Page 48

T he corridor swallowed William's steps, the carpet muffling the sound beneath his boots. The air inside Mrs. Hill's house was heavy with lavender and lust, and the noise of men indulging their urges behind velvet curtains. Gilt-framed paintings lined the walls—nymphs writhing among vines, satyrs leering behind fans.

The house in King's Place had nothing of the fleshy bordellos of the last century. It catered to the aristocracy's need for private indulgence wrapped in public decorum.

Mrs. Hill grasped his sleeve.

"Your Grace," she simpered, lashes fluttering, "my lord is currently occupied—"

"I'm aware," William said, his voice low. "Don't interfere."

London's most infamous procuress wilted under the force of his stare.

"Of course, Your Grace."

William brushed past her and halted outside the second door on the left. Thornley had moved faster than expected—arresting Farley before William could intercept, advancing his chess piece with the confidence of a man who believed the board belonged to him. And now, if William intended to act, to do the right thing to protect the future, not the past, he would have to make a reckless move.

He turned the handle and stepped inside.

Firelight bathed the room in a sultry haze. Lord Thornley sprawled in the center of an enormous bed, shirt open, cravat discarded, a cut-glass tumbler of brandy rising and falling on the curve of his stomach. A half-naked woman rode him, her cries more artificial than her bleached hair.

"Out," William said.

The woman gasped, then gathered her chemise and vanished.

Thornley's expression passed briefly through confusion before settling back into practiced polish.

"Has Napoleon landed?" He tucked his robe closer and adopted the calm cadence of a seasoned orator.

William said nothing.

Thornley chuckled mildly, smoothing his beard with a hand. "Why have you barged in, then? The raid was a success. Farley's no longer a threat. Surely you could've waited until morning?"

"Some things cannot wait."

The stench of brandy and sweat clung to William's throat. He forced himself not to react. His hands remained still, his expression unreadable.

"Where is Mr. Farley?"

Thornley raised a brow. "Bow Street. Secured and sound. The magistrate's ready. The trial will be swift, public, and instructive. The charge of sodomy will burn his legacy into ash."

He lifted his brandy. "We've performed a service, truly. For stability."

Stability. The cornerstone of everything William had defended—of every speech, every vote, every sleepless night at committee tables. Stability had been his doctrine, his north star. But now he saw it for what it had become in Thornley's mouth: not peace, not preservation, but quiet suffocation. It was a word that masked brutality. That let men like Thornley drink in brothels while calling it order. That let soldiers plunder and call it victory. That let a writer rot in a cell for daring to speak.

William's hands fisted. "You will release him. You will summon your dogs at the home office and order them to free the writer."

Thornley curled his lips into a sneer. "I see Miss Beaumont has left the country, but you remain under her spell."

Very much so. Thank God.

"Don't sully her name," William said. "I want the writer. Now."

Thornley regarded him, gaze sharpening like a scalpel. "The writer is a shameless—"

"Mr. Farley isn't the one rutting in a brothel while his wife waits at home."

Thornley's face froze, only his nostrils flared like a caught fish.

"You storm in," he said, voice perfectly modulated, "you question my judgment, impugn my personal conduct—"

"If you don't release him," William said, stepping forward, "I'll stand with him."

The air went still.

Thornley stared, his expression unreadable.

William didn't blink. "I'll go to the press. The Lords. The House. I'll say I'm guilty of the same crime."

Thornley blinked. "You're out of your mind."

And so William made his move. It was reckless—and Helene would have called it brilliant. As a public figure, the Duke of Albemarle couldn't survive a scandal of this magnitude. It would fracture the party, doom the war budget, collapse their agenda. William knew that. And most importantly, Thornley knew it.

"Does it matter?" William asked.

He stepped forward. Behind Thornley, the fire snapped, casting long shadows on the paneled walls.

"Let's think," William said, voice measured, quiet. "What happens if the Silent Sovereign is accused of the same crime? Will they whisper 'like mother, like son'?"

He let the thought linger in the charged silence.

"Or would they begin to question everything else we've stood for?"

Thornley's jaw shifted. A single muscle in his cheek jumped.

"You and I both know I wouldn't survive the scandal. And neither would you. The moment I fall, you fall with me. The war budget dies. The party fractures. Perhaps the Whigs will take over."

William paused, just long enough for the words to root.

"We built this government on stability. On tradition. Do you really want to be the man who watched it unravel because he wouldn't free a single writer?"

Thornley's gaze faltered. The flush in his cheeks had vanished, replaced by something tight, something pale.

William said nothing more. He didn't need to. He knew beforehand this would be a checkmate.

The silence that followed was brittle.

"He'll be released within the hour," Thornley said, every syllable clipped.

"Good."

William turned to the door, hand finding the brass knob.

"But mark me, Harcourt," Thornley said, his voice shrill. "There will be no hole in England where the writer can hide."

"That's why," William said calmly, "I found him a hole elsewhere."

