Page 15 of The Pleasures of Passion
Fulkham downed the remainder of his port. “If we arrest Sir Oswald and he’s culpable, he’ll never tell us anything. And if he’s not culpable, we’ll alert the real criminals, who will simply pick up and flee, or move their operation elsewhere. We need to know more before we make any arrests.”
Bree blinked at him. “I really don’t see how I can help you with that.”
“No doubt he wants you to spy on your father,” Niall drawled, familiar with Fulkham’s tactics. He turned to the spymaster. “Just send in one of your many lackeys to do the spying.”
“You know that won’t work. He’s a private citizen. He’s not looking to hire staff, his club of card-playing friends hasn’t added anyone to their ranks in a few years, and he moves little in society beyond them. Besides, if he’s behind this, he’s not going to reveal it to some stranger with no connection to him.” Fulkham toyed with his empty glass. “Indeed, that’s where you and Mrs. Trevor come in.”
“I don’t understand,” Bree said.
Ah, but Niall did. Unfortunately. As he steadied a hard look on Fulkham, something like guilt seemed to flash over the man’s face, but it was gone so fast, Niall was sure he’d imagined it.
“It’s simple, really.” Fulkham set down his glass. “I want you and Margrave to pretend to be engaged, so he can get close enough to your father to find out what Sir Oswald and his friends are up to.”
“No,” Niall said tersely. “Absolutely not.”
Fulkham arched an eyebrow at him. “I expected a protest from Mrs. Trevor, but not you. After all, you owe me a great deal.”
God rot the man. It was true: Everything Niall had gone through on Fulkham’s account still didn’t compare to what Fulkham had done forhim. And he always paid his debts.
Bree shot Niall a quizzical glance. “What do you owe him?”
“Fulkham is largely responsible for arranging my pardon.”
Fulkham was also the man who’d made sure that Edwin wasn’t prosecuted for killing Durand, after Durand attempted to abduct Clarissa. To get to Niall. Who’d killed Durand’s cousin, Whiting.
Thanks to Fulkham, neither he nor Edwin was hanging from a gibbet right now. And Clarissa’s secret was still safe.
God, this was a tangled web, and Fulkham was tangled up in all of it.
“I realize that I owe you my entire future,” Niall told the arrogant spymaster, “but surely you can find another way for me to repay you for your time and effort on my behalf.”
Bree jumped up to glare at Fulkham. “AndIdon’t owe you anything.”
“Except your father’s life,” Fulkham said.
The remark wilted her like a cravat in a Turkish bath. She turned to Niall. “Is he . . . telling the truth? Would Papa hang?”
God, seeing her so torn—and turning tohimfor comfort—struck him hard. “Without your father’s being proved innocent or having someone like our ‘friend’ here intervene, I’m afraid he would. The laws in that respect are still harsh. Counterfeiting is considered treason, believe it or not.”
“But judges take the word of the government into account,” Fulkham said. “Even if your father is guilty, I can push to have him charged with fraud instead, which would get him fourteen years’ transportation rather than hanging.IfI so choose to persuade the magistrate on your father’s behalf.”
“You’re a cold one, Fulkham,” Niall snapped.
“In service to my country, I’ll be as cold as it takes.”
Niall knew that from personal experience. “I don’t understand whyyou’rethe one handling this. You’re not in the Home Office.”
“But I have a connection to the two of you.”
“In other words, the Home Office knew that you alone could blackmail us both,” Niall said cuttingly.
“You could put it like that, I suppose.” Fulkham went over to pour a glass of brandy, then brought it to Bree, whose face was the color of ash. “Here, Mrs. Trevor. I think you need a bit of this.”
“Ladies don’t—”
“Drink it,” Niall ordered. For once, he agreed with Fulkham. She looked as if she might faint at any moment.
She took a sip, coughed, then took another. At least that put a little color back into her cheeks.
