Page 101 of The Duke's Dream
"I don't need money. Have plenty of that." Rodrick's eyes glinted.
"Name your price."
"You know what I want." Rodrick pointed to William's coat.
William caught the chain in his hand. "It's not mine to give."
He could not betray Gaunt's memory. The boy had died holding the necklace. Giving it to his murderer was unacceptable.
"It was not his either. When will you realize that the world isn’t the white and black utopia you fight so hard to uphold?"
William’s grip tightened around the links. "I won't forsake my morals. Not even to avoid another wrong."
William searched Rodrick's ruthless gaze. Where was the boy, the brightest in class, the strongest rower in Eton—his best friend?
"Your sister was so compassionate. What would she think—"
A blade whispered in the air, the steel flashing in an arc and plunging into the table.
Rodrick gripped the dagger's hilt, his knuckles white. "Never mention Marianne again."
The dagger stood between them, catching the meager light, their heavy breaths rising above the crowd's chants.
For the first time since the murder, William saw raw emotion coursing through Rodrick's eyes.
One second passed, and then two.
A strange calm settled over Rodrick, as if he hadn’t just driven a knife into the table.
“You’re so determined to help Farley…” Rodrick glanced at his nails, inspecting them as if bored by the whole affair. “I might even agree... if you stop seeing Miss Beaumont and hand her over to my care.”
William stood abruptly, and before Rodrick could blink, he was above him, grabbing his lapels. “Care? Helene won’t be a pawn for your games.”
"Easy there, Romeo." Rodrick's eyes glinted, but his body remained unnervingly still. "Before you start a fight you can't win, answer this—what do you know about Miss Beaumont?"
William's muscles coiled, and his pulse pounded in his temples. "I know that your mouth is not fit to pronounce her name."
Rodrick sighed, his face adopting a mask of concern. "It's not only me at this point."
William sucked in a breath, his chest tightening as the subtle threat to Helene hit him like a cannonball. "Since when does the Foreign Office care for a dancer? Just because she has some French blood—"
"Unbelievable. The Silent Sovereign has been seeing her for over two months, and he does not know who she is?"
William's hands fisted by his sides, the knuckles white as he fought to keep control. He knew everything that mattered about her, damn it.
"Miss Beaumont and the other three escaped the terror in 1794 with Miss Katherina Fontaine. A maid of honor for none other than Marie Antoinette. The guillotined queen our country battled so hard to restore. Isn't it ironic? Do you think a lady-in-waiting would care for a group of poor Parisians? Those girls have more aristocratic blood than you."
Who was Helene? Rodrick was right. Curse him. William knew everything about her present and nothing about her past.
"Her and all the emigres that escaped the terror." William gritted his teeth. "And you speak too freely for a man whose continued existence relies upon discretion, not bravado."
"As a friend, I have no interest in making your affair public. I'm curious, that's all. The irony… Who would have thought our Silent Sovereign would fall for a dangerous French woman?"
"Dangerous?" William said carefully. "Because she was raised by a former lady-in-waiting? The mighty spy is deranged."
"Because she still has connections there," Rodrick said. "In the Emperor's inner circle, no less."
Nausea swirled in William's stomach, so intense that his vision blurred. It was a lie. It had to be a lie. By loving Helene, was he committing treason?
