His gaze dropped to a woven basket next to the desk and he bent down to retrieve a crumpled piece of paper from within. He flattened the square sheet and peered at the words, written in Genevieve’s hand.
Today’s Modern Woman must always keep her head about her when in the company of a charming, attractive gentleman. The more charming and attractive the man, the more difficult this is to accomplish, therefore concentrating on something unrelated to him, such as mentally reciting Hamlet’s soliloquy, or something tedious such as counting to one hundred can prove very useful.
A small smile tugged at his lip at the advice. She was a remarkably insightful woman. The last line was badly smudged, no doubt the reason she’d tossed the sheet away. For reasons he couldn’t explain, other than to know he couldn’t throw that bit of her back into the trash, he folded the paper and tucked it into his waistcoat pocket, then continued his search.
Several hours later, just before the first streaks of dawn leaked through the darkness to paint the sky, he finished the last room and heaved a heavy sigh. He’d found nothing-except his suddenly active conscience, which had balked incessantly at invading Genevieve’s privacy.
Damn it, he should have just asked her what had become of the letter. He should have confided in her, as she had him. Confessed who he was. Why he was in Little Longstone. Of course, then he’d have had to confess he’d spied on her. Searched her home. And he didn’t doubt for a minute that she’d believe the only reason he’d sought her out, had flirted with her had been to gain her confidence.
And she would be correct.
But what had started out as nothing more than a calculated scheme to relieve her of the letter had turned into much more. By the time he’d seduced her, his mission had all but been forgotten. He’d believed himself capable of bedding her simply for his mission, but in the end, the mission hadn’t played any part in his making love to her. But would she believe that? Bloody hell, he didn’t know. But regardless, he was going to have to ask her for the letter, since he couldn’t find it on his own. Then, he’d have to pray she’d give it to him…and that she’d forgive him his lies.
A frown crossed his face. Once he left Little Longstone he’d never see her again, so it didn’t really matter if she forgave him or not.
Did it?
It matters, his inner voice whispered. And he realized with a jolt that it did. It mattered a whole bloody lot. Which was a whole bloody lot more than it should have mattered.
With a sigh, he blew out his candle and headed for the foyer. Might as well walk around the outside of the house, see if anything was afoot. Maybe the brisk air would clear his head. He entered the foyer and reached for the doorknob.
“Don’t move, or I’ll shoot a hole through you” came a deep voice from the shadows behind him.
Simon froze and inwardly cursed for allowing himself to be caught unawares. The voice came from nearby, close enough for Simon to know he’d never survive the gunshot wound if the intruder’s aim was even partially accurate, yet far enough away that he didn’t like his chances of rushing the stranger with the hopes of disarming him. His best alternative was to do as he was told. For now.
“I’m not moving,” Simon assured him.
“Put your hands behind your head, nice and slow. A quick move will earn you a lead ball in the back.”
Everything in Simon froze as recognition hit him. That voice…bloody hell, he knew that voice. He wished its familiarity filled him with relief, but instead a cold stone of dread landed in his stomach. “You have the wrong person,” he said, slowly raising his hands, stalling for time, hoping that the horrible realization forming in his mind wasn’t true. Yet he knew in his gut that it was. And that behind him stood not only Ridgemoor’s murderer but the man who’d betrayed Simon, and far worse, his country.
“You’re the right person, Kilburn. Sadly for you, you’re in the wrong place.”
In a tone that belied the fury and sickening betrayal racing through him, Simon said, “Not the warmest greeting for an old friend, Waverly.”
Behind him, John Waverly, his superior, his mentor, a man he’d trusted and respected above all others, gave a humorless laugh. “We aren’t friends, Kilburn.”
Feeling as if he’d been gutted, Simon turned around. “Yes, that seems evident.”
“I told you not to move.”
“Yes, I know, but you needed me to turn around. A man can hardly shoot himself in the back, and I’m assuming that’s your plan-to shoot me, then place the gun in my lifeless hand to make it look as if I killed myself.”
“Over guilt for betraying your country and killing Ridgemoor,” Waverly agreed, as if they were discussing the weather. “Your suicide note will explain everything.”
“No one will believe that,” Simon said, wishing it were true, but knowing that it wasn’t. Forging a convincing note in Simon’s handwriting wouldn’t present a problem for a man of Waverly’s skills.
“Yes, they will.” Waverly stepped forward, his pistol aimed at Simon’s head, right where someone committing suicide would shoot. Waverly was an expert shot, but even if he wasn’t, it would be difficult to miss his target at such close range. Simon would be dead before he hit the floor.
“Murdering Ridgemoor wasn’t necessary, John.”
“I’m afraid it was. The possibility of him becoming the next prime minister was growing every day. His radical reforms would have ruined a number of very profitable enterprises for me. I have my finger in pies all over London. You’d be amazed at what a tidy sum I pull in from those workhouses alone. That bleeding heart, Ridgemoor, wanted to put an end to all that. All I needed was a few more years and I could have left the spy game an extremely wealthy man.”
Rage churned in Simon’s stomach. “From money gained by the suffering of others, suffering Ridgemoor wanted to see cease.”
Waverly shrugged. “Everyone suffers. Except perhaps people like you, those born to wealth and privilege. But neither your wealth nor your title will prevent you from suffering now, although I suppose you should thank me for ensuring that your end will be quick.”
“My gratitude knows no bounds.”
Waverly shook his head and made a tsking sound. “Sarcasm doesn’t become you, Simon.”
“Ridgemoor might not have become prime minister.”
“It didn’t matter. Even without gaining that position, he was far too influential. His suspicions of me were enough to make his elimination necessary. Unfortunately my first attempt on his life failed. When he confronted me, told me he not only had proof of my illegal activities, but that it was me who’d tried to kill him, his fate was sealed.”
“Proof he’d written in a letter.”
Waverly nodded. “Yes. Very annoying of him. In spite of my strong encouragement, he refused to tell me where the letter was. You were due to arrive at any moment and therefore I couldn’t afford to spend any more time with him. I’d convinced myself he was bluffing-until you came to me with your request for two weeks to prove your innocence. I knew the only way you could do so would be with that letter, that Ridgemoor must have been alive when you arrived and have told you about it.”
“So you followed me here.”
“Yes.” He made a disgusted sound. “I should have known he’d send the letter off to his whore for safekeeping.”
Simon’s every muscle tensed. “Mrs. Ralston knows nothing about this.”
“I disagree. She knows enough to have removed the letter from the puzzle box.”
Bloody hell. It was Waverly’s presence he’d sensed at the festival. Waverly who’d broken into Genevieve’s home and attacked Baxter. Simon’s stomach stopped churning and tightened into a knot. Unless he could convince Waverly Genevieve had no knowledge of the letter’s content, he knew the man would kill her. Before he could speak, Waverly said, “Don’t deny it, Kilburn. If you’d removed the letter, you wouldn’t still be here searching for it.”