prove that the man was involved, that he can insinuate that he worked on your orders.”

Robert looked at her. “He can’t prove that,” he finally said. “It isn’t true, and I should know. He can’t prove it unless he’s suborned testimony from someone.”

Miss Charingford shook her head. “He can prove that Mr. Marshall was involved,” she said. “At least, he’s going to try.”