Prologue
February 1811
It was wrong. It was all wrong. Lucas Vincent, Duke of Willowby, felt that wrongness like an icepick in his gut as he crept around the perimeter of the country estate. He paid attention to the feeling, for he had long ago learned to trust his instincts. They were what kept a spy alive.
Of course, that didn’t mean he didn’t still do his job. Today he moved forward despite that feeling. Perhaps because of it. After all, he’d also long ago determined that it was his destiny to die in the field, for his country, with honor.
If today was that day, then so be it. There was little to live for beyond that sense of honor. He had no relationship with his family and he had cut away his friends—his dear friends who had once been like brothers—over the years since he had discovered the truth of himself.
“Willowby!”
The harsh whisper of his name drew him from maudlin thoughts and he turned, weapon drawn, to find George Oakford’s wise, lined face peeking out from behind a shrubbery. Oakford was a friend and a talented surgeon who used his extensive gifts to save the lives of those who served the crown.
He was also not supposed to be here.
Lucas eased over to him. “What are you doing here?” he whispered.
Oakford looked toward the house with a scowl. “I heard rumors that you were coming here to suss out a traitor,” he said, rage potent in his low tone. “And since we’ve lost three good men under terrible and suspicious circumstances in the last six months, men I’ve watched die because I did not have the talent to save them, I knew I had to come and support you. Orders be damned.”
Lucas reached out and gripped the older man’s arm. There were very few people in this world he trusted more than George Oakford, and relief washed over him in a wave. “I admit, I’m pleased to find you here. I have a sense of dread and I wouldn’t mind the support of your presence.”
Oakford’s eyebrows lifted in surprise. “It’s just you?”
Lucas nodded. “Yes. I was meant to only observe, Stalwood’s orders. He has an abundance of caution, as you know.”
Oakford’s lips pursed. “He always has. Sometimes I think to his detriment.”
Lucas couldn’t disagree, even though he respected the spymaster, as he knew Oakford did, too. He continued, “When I saw the men unloading weapons round the back, when I saw them bringing carriages full of lightskirts as entertainment for their evening, it was evident something very big is happening here tonight. If I can stop it before it does, it could save the lives of thousands of men on the battlefield. And perhaps keep even one more spy from dying for this operation at the hands of a craven coward.”
Oakford held his gaze for a long moment. “You’ve always been the best of your kind, Willowby. Whoever is running this operation should fear the consequences you are about to rain down on them. I’m certain they deserve it.”
“We’re raining those consequences down, Oakford,” Lucas said. “But I need to get a look at who our traitor is. There’s been activity in that chamber up there, but I haven’t been able to get a clear view of whoever is inside.”
He pulled out his spyglass and handed it over. Oakford looked up at the window Lucas had indicated and lowered the glass. His finely wrinkled face was pinched in an expression of disgust. “I see what you mean,” he said. “What’s your plan?”
“There’s a trellis along the north wall,” Lucas explained. “It leads to a thin ledge on that second floor, which I can use to creep around the window of the chamber next to the one our traitor is occupying. If I can manage to get inside, I might even be able to incapacitate him without causing a stir. We could be in and out without a fight.”
Oakford lifted his eyebrows. “I’m impressed with you, Willowby. But then, I always am.”
Lucas fought the urge to puff up his chest at the compliment. Oakford didn’t give them often. “Congratulate me if I can carry out the plan. There are guards circling the property, but they’re like clockwork. In less than one minute they’ll go by again, and assuming we’re not caught—”
“You intend to climb the wall and have our man dead to rights,” Oakford finished.
“Shhh,” Lucas said, ducking a bit lower behind the bush and tugging Oakford with him. They stayed perfectly still as two men, the guards Lucas had been tracking, walked by between the line of bushes where they hid and the house. They were talking and Lucas strained to hear them as they strolled off to the next area of their inspection.
“Where…went…Cal—”
“Could you understand them?” he whispered, hoping that Oakford’s position closer to the men might add to whatever Lucas had heard.
Oakford shook his head. “Not really. A few words here and there.”
Lucas pressed his lips together. “They started saying a name, I think. Started with ‘Cal.’ If they were referring to our traitor, there are quite a few options within the department.”
Oakford nodded. “But they could have just as easily been referring to someone quite outside your case.”
“I suppose we’ll find out soon enough. Stay here, watch for trouble and be ready to ride to the village to bring the magistrate if things go very wrong.”
He slipped from the bushes without waiting for the answer and made his way to the trellis, where he began to climb. He’d always been good at physical things, even as a child. Now that aptitude paid off.
He was almost to the top, his fingers reaching out to the ledge when he heard the crack of a pistol being fired below. He didn’t have time to pivot, to look, when the gun fired again and he felt a searing pain in his leg.
His fingers slipped and he toppled backward. He was falling, falling, and then the ground was there, hard and unforgiving beneath his back. His head bounced off something and the world began to swim, his ears ringing as he struggled to sit up despite the pain that seared through his entire body.
“Oakford,” he grunted, rolling slightly.
The surgeon was on the ground behind him, splayed out and still. Dead, Lucas realized through his fog. The first shot. It had struck Oakford. He rolled to his front and was unable to keep from crying out in pain as he belly-crawled toward his friend. A man he’d known since his first days in the War Department. A man who’d saved his life more than once.
He wasn’t more than a foot from Oakford when there was a third shot that rang out from behind him. He felt the bullet slice through him and collapsed against the ground. The world was spinning, becoming black. There were voices around him now. He recognized they were the voices of the men who had attacked them. Killed him. He could handle that.
But that they’d killed Oakford made his last moments pure agony.
“Why—” one voice said, slow and like it was coming through a deep ocean.
“You—no—bastard,” the other voice replied, just as unrecognizable. Lucas lifted his head in one last attempt to see what supposed friend had betrayed them all, but the world spun as he did so and then went entirely dark. The last things he experienced were loud pops and then nothing.