Her Reformed Rake (Wicked Husbands #3)(63)
It was the role he played for the world—drunken lothario, hardened rake, lighthearted man about town. In truth, the Duke of Carlisle was an odd fish—severe, harsh, dark, and deadly. Sebastian had once witnessed him gut a man with his blade before calmly wiping it clean with a monogrammed handkerchief.
For some odd reason, the sight and scent of that long-ago moment returned to him now. France, ten years before, on the outskirts of Paris. They’d been on a mission to free Griffin, and they’d been beset by a small party of German soldiers. The odds had been against them—Sebastian and Carlisle against five—but they’d prevailed. Carlisle had been a savage, killing two of the Germans with his bare hands and a third with his knife. Sebastian had dispatched the other two. Strange, so strange, that he should recall that day just now.
The butler disappeared, the door clicked closed.
Sebastian faced his superior. “Will I need a drink for whatever reason you’ve ordered me here?”
“Two minutes,” the duke muttered, his expression turning as grim as a death mask.
It was highly unusual for Carlisle to reveal he had the capacity to experience emotions. Seeing this side of him disturbed Sebastian, who watched as his superior stalked to the sideboard, snatched up a decanter, and poured whisky into two glasses. Not even after killing the three Germans had Carlisle been this disjointed.
Sebastian extracted his pocket watch, heeding Carlisle’s warning that it would not be safe to speak freely until two full minutes had passed. He accepted the whisky the duke offered him, tilted back his head, and swallowed the contents in a fiery gulp. It burned a path straight to his gut.
He flicked another glance at his watch. “Two minutes has passed.”
“A bomb was discovered early this morning by a night constable,” Carlisle said, taking a hearty swallow of his own spirits before continuing. “It didn’t detonate, thank Christ. The poor sod saw a smoldering box and was foolish enough to extinguish the flame. Thanks to his foolishness, the residence of the lord mayor still stands.”
A desolate streak of despair snaked through him. They had heard whisperings from their operatives stationed in America for many months now that London was a target. The explosion at the armory in Salford had been but the beginning. The Fenian foe had been growing in numbers, power, and audacity. But until now, the threat had seemed nothing more than that—a threat to be monitored and obliterated before it manifested itself in far more dangerous means than chattering amongst spies, ebullient rallies, and incendiary articles. London, the League had been sure, would be far too risky of a target for the Fenians to pursue.
It would seem that was a grave fallacy.
At long last, their greatest fear had become a reality in the heart of London.
“Jesus,” he said slowly, passing a hand over his face. The whisky had begun its pleasant, detached warming of his senses, but it did nothing to dull the urgency of the matter facing them. Griffin’s warning of the day before churned through him: the bloody submarine. This is war. Fuck. “What information do you have?”
“Not much at this juncture. The constable took the box to Bow Lane station. There was almost forty pounds of gunpowder filling the damn thing, along with some foreign newspapers and two addresses, one in London and another in Liverpool.” Carlisle stalked back to the sideboard, slamming his half-full whisky glass on the carved mahogany with such force that Sebastian was shocked it hadn’t shattered. “Our men are investigating the addresses as we speak. If the constable had not walked by when he did, the bomb would have exploded. He’s bloody fortunate he wasn’t killed. Another thirty seconds, perhaps, and he would have been.”
Forty pounds of gunpowder. Holy God. The bastards who had fashioned the bomb had intended to cause a great deal of destruction. They needed to be stopped by whatever means necessary and as quickly as possible.
A sickening sense of inevitability slid home inside him. He thought of Daisy, then, and how he’d allowed himself to believe that he could actually be free of the burden of this life and all its duties and encumbrances. Griffin had been right. This was war, damn it, and the enemy had infiltrated London, prepared to maim and kill as many innocents as possible. How could he possibly leave the League now, in such a time of need?
Had he imagined that he could ever leave this life? That he could simply be a man in love with a woman? That he could retire to Thornsby Hall and raise golden-haired babies with Daisy? In the span of an hour, everything had changed. A bomb had been set. Lives were in jeopardy. This was bigger than all of them. Bigger than his own selfish desires.
He knew what he must do.
He stiffened in his seat. “How can I be of service?”
“The Home Office wants you in Liverpool immediately.” Carlisle’s answer was quick, decisive. He’d likely spent the dawn hours crafting his strategy.
“Why Liverpool?” he asked, recognizing that such an assignment would take him from Daisy when the last thing in the world he wanted to do was leave her side, especially with so much unfinished business between them. Just last night, she had told him she loved him. He needed to tell her the truth, to beg her forgiveness.
But first, he had an oath to uphold.
And he would loyally uphold that oath until he met his end or until he was relieved of his duties, whichever came first. The last fortnight aside, he was capable of thinking and acting like a rational, loyal subject of the Queen. Like a man who had been tasked with defending England and her people from all supposed threats, whether or not they happened to be lovely, golden-haired, luscious-lipped sirens who smelled of vanilla and bergamot.