He left without waiting for a reply.

***

The coach rocked as it wound its way through the back streets, the sound of hooves softened by the thickening fog. Inside, the air was sharp with the scent of rain-damp wool and lamp oil. Across from William, Farley sat stiffly, rubbing the fading red mark on his wrist where the irons had bitten skin. He hadn't said much since the turnkey had ushered him out.

"Why help me?" Farley asked, voice rasping. "Don't tell me the Silent Sovereign has become a liberal."

William stared out the window. Rain spattered the gray streets. "I never liked labels."

Unless they were uttered by Helene's lips.

Farley tilted his head, lips twisting in something between humor and exhaustion. "What do you call what you did, then?"

William turned to face him. "Let's say I want to do what is best for the country."

Farley gave a weary chuckle, but it didn't reach his eyes. "Well, I appreciate the rescue. If you give me a lift to the Strand, I'll walk the rest of the way. My lodgings aren't far."

"I'll do better," William said, voice low. "I'll give you a lift to the continent."

Farley blinked. "Come again?"

"I'm taking you out of England."

Silence followed. The coach lantern flickered again, casting long shadows that bent across Farley's face.

"You're out of your mind," the writer said.

"That’s the second time my sanity’s been questioned today. The first was after I strong-armed the Home Office into releasing a radical writer from prison. The second is for smuggling said writer out of the country." William allowed himself a smile—dry, a little self-deprecating. "The Duke of Albemarle used to shape foreign policy. Now he hides journalists in his carriage. And oddly enough—I’ve never felt more certain I’m doing the right thing."

William glanced out the window. Beyond the blurred pane, the outline of Greenwich took shape—masts swaying like skeletal fingers and the dome of the Royal Naval College rising through the fog. Once, the first Duke of Albemarle had helped restore a king to his throne. Times changed. But perhaps loyalty—to crown, to country, to conscience—took different forms.

Farley blinked. "Well. Glad to see the Silent Sovereign became a good Samaritan. Sorry to have lost the alliteration in the change of epithets, but it does not change the fact—"

"Thornly won't rest until your head hangs from the pillory," William said.

"So this is it? I disappear? My career ends in the back of a carriage?"

"Not necessarily." William reached into his coat and withdrew a folded paper from his inner pocket. "I bought The Clarion."

Farley stiffened. "Of course you did." His voice dropped. "So this is the end, after all. You found a way to silence me."

William met his gaze. "No. I made you the editor. And my partner."

Farley stared at him. A beat passed. Then another.

"You—" Farley began, then stopped. "You can't mean it."

"I do."

Farley's throat worked once. He looked away, then back. "Why?"

William considered the answer. "Because I was wrong. And because I believe the country deserves to hear more voices. Because change starts with enlighting the people."

Farley laughed again, but this time, the sound was sharp with emotion.

"This is all very noble," he said, voice hoarse. "But how do you plan to get me to the continent? I've no passport. No papers. No safe name to travel under."

That was, of course, the trickiest part of the plan.

"Leave that," William said, "to me."

***

William stepped onto the dock, and the damp chill clung to his skin. The fog wrapped the night in a dense veil, muting the sounds of the river.

The Dreamer swayed on the dark water, the faint lanterns casting a ghostly light on her hull. He had bought it after returning from the navy. Wanting a way out? But after a maiden journey, when his pulse had raged and his gaze had wandered, he had forced himself to leave the vessel moored.

On board, the crew worked silently, their figures moving in the haze. Only the quiet rustle of sails being unfurled, the lowering of crates into the hold, and the murmur of voices betrayed the hushed preparations. William gripped the railing, the wood damp against his palms, and inspected their surroundings. Where was he? A boat rowed by, too close. They couldn't wait longer in this position, exposed.

The sound of footsteps broke the stillness. William stiffened as he peered into the fog. The thuds grew louder, echoing on the wooden planks like a drumbeat.

William's hand reached for his pistol and turned to Farley. "If it's a guard, pull your hat lower. Let me do the talking."

The figure cut through the fog, his coat billowing in the river breeze.

Rodrick.

He emerged from the fog like an avenging angel—broad-shouldered, coat flaring in the wind. No uniform. No entourage. Just that familiar figure slipping through the mist with the quiet authority of a man who never arrived anywhere unarmed.

He came closer, the firelight catching the sharp lines of his face. The cruel cheekbones. The glinting eyes. That maddening almost-smile that could mean anything—charm, threat, or both.

William's pulse thudded. His fingers found the pistol at his waist.

There were too many histories between them. Too many games—games William hadn't always agreed to play. But Rodrick never played one he didn't intend to win.

Rodrick lifted a brow, dry amusement flickering in his expression. "I'll be damned," he said lightly. "I thought the message had been a prank."

Relief flooded William, and he exhaled.

Rodrick handed the passport to Farley, explaining the plan quickly and efficiently. With a parting glance toward London, the writer embarked on The Dreamer.

