Page 78 of A Dangerous Engagement

“Are you all right?” Mr.Ratley asked, but there was no real concern or gentleness in his tone.

She had to take the focus off herself. “I am well, but what is happening? Do you know who the traitor is, Oliver?” She gazed up at him, still fighting the darkness that was creeping into her vision.

“Yes.” He was quiet for a moment. “Do you not know who Lady Blackstone is about to expose?”

“How could I know?” Felicity sank down in a chair at the back of the drawing room to which the ladies had all withdrawn. No one spoke. She held her breath as she stared at Mr.Ratley’s face, as if waiting to hear what he would say next, when in reality she was straining to hear any sound that might carry from the dining room.

A crash. Felicity jumped. The loud noise was followed by a thud and other scuffling sounds from the dining room. Would they murder Mr.Merrick as they had murdered that poor man in the garden?

She stood and ran toward the dining room.

Philip was very aware that he would have to go through two healthy young footmen before he could escape through either door. He might be able to accomplish that, but there were several other men in the room—although most were still suffering the effects of too much alcohol.

“Mr.Merrick, you aroused my suspicion some days ago. I cannot even put my finger on exactly what it was. Perhaps it was intuition, or the fact that I never heard you rage against the ruling class. There was always something about you.”

She made eye contact with one of the footmen and nodded. The man stepped toward Philip.

Philip jumped from his chair, knocking it backward, and dashed for the other exit. He barreled through the first footman, using his shoulder to knock him aside, then cut the man’s feet out from under him with his foot. The second footman slammed his fist into Philip’s eye before he could even get his hands up.

Philip managed to stay on his feet, but another fist punched him in the stomach. He fought to draw in a breath, bent over and reeling.

The footman stepped aside. Philip’s gaze fastened on the open doorway. He took one step, then felt the cold metal of a gun barrel jab the side of his neck.

Lady Blackstone pressed the gun hard into his skin. “Going somewhere, Mr.Merrick? I’m afraid I have to ask you to stay a bit longer.”

His cheekbone throbbed, but he still very much wanted a chance to reciprocate the footman’s blows. But when he calculated the odds of getting out of the room alive if he ignored the gun in his jugular, he decided they were not in his favor.

“Tie his hands,” Lady Blackstone ordered.

Another footman produced some rope, and they tied his hands together behind his back, pulling the rope so tight it cut into his wrists.

“May I ask why you think I’m a traitor?” Perhaps he could yet talk his way out of it.

“Do not pretend, Mr. ... What is your name again?”

“You know my name. Philip Merrick.” All the men were standing around him, flanking Lady Blackstone. Now, instead of looking weary, their eyes were alert and trained on him.

“There is no Philip Merrick of Yorkshire with a sick mother about to die.”

“I am as real as you are, my lady. My name is different from my father and mother’s. I was raised by an uncle, who adopted me and gave me the name Merrick. He was from Devonshire, but he died a few years ago. You may search it out. My father’s name is Thomas Fitzhugh.”

Lady Blackstone narrowed her eyes. “Perhaps you are telling the truth. We shall see. I have my butler and a manservant looking through your things in your room as we speak. I am sure they shall turn up evidence. But in the meantime, who will volunteer to search this traitor’s person?”

“I will.” Mr.Cartwright stepped forward. His wife must have told him of seeing Philip holding Miss Mayson’s hand in the library closet.

“Take off his coat and shirt,” Lady Blackstone said, her voice hard.

Philip pulled on his bonds, which rubbed harshly against his wrists, biting into his skin. How would he escape now?

A helpless, hollow feeling bloomed in his chest as Mr.Cartwright pulled off Philip’s neckcloth, exposing his throat. Then the man jerked Philip’s coat off his shoulders and yanked it down. The ropes binding his wrists kept it hanging from his elbows.

“Go through his coat pockets,” Lady Blackstone ordered.

He felt them rifling through his pockets while Cartwright tore the buttons from his shirt and exposed his chest, pushing the shirt off his shoulders. And there were the folded-up papers, like hot coals against his side.

Lady Blackstone’s eyes fastened on the papers. She stepped forward and snatched them from where they were tucked at the top of his trousers.

She unfolded them, her eyes scanning them. She wadded them in her fist, looked Philip in the eye, then slapped him across the same cheek the footman had struck.