Page 142 of The Duke's Dream
Thornley's gaze faltered. The flush in his cheeks had vanished, replaced by something tight, something pale.
William said nothing more. He didn't need to. He knew beforehand this would be a checkmate.
The silence that followed was brittle.
"He'll be released within the hour," Thornley said, every syllable clipped.
"Good."
William turned to the door, hand finding the brass knob.
"But mark me, Harcourt," Thornley said, his voice shrill. "There will be no hole in England where the writer can hide."
"That's why," William said calmly, "I found him a hole elsewhere."
He left without waiting for a reply.
***
The coach rocked as it wound its way through the back streets, the sound of hooves softened by the thickening fog. Inside, the air was sharp with the scent of rain-damp wool and lamp oil. Across from William, Farley sat stiffly, rubbing the fading red mark on his wrist where the irons had bitten skin. He hadn't said much since the turnkey had ushered him out.
"Why help me?" Farley asked, voice rasping. "Don't tell me the Silent Sovereign has become a liberal."
William stared out the window. Rain spattered the gray streets. "I never liked labels."
Unless they were uttered by Helene's lips.
Farley tilted his head, lips twisting in something between humor and exhaustion. "What do you call what you did, then?"
William turned to face him. "Let's say I want to do what is best for the country."
Farley gave a weary chuckle, but it didn't reach his eyes. "Well, I appreciate the rescue. If you give me a lift to the Strand, I'll walk the rest of the way. My lodgings aren't far."
"I'll do better," William said, voice low. "I'll give you a lift to the continent."
Farley blinked. "Come again?"
"I'm taking you out of England."
Silence followed. The coach lantern flickered again, casting long shadows that bent across Farley's face.
"You're out of your mind," the writer said.
"That’s the second time my sanity’s been questioned today. The first was after I strong-armed the Home Office into releasing a radical writer from prison. The second is for smuggling said writer out of the country." William allowed himself a smile—dry, a little self-deprecating. "The Duke of Albemarle used to shape foreign policy. Now he hides journalists in his carriage. And oddly enough—I’ve never felt more certain I’m doing the right thing."
William glanced out the window. Beyond the blurred pane, the outline of Greenwich took shape—masts swaying like skeletal fingers and the dome of the Royal Naval College rising through the fog. Once, the first Duke of Albemarle had helped restore a king to his throne. Times changed. But perhaps loyalty—to crown, to country, to conscience—took different forms.
Farley blinked. "Well. Glad to see the Silent Sovereign became a good Samaritan. Sorry to have lost the alliteration in the change of epithets, but it does not change the fact—"
"Thornly won't rest until your head hangs from the pillory," William said.
"So this is it? I disappear? My career ends in the back of a carriage?"
"Not necessarily." William reached into his coat and withdrew a folded paper from his inner pocket. "I bought The Clarion."
Farley stiffened. "Of course you did." His voice dropped. "So this is the end, after all. You found a way to silence me."
William met his gaze. "No. I made you the editor. And my partner."
