Her Reformed Rake (Wicked Husbands #3)(18)
Carlisle already awaited him within as the panel clicked closed at his back. The hidden room was kept intentionally sparse lest a servant ever inadvertently discover its existence: a desk, two chairs, a lamp, decanter, and tumblers. It resembled nothing more than a place where an aggrieved man might have escaped from his harridan wife for a peaceful drink.
Except Carlisle didn’t have a wife, and the sole purpose of the hidden chamber was of a far more clandestine nature. It had been through the last two dukes, and would be carried on should Carlisle ever bear a son. The League swore oaths that extended to their progeny. With the title came the burden. And before that, a lifetime of preparation.
The duke was seated, a tumbler of whisky at hand. “You met with her?”
No greeting. No pretense of friendship. But Sebastian was accustomed to Carlisle by now. “I did,” he confirmed, striding across the small room and folding his body into one of the uncomfortable wing chairs facing his superior in command. “According to the aunt and the girl both, it is unlikely Vanreid will alter his course of a union between Miss Vanreid and Breckly. I’ll be meeting her clandestinely tomorrow afternoon and we’ll wed immediately. But are you utterly sure it’s necessary for me to marry the girl?”
Carlisle remained impassive. The man had no conscience, of that much Sebastian was certain. Very likely no soul either. “The marriage is a necessity, so do what you must. We need a reason to keep close to her and to Vanreid, McGuire, and the rest of the plotters. Arresting them now will only undermine our efforts, and as it stands, we haven’t enough against them to keep them in prison for long. We need more information.”
“Information you expect me to acquire,” Sebastian finished for him.
Carlisle inclined his head. “You’ve done well entrenching yourself in the life of a scoundrel. After you marry the girl, you’ll approach Vanreid about a dowry, making it seem as if you ruined her intentionally so that you could benefit from the union. Press him for information about his firearms factory and the illegal arms trade he’s engaging in here.”
The ruse seemed dashed transparent. “You expect him to confess he’s engaging in the illicit selling of weapons on the streets of London to a man who compromised his only daughter and ruined the match he intended for her? Forgive me, but that seems deuced unlikely.”
“Greed is never unlikely, particularly not with Vanreid’s sort,” Carlisle said. “I understand your aversion to this mission, but you cannot allow that to stand in the way of what must be done. As unpalatable as such an arrangement may be, we are fighting a unique battle. We’ve men in civilian clothes, blending in with ordinary folk on the streets, intending to kill innocents. Extraordinary times call for extraordinary measures. If we can put Vanreid in prison for the illegal firearms, it stands to reason that we can bargain with him for a great deal more information. The names of all the plotters could be within our grasp.”
Damn. There would be no eleventh hour reprieve for him at all, it seemed. “I will be granted an annulment without any repercussions? I don’t take my familial duty lightly. One day, I’ll need an heir.”
He would not—could not—sacrifice the future of the duchy to a forced marriage with anyone, let alone someone as inscrutable as Daisy Vanreid. A woman who could be plotting against his country and its people.
The duke inclined his head. “Your service to the Crown will be rewarded. I have every suspicion that this operation will end in Miss Vanreid’s arrest, which will only aid your cause.”
A chill of foreboding traveled mercilessly down his spine. No matter how much he distrusted her, the thought of Daisy imprisoned made his chest feel tight. “Her arrest?”
“Yes.” The duke’s expression hardened to rival marble. “I have several eyes on her. This afternoon, she met with an Irish shop girl who is believed to be connected to the plots. The girl has been seen meeting several suspected Fenians here in London.”
Jesus. He allowed the information to sift through his brain. Of course, he wasn’t at all shocked to learn that Carlisle had other operatives following Miss Vanreid. Sebastian was tasked solely with trailing her at social events and learning as much as he could about her habits and associations, all of which he had loyally done. But evidence—true evidence—of her complicity in any dynamite campaign seemed implausible at best.
“Miss Vanreid has not presented any indication of guilt to me,” he said stiffly. An odd surge of something streaked through him. Defensiveness? On behalf of a woman he scarcely knew? How bloody absurd.
And yet, there it was, lurking like an unwanted guest. Undeniable.
Carlisle raised a brow, his expression resembling nothing so much as a vulture who’d scented carrion. “If you’ve developed a weakness for the chit, perhaps it would be best to send another man in your place tomorrow. Briarly would do just as well, I should think.”
Damn it to hell. Briarly was a callous son-of-a-whore, League member or no, and the thought of him supplanting Sebastian on the morrow didn’t sit well. Not at all. The man had allowed six people to burn to death inside a merchant’s building in Cheapside and had nearly killed Sebastian in the process. The fire had gutted the premises, resulting in a spectacle so severe that even the Prince of Wales had visited the charred ruins the next day. The general public would never know the true story of what had happened, but Sebastian would never forget. Since that day forward, he had never again tolerated Briarly’s presence. And Carlisle knew it.