Page 103 of No One's Bride
“Show me the letter.” He wasn’t sure why he asked, but a niggling in his gut said something was amiss. “After downing a bottle of claret, Sir Oswald would sign his own death warrant.”
And there it was. A slight flicker of alarm in the man’s beady eyes. “Might I come inside? I’ll not discuss a matter of national security on the doorstep.”
Sebastian’s pulse jolted. Daventry said the murderer might come for the spell book tonight. Had Smith killed Hibbet? Had he come to destroy the grimoire or submit it as evidence at the Alien Office?
“By all means, come in, but your cronies must remain outside.” Gibbs and Christian Chance were waiting in the drawing room, but he would not risk them being outnumbered.
Smith agreed.
Surely he didn’t think Sebastian would give him the book without a fight. Still, he welcomed the man over the threshold and locked the door.
Smith followed him to the drawing room.
Tension clawed at Sebastian’s shoulders. Every instinct said Smith had a secret. “Will you take brandy?” He gestured to the empty chair before crossing the room to the console table. “There’s a chill in the air tonight.”
Smith’s steps faltered when he saw Christian and Gibbs on the sofa. “Not during working hours.” He clutched his satchel, his gaze flitting around the room like a startled hare.
Sebastian pulled the crystal stopper from the brandy decanter, poured himself a drink and drained the glass. “You may as well have a drink. I won’t give you the grimoire.”
“But I have a letter—”
“I don’t give a damn about the letter. In the morning, I shall consult the King on the matter myself.” Did Smith think him a petty crook afraid of swinging from the gallows? “I’m a viscount, Smith. A title affords a man a certain influence with the Crown.”
He sensed Smith’s growing frustration.
Christian and Gibbs felt it too. Both men straightened and shuffled forward in their seats. Sebastian caught their gazes. One look was enough to suggest they suspected treachery, too.
“Perhaps you should tell me what this is really about.” Sebastian faced the scrawny fellow. From the possessive way Smith clutched his satchel, he had something to hide. “Why are you so desperate to take the book tonight?” What game was he playing?
Smith decided to reveal a card from his guarded hand. “We’ve reason to believe spies have infiltrated the higher echelons of society.”
Sebastian laughed. “Are you accusing me of being a spy?”
“No, my lord. We believe Miss MacTavish is a spy. The question remains as to whether you had knowledge of her disloyalty.”
“Miss MacTavish!” He might have laughed again, but panic rioted through him. Was this a conspiracy to shift the blame or the ramblings of an incompetent agent? “I assure you, Miss MacTavish is not a spy.”
Smith shuffled his feet. “W-we have her in custody. She confessed to knowing about the coded messages.”
Ailsa!
By God, he’d throttle anyone who hurt her.
“In custody?” Sebastian repeated.
Smith could have stabbed him through the heart and it wouldn’t have been as painful. He clenched his jaw, keen to charge across the room and rip this fool’s head from his shoulders. Instead, he took a calming breath.
“We arrested her an hour ago.” Smith pulled More’s book from his satchel and dropped it on the chair. “You’ll give me the grimoire or face a charge of treason. My agents are waiting and will act on my command.”
Sebastian looked at the men Daventry had sent to offer protection, realising some fights were not won by those with the hardest punch.
“Before I give you the book, answer me this. How much did they pay you? How much did it take for you to turn your back on your country? Five hundred pounds? Five thousand?”
Smith remained silent.
Sebastian searched his mind for logical explanations to his mounting questions. Why would Hibbet send Smith the book when he’d hidden a document containing the conspirators’ names in his apartment? It made no sense. Unless Hibbet didn’t know Smith was involved.
“I knew of your guilt before I welcomed you over the threshold.” Sebastian would tie Smith up in knots until he didn’t know his arse from his elbow. “Hibbet realised you were involved after he’d agreed to give you the book. But he had time to send a letter to Mrs Murden. We deciphered it this morning. The purpose of this evening was to lure you into a trap.”
