Page 143 of The Duke's Dream
Farley stared at him. A beat passed. Then another.
"You—" Farley began, then stopped. "You can't mean it."
"I do."
Farley's throat worked once. He looked away, then back. "Why?"
William considered the answer. "Because I was wrong. And because I believe the country deserves to hear more voices. Because change starts with enlighting the people."
Farley laughed again, but this time, the sound was sharp with emotion.
"This is all very noble," he said, voice hoarse. "But how do you plan to get me to the continent? I've no passport. No papers. No safe name to travel under."
That was, of course, the trickiest part of the plan.
"Leave that," William said, "to me."
***
William stepped onto the dock, and the damp chill clung to his skin. The fog wrapped the night in a dense veil, muting the sounds of the river.
The Dreamerswayed on the dark water, the faint lanterns casting a ghostly light on her hull. He had bought it after returning from the navy. Wanting a way out? But after a maiden journey, when his pulse had raged and his gaze had wandered, he had forced himself to leave the vessel moored.
On board, the crew worked silently, their figures moving in the haze. Only the quiet rustle of sails being unfurled, the lowering of crates into the hold, and the murmur of voices betrayed the hushed preparations. William gripped the railing, the wood damp against his palms, and inspected their surroundings. Where was he? A boat rowed by, too close. They couldn't wait longer in this position, exposed.
The sound of footsteps broke the stillness. William stiffened as he peered into the fog. The thuds grew louder, echoing on the wooden planks like a drumbeat.
William's hand reached for his pistol and turned to Farley. "If it's a guard, pull your hat lower. Let me do the talking."
The figure cut through the fog, his coat billowing in the river breeze.
Rodrick.
He emerged from the fog like an avenging angel—broad-shouldered, coat flaring in the wind. No uniform. No entourage. Just that familiar figure slipping through the mist with the quiet authority of a man who never arrived anywhere unarmed.
He came closer, the firelight catching the sharp lines of his face. The cruel cheekbones. The glinting eyes. That maddening almost-smile that could mean anything—charm, threat, or both.
William's pulse thudded. His fingers found the pistol at his waist.
There were too many histories between them. Too many games—games William hadn't always agreed to play. But Rodrick never played one he didn't intend to win.
Rodrick lifted a brow, dry amusement flickering in his expression. "I'll be damned," he said lightly. "I thought the message had been a prank."
Relief flooded William, and he exhaled.
Rodrick handed the passport to Farley, explaining the plan quickly and efficiently. With a parting glance toward London, the writer embarked onThe Dreamer.
When they were alone, Rodrick turned to him, his hand open. "I did my part of the deal."
A wave of icy panic washed over him. Rodrick didn't bring it. Was this his twisted revenge? After all these years?
William looked Rodrick in the eye. "Where is the other one?"
The air filled with the capstan's rhythmic clanking as the crew heaved the anchor from the deep.
Rodrick tilted his head to the side, his gaze curious, dispassionate.
"You must know that the committee will cease to exist without your ardor."
