“And offered you a good deal more information, I suspect.”
With his mask of indifference back in place, Catherine could no longer read the true intent behind his words. “Yes.”
“So,” he said, “the Foreign Office official shared some of the sordid details about your husband’s death, enough to cast me in a poor light.” He paused and lifted a brow in her direction.
She nodded.
“Then he ever so casually mentioned the government’s investigation into my last mission, sending further suspicion in my direction.”
Catherine closed her eyes, feeling like the absolute gudgeon she was.
“After Cochran established his willingness to share sensitive information, he asked for a favor in return.”
Nausea bubbled in the back of her throat. “All I wanted was the truth about my husband’s death.” She covered her mouth with her hand, certain she was about to be sick.
A large warm palm wrapped around her trembling fingers. He drew them to his lips, kissing their pads. “I’m sorry, Catherine. I should not have allowed my anger free rein. You are innocent in all this.”
“My stupidity”—his hand tightened, cutting off her recrimination—“my naïveté knows no bounds, does it?”
“Do not fret.” He pressed a gentling kiss upon her lips. “We have all succumbed to such ploys.”
She swallowed, wanting more of his reassuring lips. “I find that hard to believe.”
“Believe it.” He released her hand and moved away. “Did Cochran ever mention a Lord Latymer?”
“No, not that I recall.”
He released a frustrated sigh. “Then I would like to know how Cochran found out about Reeves’s directive that I provide a list of all my agents, including their true identities.”
“Who is Reeves?”
“He’s the new Superintendent of the Alien Office.” He threw her an inquiring look. “Cochran explained the Alien Office’s function?”
“Intelligence gathering?”
“Good enough,” he said. “To my knowledge, no one knew about Reeves’s order, besides myself and three of my agents.”
“Maybe they let it slip?” she suggested.
“No,” he said. “At the time I informed them, I had not committed to the deed.”
“And now?” Catherine held her breath, expecting a rebuke.
His gaze flattened. “There is no and will be no catalog of agents. I will take their identities to the grave.”
Catherine stared at him with something akin to awe. How does one contain such a noble heart behind a shroud of ice? At great sacrifice to himself, he planned to disregard his superior’s order and protect the men and women under his command. The same way he protected his young wards all those years ago. The same way he promised to protect her and Sophie now.
On the cusp of that realization, her awe began to fade and a new sentiment emerged.
Terror.
“If I don’t bring Cochran the Nexus, he’s going to kill my daughter.”
A cold smile graced his lips. “Then let us give him the Nexus.”
Twenty
August 18
Saturday morning dawned bright, matching Sophie’s winsome birthday smile. Her daughter’s infectious exuberance swept through the household with a velocity that would rival the ton’s most determined gossip. By the time the festivities started, Catherine’s entire staff was giddy with anticipation and Sophie was near bouncing off the walls.
If Cochran’s threat hadn’t been hanging over her head and Sebastian’s peculiar statement ringing in her ears, Catherine would have enjoyed the day immensely. As it was, she glanced around the parkland like a nervous bird every five minutes, seeing strangers in their midst.
“The gathering is a smashing success, Mrs. Ashcroft.” The vicar appeared next to her, juggling a heaping plate while following the children’s sack race. “Creating a life-sized version of Castle Dragonthorpe was no small feat.”
Catherine agreed. A drawbridge made of burlap, a moat outlined by timbers, and trellises for turrets took a great deal of ingenuity, but all the effort had been worth her daughter’s jubilation. “I’m glad you could come, Mr. Foster,” she said. “The day would not have been the same without you.”
“Meghan McCarthy’s violent death has shaken Showbury’s residents,” he said. “Some have gone so far as to whisper names for the missing father.”
Catherine raised an eyebrow. “And, therefore, the murderer?”
“Yes.” He wrestled a melon ball onto his fork. “This is a disturbing turn of events, but not surprising. In our grief, we believe the only way to set our loved one’s soul to rest is by punishing those responsible.”
Catherine caught sight of the earl strolling along the perimeter—er, moat—of Castle Dragonthorpe’s inner bailey. He projected calm and idleness. Few would recognize the occasional narrowing of his eyes or his preference for hovering near her daughter.
“But justice,” the vicar continued, “is mankind’s tool,