Page 9

T he scent of dust and paper from The Public Safety Committee room clung to William's coat. gray walls, gray day, gray everything. His mind drifted to their waltz. What was she doing now? William gazed at the clock. At least six hours until he could see her again. Feel her skin underneath the tulle...

Today, he would taste her smile.

"Distracted, Your Grace?" Rodrick Deverell, Viscount Montfort sat opposite him, lounging in his chair. His black hair was slicked back from his sharp features. But it was his eyes that unsettled most men—dark, assessing, and remorseless. Few people would believe that this man used to be William's best friend in Eton.

William dragged his focus back to the meeting. He was not a man given to flights of fancy. He was guided by reason, not impulse.

"Not at all. Merely expecting the other members to join us."

Cavendish's seat was empty. Again. What sort of revelry had his friend embarked on last night? William frowned. Cavendish’s excesses—late nights, missed meetings—would wreck his future.

Thornley pushed his bulky frame into the room and assumed his seat by William's right. Panting, he threw a newspaper atop the table.

"Albemarle." Thornley's voice cut through the stale air. "I assume you are aware of this filth."

The Clarion.

The headline read: "Britain's War: A Noble Cause or A Nobleman's Greed?"

Below, lines of tight print unraveled scathing words about Wellington's campaign. How the British regiments were no different than animals plundering their way into Spain.

"Farley's influence grows by the day. Two thousand copies last month. Seven thousand this week." Thornley's mouth twisted in disdain. "We must stop him."

The war minister had been his father's closest friend. When William assumed the dukedom, Thornley had appointed himself as his mentor. William admired his political acumen, but nowadays, his obsession with Napoleon clouded his judgment, but in this, he was right. The writer was a risk to the status quo.

William pressed his thumb against the paper's coarse edge. "Agree. His radical ideas are spreading from the Whigs to every liberal-minded insurgent in town. Farley's simple words and penny price make him accessible to the masses. After the Luddite riots, we cannot be too careful in managing public opinion." One false step would cause them to lose control of the situation.

The others fell into debate—Farley's methods, his motives. The voices dulled to a murmur.

Is a society that stifles its members worth protecting? That cripples their passions?

Helene's silky voice flared through him. She was wrong. Passion ungoverned had turned France into ashes and blood. She was too young. She had no idea how dangerous it was to stir fire without knowing how to bank it. Perhaps he should teach her.

His way.

Images treacled inside his mind, slow and hot—her flushed skin beneath his hands, her breath caught on his name, the delicious tremble of surrender. A lesson in control.

His pulse drummed against the collar of his shirt. It took every ounce of willpower to remain seated, to pretend to care about Farley when the only thing he wanted was— No. He flexed his fingers. Exhaled through his nose. Forced his attention back to the conversation. This was dangerous. The newspaper was real. The war was real. His desires were not.

He flexed his hands beneath the table, the tension locked in his knuckles.

She needed to sign the contract. Ink on paper would cage this chaos. Until then, he'd walk the wire between duty and madness.

Thornley stabbed his finger on The Clarion . "The vote for raising the military budget will go to the Parliament floor at the end of the season. Without the extra funds, the Peninsula Campaign will flounder."

"We'll sue him for libel," William declared. "The prospect of spending time in prison should curb his invectives."

Rodrick laughed, leaning back in the chair.

William narrowed his eyes. "I was not aware this was a joke."

"Have you met Farley?" Rodrick drawled. "Strange chap. Fancies himself a martyr. If you arrest him, his popularity will soar. He'll keep writing from prison and thank us for the extra publicity."

He pushed the periodical toward William. William stopped it with a flat palm before it hit his chest.

Of course, Rodrick would know the writer. His web of spies reached into every crack of society. Information was his currency, chaos his preferred medium.

William's jaw tensed. "What do you suggest?"

Rodrick studied his nails. "I'll send a few men to remind him of his mortality. A whisper in the dark. A shadow at his door. Writers are anxious creatures—it won't take much to convince him that ink and blood spill the same way."