When they were alone, Rodrick turned to him, his hand open. "I did my part of the deal."

A wave of icy panic washed over him. Rodrick didn't bring it. Was this his twisted revenge? After all these years?

William looked Rodrick in the eye. "Where is the other one?"

The air filled with the capstan's rhythmic clanking as the crew heaved the anchor from the deep.

Rodrick tilted his head to the side, his gaze curious, dispassionate.

"You must know that the committee will cease to exist without your ardor."

"I'm aware." William was actually counting on that. Some institutions outlived their utility. The committee had served its function to curb the spilled chaos of the French Revolution. But now became a hindrance to progress.

"Have the Silent Sovereign lost his patriotism?" Rodrick asked.

"No. I love England." But change was needed, and one had to know when to step back. William knew everything about tradition, restraint, and keeping the status quo. "But now I need to learn more about freedom."

Rodrick sneered. "You’re ten years too late if you think France can teach you—"

"No, not France."

But a girl with no wings, but who could still fly. William gazed at the expanse of dark waters separating her from him. He hoped she could be his teacher. If she would still have him.

"Helene de Beaumont?" Rodrick whistled. "So the Duke of Albemarle had to partake of the poet's opium. It must be potent stuff for you to give up your power as The Silent Sovereign and run after a dancer."

William didn't smile. "Won't you ask me about my sanity? You would be the third soul that would have done so in twenty-four hours."

" Au contraire, mon ami . To this date, this has been the sanest decision I ever saw William Harcourt undertake."

William cleared his throat, uncomfortable to see the light of friendship shining again in Rodrick's eyes. "Did you bring the passport?"

Rodrick pulled an envelope from his coat.

William caught his passage to Helene, and a long breath escaped his lungs. Water lapped against the river bank, calling him. He gazed at the yacht's deck. The captain's voice rose, summoning the crewmen to their posts. William hoped Baines had readied everything.

A sense of urgency gripped him. He wanted to be cast off.

Rodrick cleared his throat. "Won't you look inside?

William leafed through the Swiss passport and lifted a brow. "Judson Stern?"

Rodrick shrugged. "Seemed like an apt name. You'll land in Honfleur. From there, avoid garrison towns like Calais, Rouen, and Le Havre—where military presence is thick, inspections worse. Stick to back roads, travel by night, and don't linger. If they stop you, remain calm. The forged documents appear authentic… enough."

William nodded and was storing the passport in his pocket when Rodrick handed him a note.

Frowning, William opened it. An address. "What is this?"

"The location of Wagram's Chateau in Saint Cloud."

William sucked in a breath. His plan had been to arrive first and ask questions later. He had expected to comb Paris, the whole of France, if necessary, searching for The Count of Wagram and his sister.

He glanced at Rodrick, but before he could say a word, Rodrick lifted his hand.

"Don't think for one second I'm doing this for your sake." Rodrick gazed at the yacht's mast, his voice deeper than usual. "If you're caught nosing around in enemy territory with passports forged by the Foreign Office, it would create a mess I'm not willing to clean up."

William nodded. "I thank you regardless."

Rodrick extended his arm, his hand opened. "Your turn."

William removed the chain from his pocket. It coiled in his palm, rusted and dull. Strange how it didn't weigh anymore.

"Do you ever regret it? All my life, this has been a reminder of the power of passion to derange us, to make us do abominable things."

After a last glance, William poured the chain into Rodrick's palm.

Rodrick went still, staring at the necklace. An expression of grief passed over his sharp features, and it could be the somberness of the wharf or the long day, but Rodrick looked like a mourner clutching a keepsake at a grave.

Why was it so important to him?

A shudder made Rodrick's profile waver, and then he closed his hand, his knuckles turning livid in the watery light. "I'm sorry to impart to you, Will, but all your life, you've believed a lie."

William's exhale misted before him, making the air hazy. "I saw you stabbing him."

"You saw true. But I was not intoxicated by anger, bloodlust, or any of the emotions you so fear." Rodrick's voice was level, almost gentle. "I killed the Marquess of Gaunt in cold blood."

The ship's horn reverberated through the harbor, long and low.

William inhaled sharply. His world narrowed to the sound of the river and the dull weight of his own breath. The certainty he had clung to for years—the neat moral tale he had crafted around Gaunt's death—fractured under the weight of Rodrick's calm confession.

Cold blood.

Not a moment of passion, but a decision.

His judgment had been wrong. Not just about the man in front of him—but perhaps about the nature of control, of morality itself. His whole life, he'd feared the beast within. But what if the greater danger had always been the man who felt nothing?

A flicker of shame curled in his gut. All this time, he had used Gaunt's death as proof—proof that passion needed to be chained, that restraint was the only path to order. But now—

If not unbridled emotion, then what?

"Why?"

"Perhaps one day you will know. You better embark if you don't want to miss your own boat." Rodrick grinned, his white teeth flashing in the darkness. "Goodbye, Will."