The Devil May Care (Brotherhood of Sinners #1) (40 page)

“Treachery.” His opponent spat the words. “Betrayal.”

“Are you mad? Whom have I betrayed?”

“
Robert Ehlert
.”

“Robert Ehlert?” Sebastian nearly dropped his guard for a moment, the name was so unexpected. “Robert Ehlert was my friend. He chose to go over to the French. He betrayed
me
.”

Lord Henry snarled and unleashed an offensive that nearly knocked the blade from Sebastian’s hand. Bloody hell, the man was strong.

Sebastian’s lungs were beginning to burn. “If you want to blame someone, blame Victoire de Laurent.”

“You still must answer for your part in his death.” The man hardly seemed winded, and the blows did not stop. “You came to arrest him.” It was an accusation.

“I had to,” said Sebastian, parrying madly, looking for another opening. “He was a traitor.”

“He was a good man. The best of men.”

“He
was
. And I fell into the same trap he did.”

Sebastian had had enough. Lord Henry spoke of honor, and seemed to mean it. He’d promised to tell him where to find Victoire if Sebastian defeated him.

With a grunt, he knocked Lord Henry’s blade aside and put all his will into a fresh attack. He lashed out with every last ounce of power he had, driving Lord Henry to the wall again.
For Sarah
.

One last thrust and he saw his opening—he caught Lord Henry’s blade from below, knocking it from the older man’s grip with a ringing clang. It slammed into a mirror, pommel first, and the glass cracked into a spider’s web.

His blade was at Lord Henry’s throat.

“Now,” Sebastian said, panting. “Tell me where Victoire de Laurent is hiding.”

Lord Henry stood with his arms stretched wide in surrender, palms out-turned. He made no more effort to resist, but the look of hatred on his face did not soften. “Not yet,” he snarled. “You don’t deserve it yet.”

“Why don’t I deserve it?”

“You could not give Robert a chance to explain himself, to make amends for what he did. He risked his life for England for so many years—you could have spared him for the sake of all he did, let him go abroad. But you hunted him down like a dog.
He
deserved better, especially at your hands. He was your mentor. He trained you.”

A shock went through Sebastian. “How do you know that?” There were perhaps a half dozen people in the world familiar enough of the inner workings of the British spy network to know of his history with Ehlert. And one of those people had given the details to Lord Henry.

Rachel knew
.

Sebastian pressed the blade harder under Lord Henry’s chin. “How do you know Robert Ehlert was my mentor? Who do you work for? The French?”

Lord Henry laughed.

More pressure—the blade drew a thin line of blood. “Did you report us to them in London? Did you send a French ship to attack the
Calliope
when we were crossing to Spain?”

“I did neither,” said Lord Henry, with remarkable calm. “Though if you were fool enough to advertise where you were going, you deserve whatever you got.”

“God damn you, tell me who you work for.”

Lord Henry spat. “No one. I work for no one. I’m no lapdog. I gather information for myself. And use the power it gives me as I like. Only simpletons like you see things in such primitive terms: the
English
, the
French
. Petty loyalties. Who cares?”

Information. Power
. Helm had been right to want to question this man. “Robert Ehlert cared. He served England loyally for many years, at least until Victoire de Laurent worked her witchcraft on him. You think he was a fool?”

“No.” The older man’s voice was fervent. “Robert was only a fool at the end.”

“You say you don’t work for the French, but you know where to find Victoire de Laurent? How?”

“I know how to find turncoats. Or turn loyal agents into turncoats. Everyone has weak spots, to the man who knows how to collect their secrets.”

Turncoats
. Even the most loyal could be turned, with the right pressure. Robert Ehlert and . . .

The bitter truth hit him all at once. “Salom
é Mirab
eau.”

“Yes,” said Lord Henry with cruel satisfaction. “I wondered when you’d figure that out. In retrospect, it was a brilliant piece of work on my part, to make your partner false to you. So you would know something of the pain I feel.”

Sebastian’s mind was fogging.
The notebook.

Sal had the notebook before she died, and she hadn’t told him about it. She’d kept him in the dark, deliberately. Because of some power Lord Henry held over her? “Why? What did you have to offer her? Or—no, not an offer, was it? You could have nothing Sal wanted. You
threatened
her. With what?”

“Does it matter? Everyone is vulnerable at one point or another. She’s been my creature for months now. And lying to you.”

Sal had lied to him. Sal had someone or something she was trying to protect. And Rachel—how much had she known?

She’s been my creature for months now.

Those words drummed in his head.
For months now
.

Ah—Lord Henry assumed Sal was still alive.

Sebastian fought to keep all emotion from his voice. “And you think she’s still loyal to you?”

Lord Henry’s grin was smug. “Of course. I met with her just the other night. To see how her project for me was progressing. She was most cooperative, as always.”

Lord Henry had met with
Rachel
. Good God.

No doubt he’d repeated his threat, whatever it was. And Rachel had been frightened, just as Sarah had . . .

Over
what
? What would Rachel need to protect, enough to make her hide the notebook?

And how had she got hold of the damned thing in the first place?

The book was written in the French cipher, and contained secrets Victoire de Laurent would kill to protect. But Sal had concealed it from the French, just as she’d concealed it from him. She hadn’t betrayed England.

What had Lord Henry said?
English
and
French
were primitive terms; he worked only for himself?

Lord Henry was studying his face now, watching with glittering eyes.