"Physical coercion?" William leaned forward, the air between them taut. "How does that serve the country? If our duty is to guard against civil unrest, we cannot descend to the level of lawless barbarians. We don't fight fire with fire—we deprive it of oxygen."

Rodrick cocked his head. "Moral duty. Is that what we call it now—what we do in this dust-choked room?"

"I call it order," William replied, voice even but steeled. "And yes, I believe in it. Because without it, there's only appetite. Mob rule. Men ruled by impulse instead of reason."

Rodrick gave a low whistle. "The Duke of Albemarle—fortress of virtue." He leaned back in his chair, voice going soft, almost fond. "Funny thing about virtue—it makes a man more dangerous than any criminal. At least criminals know they're up to no good. Take Robespierre. Lawyer. Idealist. Defender of the people. Then, one morning, he decided to execute poets, priests, and children. All in the name of what he thought was good."

William stiffened.

Trust Rodrick to twist every truth into a snare. His motives might be as murky as the Thames at midnight, but William's were not. He fought to preserve England because he knew what happened when men cast off restraint—they tore apart nations.

"If the axe starts swinging," William said quietly, "I know I won't be the one holding the handle."

Rodrick's grin spread like ink in water. "I can always teach you how to wield it."

Thornley lifted his hands placatingly. "Gentlemen, we should cool the animal spirits, eh? Viscount Montfort's methods are hardly orthodox, but I must agree with him. The matter at hand requires expedience. In the time it takes to lock Farley behind bars, we might lose the war, and Napoleon would dance all over the continent."

William eyed his self-proclaimed mentor. "Are you condoning violence?"

Gasping, Thornley shook his head. "William, really, I—"

"Then it is settled. A lawyer will pay a visit to Mr. Farley in the morning."

A chair scraped against the floor as Thornley departed.

The tension in William's chest coiled tighter. His eyes flicked to the clock—five forty-five. He gathered his papers, ready to leave.

Rodrick stepped into his path.

"So. Farley, huh?" He crossed his arms, mouth twisting into a smirk. "Haven't seen Lord T. so florid since Napoleon wed that Austrian chit and, in the process, fucked our best ally."

William narrowed his eyes. "I don't have time for gossip."

"Then you will make the time to return what is mine."

The amusement drained from Rodrick's face. Barely leashed aggression settled in its place. He jabbed a finger toward William's vest. "The necklace."

William reached into his pocket, fingers curling around the chain. A memory flared.

Eton's lake. Two boys wrestling near the left bank. The glint of steel. A strangled gasp.

Gaunt's hands clawing at Rodrick's coat—grasping for air, for mercy, for anything.

Then, the stillness as the lake had swallowed him whole.

William could still feel the weight of water in his clothes as he pulled Gaunt's limp body ashore. Still saw the broken chain in that cold, lifeless hand.

Rodrick's father had erased the truth from public memory. But William refused to let it fade.

"The necklace isn't mine to give," William said, jaw tight.

He would keep it. A reminder of what Rodrick had done when fury blurred judgment, and passion eclipsed restraint.

Rodrick rolled his shoulders, deceptively casual. "You still think you were the hero that day?"

"I know who was the villain," William said.

Rodrick clicked his tongue. "Will, Will... Always so righteous. Old ghosts. Old morals. Old chains. When do you plan to cut them loose?"

Never.

William met his gaze. "Perhaps when you find your old sense of honor."

"Keep the necklace, then. For now." Rodrick's voice dropped. "But mark me, Albemarle. You will break. And I'll be front row when you do."

The door clicked shut behind him.

William stood still. Breath trapped in his chest.

Helene's smile flared in his mind. He had to end this madness before the beast inside him clawed its way free. If Helene signed the contract, he could tether himself again. He could breathe.

His fingers clenched the chain—cold metal biting into skin.

It had never felt heavier.