Her Reformed Rake (Wicked Husbands #3)(77)
“Trent?” Carlisle’s voice—tinged with something he’d swear was concern if he didn’t know better—pierced the fog of wrath that had infected his mind.
“What would you have me do?” he rasped.
Carlisle’s chiseled face hardened even further. “You’ll need to return to London at once. Griffin will accompany you when he returns. According to all the intelligence the Home Office has been able to gather, signs indicate quite strongly that she’s been tasked with infiltrating the Special League. It would appear that you are her target.”
Her target.
The two words echoed in his mind, a taunt. It all made perfect, disgusting sense. A beautiful heiress who’d set the ton on its ear. She’d danced her way through a series of suitors and balls, setting off wagging tongues but avoiding ruination. Daisy was the siren meant to lure his ship into the jagged rocks. She’d put on a pretty show of fearing her father. And he’d been sympathetic. His honor had demanded he protect her, even in the face of all logic, reason, and yes, duty.
He was no one’s target, damn it. He was one of the finest spies in all of England. There was no way in hell he would allow himself to be outfoxed by a sultry siren who smelled of bergamot and made him hard simply by being in the room.
He straightened, forcing himself to focus. “I return to London and then what? Wait for those bastards to set off another bomb?”
A strange expression crossed his superior’s face. “No. You need to keep a watchful eye on your wife. Find out how much she knows. Discover her connections. Gather as much information for us as you possibly can so that we can send more double operatives to infiltrate their ranks. And do whatever you must to break her and gain the information we need.”
To break her.
The notion shouldn’t fill him with… what, sadness? He couldn’t define the sensation hollowing him out. Didn’t want to. “As you order, Your Grace.” Suddenly, he needed to escape. He felt as if the air had been sucked from the chamber and he couldn’t properly breathe. “I will take my leave and begin preparations for my return posthaste.”
He pivoted on his heel, ready to flee. Trying not to run from the room. From the demons. From the price of doing what he must. From the burden of duty.
“Trent?”
Sebastian halted, turning back to his superior.
Carlisle had the appearance of a man at his mother’s funeral. A foreign sensation crept through Sebastian, filling him with dread. He knew what the duke was going to say before the words ever left his mouth. His entire body tightened, bracing for it.
“Prepare yourself, Trent,” Carlisle said finally. “She is a woman, I know, but under the proper circumstances, a bolder course of action may have its merits, if you take my meaning.”
He was sure he did, but he wanted to be certain. “You want me to… kill her?”
Asking the question filled him with ice. Dread expanded in his chest. Disgust curdled his gut.
His superior inclined his head, his gaze steady. “I want you to take whatever action you deem necessary as you carry out your duty to the Crown and the innocents under our protection.”
Jesus. Sebastian’s mouth went dry. The Duke of Carlisle wanted him to murder Daisy. He was giving him permission. An indirect order. Even if she was guilty of every crime Carlisle suspected her of and more, women and children were… damn it, they were women and children. Men could be gutted, shot, hanged, or drowned. Burnt alive. Any number of torturous ends could be their fate in the name of duty. But not women.
Not Daisy.
Not his wife, regardless of how duplicitous and conniving she may be.
He’d sworn an oath to the League, to his Crown, yes. But he’d also sworn an oath before God. An oath to her. And even if she was the most deceptive viper in all of England, he still loved her. Bloody hell.
Without another word, he stalked away. He made it out the door before he cast up his accounts into the mud and dung-caked street.
aisy returned from yet another evening’s entertainment. It was well after midnight, and she was weary, as much from the lateness of the hour and the strain of the charade she maintained as from her delicate condition.
All night long, she had feigned smiles and flirted madly. Danced with as many rakes and scoundrels as she could find. She’d laughed, pretended to be a merry wife who hadn’t a care in the world that she’d been left behind.
Pretended that she hadn’t been left to gather dust in a Belgravia townhouse as if she were of no greater import than the landscapes and former dukes once lining the walls. That she didn’t mind if she had no inkling of her husband’s whereabouts and nowhere to send a proper letter aside from barraging his estates. That she’d received not one godforsaken word from him.
It was as if he’d vanished as surely as Bridget had.
Once ensconced in the solitude of her bedchamber, she plucked the earrings from her ears and slipped off her dress shoes. They were aquamarine satin, fetching creations that matched her ensemble perfectly, but hours of clipping about in heels had left her feet aching.
Closing her eyes and releasing a sigh, she rolled her head about her shoulders, seeking to loosen her tense muscles. She had instructed Abigail not to wait up for her, and Hugo was already asleep in the comfortable bed he preferred in the lower salon. She was alone. The silence after such a raucous evening was enjoyable.