Of course
. “
You’re
the one who gave that notebook to Sal,” said Sebastian. “You wanted her to decode it for
you
.”

The man nodded. “Robert trained you well.”

“Where did you get it in the first place?” He turned the blade at Lord Henry’s throat so the man had to raise his chin to escape its bite. “If you were close enough to the French to steal it, why didn’t you know how to read it?”

“I don’t need to explain anything else to you,” said Lord Henry with a sneer. “And I wouldn’t expect you to understand what drove me. I doubt you’re capable.” His eyes showed no trace of fear. They looked, if anything,
triumphant
.

Sebastian growled, and gave the blade another twist, drawing a thin stream of scarlet. “May I remind you I’m a quarter inch away from ripping your throat open?”

“May I remind you I have information you desperately require—the location of de Laurent?”

Clearly, another strategy was required. “You told me on your honor you’d give me that information if I defeated you. I believe you are defeated.”

Lord Henry’s eyebrows raised. “Keep your own promise first.”

“
What
promise?”

“To tell me exactly what happened when Robert Ehlert died.”

“What are you talking about?” Sebastian’s eyes narrowed. “I never made you a promise.”

For the first time, Lord Henry’s look of absolute confidence wavered. “But it’s why you’re here. Why you demanded to meet with me.”

“
I
demanded? Don’t be absurd. You’re the one who made the—”

They made the realization at the same time.

“Oh, blast it all!” Sebastian withdrew the paper he’d stashed in his pocket and shook it open with his free hand so Lord Henry could see it. “Not your handwriting, I suppose?”

Lord Henry stared at the paper long and hard, and then, to Sebastian’s astonishment, Lord Henry laughed. “No, not mine. But identical to that on a message I received. Though mine asked me to leave a door unlocked, and promised the truth about Robert Ehlert. Apparently, we have both been duped.”

Duped. Brought here to kill each other. To clear a path for . . .
someone else
.

Someone else was playing the Game
.

Crushing frustration weighed on his chest; his knees threatened to buckle.

The two forged messages couldn’t have come from Rachel, could they? She was locked in her room when his message came.

“Please don’t tell me your information about Victoire de Laurent came from the same source,” he said.

“No,” said Lord Henry. “That I got straight from the duc du Bourge.”

“Tell me.”

“Tell me about Robert’s death first.”

“For God’s sake, why can that matter now?”

Lord Henry’s expression darkened, and hardened to granite. “I won’t breathe a word about Victoire until you tell me. I must know.”

“Fine, then. It was . . . simple enough. We knew from Victoire that he had betrayed us. She gloated about turning him. After the attack on Sal and I, we tracked him down to a safe house we had often used. He didn’t make it difficult for us.”

“He
surrendered
? And still you didn’t bring him back to England?” Lord Henry snarled. “You couldn’t at least give him a trial?”

“You think he would have preferred being dragged home in disgrace?”

“You shot him down as if he was
nothing
!” said Lord Henry, eyes blazing. But beneath the scorching anger in his eyes lay a well of grief. “Like an animal.”

Sebastian shook his head. “I didn’t take Robert Ehlert’s life. He took his own. He was waiting for us, quite calmly. Moments after we entered the room, he turned his pistol on himself.”

Lord Henry rocked on his feet as though the words were a pressure against his body. “He took his own life,” he said, softly. “Did he
say
anything before he did?”

“Very little.” The moment was as clear in Sebastian’s memory as the night it happened: his mentor, his old friend, sitting at little table with his hands spread on top so the men who found him could see he held no weapon, so they would not shoot on sight. But a pistol was within reach. His back was straight. His eyes clear. And anguished. “He told us he was sorry for what he’d done, and I believe he meant it.”

“He was
sorry
?” Lord Henry’s eyebrows rose. “Was he specific about which part he regretted?”

“How specific did he need to be? He’d betrayed us, his friends, his colleagues, his country.”

“Did he mention those things, those things in particular?”

“No.”

“He said nothing about . . . He did not mention . . . ?” Lord Henry broke off, seeming suddenly far older than he had just minutes before.

What was it the man wanted to hear? Sebastian focused on the memory of Robert Ehlert’s face. The guilt he saw there. The regret. “He was sorry. I daresay he looked . . .
heartbroken
. He clearly felt he deserved to die.”

Lord Henry drew in a breath so deep it seemed it might split his chest in two, and then his body slumped back against the cracked mirror. He closed his eyes for a long moment, thinking heaven only knew what thoughts. At long last he spoke. “Heartbroken?” he asked.

Sebastian remembered the look he’d seen in his old mentor’s eyes. “Yes,” he said. “That would be an accurate description.”

“Heartbroken.” Lord Henry repeated, and nodded, and it seemed some weight had been lifted from his chest. “Thank you for telling me that,” he said.

Sebastian stared at him, puzzled.
That
was what Lord Henry wanted to hear?

The older man straightened again, all at once regaining his former look of dignity and strength. “In that case,” said Lord Henry, “you may live.”

Sebastian blinked in surprise. And the hairs rose on the back of his neck.

He glanced quickly into the mirror behind Lord Henry, and upwards—and saw the muzzles of two muskets propped on the rail of the gallery, both trained right at his back
.

Damnation
.

They’d been watched this whole time. Apparently, Lord Henry’s definition of “honorable man” was a bit on the flexible side.

At a wave from Lord Henry, the muzzles disappeared from sight. Sebastian lowered his blade.