‘There is always talk of plots and treason,’ Wolfingham dismissed scathingly.
‘This time it is different.’ The older man frowned darkly. ‘Perhaps you will better understand the situation if I tell you that in the past week plots to assassinate the tsar and the Austrian emperor have been discovered and the assassins dealt with. That such a plot, despite all our efforts to make it otherwise, still exists in regard to our own Prince Regent.’
‘Good lord!’ Wolfingham slowly lowered his body down into one of the armchairs, his face pale.
Maystone nodded. ‘Five days ago two people, a tutor and a footman, attached to and working in the households of two prominent politicians, were taken in for questioning on the matter. My own private secretary was taken into custody late last night,’ Maystone continued grimly. ‘And he is even now being questioned as to the part he has played in the plot to assassinate the Regent himself.’
‘How is such a thing possible?’ Mariah breathed faintly, her hand shaking as she lifted it to her mouth.
Maystone gave Darian a telling glance. ‘I am sure you, at least, will better understand the seriousness of this threat if I say that your old friend Rousseau was involved?’
Both men were well aware that the Frenchman was no friend of Darian’s. Indeed, Rousseau was responsible for the bullet wound in Darian’s shoulder. As Darian was responsible for having brought the other man’s life to a swift and sudden end.
He gave a shake of his head. ‘He left England and returned to France almost a year ago.’
‘But not before he had set up a network of his own spies and assassins amongst the households of some of the leading members of the English government,’ Maystone rasped disgustedly. ‘All set in place and ready to act when or if Napoleon departed Elba and attempted to return to France as emperor, which, as we all know, he is currently doing. At which time the heads of the allied countries were to be eliminated, an act designed to throw the governments of the alliance into chaos.’
Darian lay his head back against the chair and closed his eyes, better understanding the reason for Maystone’s agitation now. Such a plot as the other man was outlining could have had, might still have, a devastating effect on the shaky alliance formed against Napoleon.
Especially so, as Napoleon was even now marching triumphantly towards Paris, an army of hundreds of thousands at his back. And all without, as Napoleon had claimed it would be, a shot being fired.
‘How was it even possible for a Frenchman to do such a thing?’ Mariah frowned.
Maystone gave a humourless grimace. ‘Because he worked and lived in England for a year under the guise of tutor to a son of a member of the aristocracy. Jeffrey Lancaster, the future heir and now the Earl of Malvern, to be exact.’
‘You are referring to the French tutor the Lancaster chit eloped with last year?’ Mariah gasped. ‘Does it surprise you, knowing what you do now, that I have made a point of knowing these things?’ she added dismissively as Wolfingham gave her a frowning glance.
‘That “Lancaster chit” is now the Duchess of Hawksmere and the wife of a close friend of mine!’
he reminded stiffly.
‘She was also the lover of this man, André Rousseau, for several months, if I am to understand this situation correctly,’ Mariah maintained stubbornly.
‘Situations are not always as they appear.’
‘As I once reminded you,’ Mariah said pointedly ‘You—’
‘Could we please concentrate on the subject at hand?’ Maystone interrupted irritably, before sighing heavily. ‘Yes, my dear Mariah, for the sake of clarity, I can confirm that you are quite correct in believing that André Rousseau was tutor to young Jeffrey Lancaster for a year and also the same man who persuaded Lancaster’s sister Georgianna into eloping with him. I would like to add in her defence,’ he continued firmly, ‘that she was also responsible for bringing us information vital to our government just weeks ago. Information that also resulted in Rousseau’s death in Paris just fifteen days ago.’
‘Fifteen days ago?’ Mariah did a quick calculation in her head as she recalled that it had been nine days ago that Wolfingham had told her he had been shot ‘six days ago, to be precise’.
It did not take a genius to add nine and six together and come up with the correct answer.
She slowly turned to look at Wolfingham, knowing by the challenging glitter in those emerald-green eyes as he returned her gaze, that her calculations were correct.
Wolfingham had killed André Rousseau in Paris fifteen days ago.
And in doing so he had received a bullet wound to his shoulder.
She had no doubt now that Darian Hunter, the haughty Duke of Wolfingham, was not only a spy for the Crown, as she was, but that he had also travelled to France in the past three weeks, in the midst of the turmoil of the Corsican’s escape and return to France, and succeeded in killing the man who was a known spy for Napoleon.
As Wolfingham had killed others, in the past, who had threatened the security of the Crown?
It was both shocking and a little daunting to realise there was so much more to the Duke of Wolfingham than the disdain he chose to show outwardly and those flashes of passion he had so ably demonstrated to Mariah privately.
So much so that Mariah now viewed him with new and wary eyes. She had already considered her unwanted physical response to Darian Hunter to be a risk to her peace of mind, but this new information, on exactly what sort of a man the Duke of Wolfingham really was, now caused Mariah to consider him as being completely dangerous.
Indeed, he reminded her of a stalking predator, a wolf, hiding behind a mask of stern urbanity.