Page 7 of The Duke
She must leave if she was to reach the coast at the appointed hour. She had searched every inch of Bastien’s house, his bank vaults, and his mother’s house, and found no trace of the letter. He must have destroyed it as she’d instructed him to do. Only his knowledge of its contents remained.
She stood. An ending, at last.
As she closed the door behind herself, she felt her path and Celine’s diverge, as they must. Celine, drowsing in her dead lover’s house, in a city bitterly grinding through its revolution. Kate, on her way to the coast to meet her ship, sure the only threat she truly feared would be extinguished forever when Bastien went to the guillotine at week’s end.
Part TwoTHE KNIFE
CHAPTER THREE
THREE YEARS LATER
When Kate entered the club on St. James’s Street, it had the predictable effect. Footmen stood to attention, the majordomo came scurrying, and members nodded or hid, according to the common ledger of debt and favour. Kate acknowledged none of it and strode into the front sitting room.
“The duke’s seat, the duke’s seat, theduke’s seat,” a young woman whispered urgently as Kate approached her usual place by the fire, at which the seat’s unlucky occupant leapt to his feet and out of the way, straight into a bookcase.
Kate gave no sign she even noticed as she swept past them and on into the reading room.
Richard stayed back for a moment to say with some exasperation, “Sit down, Donald. Catch your breath. You, Lord Josephine, fetch him a brandy.” He jogged to catch up and bumped Kate’s shoulder with his. “You might spare the children. They don’t know any better.”
“What?” She had been thinking about the mines and had no idea what he was talking about.
He stared at her, then muttered anever mindand clapped her on the back, continuing on through the reading room at her side.
Richard was, as always, perfectly put together: his collars tall and starched, his cravat knotted with elaborate exactitude, every cuff turned in a crisp line. His dark hair was tousled in the fashionable manner and his pretty, dark-lashed eyes gave him a romanticair. She’d never met anyone as particular about his appearance as Richard Howard, who was a distant cousin and her closest friend.
He wasn’t with her today as either cousin or friend, however. He was here in his capacity as a member of Parliament.
Over the past year, he had been painstakingly writing a report for her, which, when complete, he would present to the Commons. It detailed the appalling, inhumane, and frequently fatal working conditions in the Earl of Wroth’s mines.
Or it would have, had Mr. Buttle not begun lying to her.
“Are you ready?” Richard said with that quiet steadiness she prized.
She raised her brows slightly. In all the time they’d known each other, had he ever seen her overcome? He gave a small, abashed shrug, and she gestured him into the private room at the back of the club.
The room was small, wood-panelled, and richly appointed. The table, which could seat six, was occupied by a single man, his hands skittering over the polished surface.
As soon as he saw her, Mr. Buttle tucked his hands out of sight. He was unshaven, his workman’s clothes rumpled. He looked frightened but defiant. That wouldn’t last long. Soon there would be only fear.
He should have listened when he was told not to cross her.
She took the seat opposite and sat back at her ease. She said nothing, long past the point where politeness dictated somebody speak. His lips began to purse and run along his teeth.
Richard, who had been the one to deal personally with Mr. Buttle through the past year, receiving secret documents and letters from him and directing him towards what they still needed—who had, moreover, put Mr. Buttle’s name forward to Kate as a reliable informant—was too agitated to sit.
After pacing the room for some minutes, he came to stand with his hands pressed into the back of the chair next to Kate. “Buttle,” he said with a haggard, resigned edge to his voice, “what the fuck are you doing?”
“What you hired me to do,” Mr. Buttle shot back, his voice overloud. “The mine workers are—”
“Handsomely compensated,” Richard cut in, taking a letter from his pocket and unfolding it. It was, as all present were aware, from Mr. Buttle himself. Richard began to read. “The children play and thrive in the sunshine, when they are not helping their mothers in the new cottages Lord Wroth had built last year. The mines are under constant improvement, installing the latest safety measures and technologies. The older boys and men are cheerful on their way to and from shifts in the mines, which last a maximum of eight hours.”
Richard threw the letter onto the table, his hand shaking a little with the force of his suppressed emotion. The only quality that could rival his steadiness was his passionate rejection of any injustice. It was this quality that had made him a rising political star. “Tell me, do they sing hallelujahs as well?”
“It’s the truth,” Mr. Buttle said mulishly. “Lord Wroth’s workers are happy. The children go to school on Sundays.”
“Bullshit,” Richard said, jabbing his finger into the letter. “Every word in here is a fabrication, bought and paid for by Lord Wroth.” The fire went out of him suddenly, and he sounded very weary when he said, “Don’t do this, Buttle. The only way we can change the hell these people are living in is by working together.”
“I told you,” Buttle said, “I’m not lying.”
