Sound of Madness A Dark Royal Romance - Maria Luis Page 0,116

none emerge.

This can’t be real.

Silas Hanover cannot be Robert Guthram. A spy for the Crown. Defender of the king. The man who was once best mates with Henry Godwin and a member of Holyrood. The one hope Damien has in making the Met’s police commissioner fall in line.

Hanover’s lips twist to the side and his nostrils flare like he’s inhaled something foul. Leaning forward, he touches a finger to the red poppy brooch pinned to my cardigan. “Love for your king,” he remarks sardonically, “the irony coming from your family. This is too much arse-kissing, even for me.”

And then he rips the brooch free.

Tossing the delicate device up into the air, he catches it in one palm and turns on his heel. Stops only long enough to thrust the brooch at the guard before stepping into the corridor without another backward glance.

He knows I’ll follow him.

I’m frozen against the wall, my heart threatening to clamber from my chest, and he knows I’ll follow him.

Because I’m Rowena Carrigan, the prime minister’s daughter, and Silas Hanover was once a man whose scarred face I saw near nightly as a child. My feet padding down carpeted steps and masculine voices drifting from Father’s study, and always a glimpse between the crack in the open door before Father emerged to march me back up to my bedroom. Another nightmare, another night of the darkness stalking me. And a face that I haven’t seen in twenty years, since the night of the fire that turned my life upside down.

“Miss Carrigan?” The guard tilts his head toward the door. “I’m required to escort you both to the front.”

Run.

Run now.

Except that even if I do, there’s no rewinding the clock. Mary spoke with me; records were altered. And the alleged Robert Guthram was discharged, for better or worse. I sway in place. Fuck me. One word from Hanover or any of the staffers to my father about what I’ve done, and I’ll be dangling in the breeze before the end of the week.

Or sooner.

Moving past the guard, I glance at the red poppy brooch clasped in his hand. Hazel eyes peer down at me, and I know—before he even shifts a muscle—that I’m staring at an anti-loyalist. His gaze burns with disgust for my show of silent respect for the fallen king. A muscle tightens in his jaw as he directs his stare to the red poppy.

“Sir, can I have—”

“We don’t wear the likes of this around here,” he mutters, dropping the brooch to the ground. He crushes it with his heavy boot, the silver audibly squealing against the concrete flooring. “Do we, Guthram?”

Whistling, Silas Hanover doesn’t even turn around. “Not a one of us.”

The guard puts a hand on my shoulder to march me down the hall. “Don’t suspect that your father’d much like you wearing a red poppy, anyway, Miss Carrigan. Not after all that business with the Mad Priest and Westminster.”

It takes everything in me not to slam to a stop.

Why would he mention . . .?

Jerking my head up, I demand, “What does a red poppy have to do with the Mad Priest? The man’s an anti-loyalist, same as you.” I pointedly drop my gaze to my torn jumper. “Or have I read the situation wrong?”

“It’s not the same.” The hand on my shoulder tenses. “I can promise you that.”

“Priest is against the royal family, isn’t he?”

“He’s an anarchist,” the guard grunts, “and that’s even worse than those damn royal arse-kissers. It means that he’s unpredictable.” His eyes follow Hanover, who’s taken to peering through the oval-shaped window of every door that he passes. “Is it true what everyone’s saying?”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” Needing space, I give my arm a sharp pull. “Now let me go or I’ll—”

“The PM, Miss Carrigan. I’m talking about your blasted father. Is it true about his plans for Parliament?”

Instead of answering, I spin, fast, and let my jumper tear from my shoulders. It shreds at the sleeve, leaving the guard to stand there with a fistful of sunshine yellow fabric. Cool air hits my left arm, a dash of ice against the fury gathering in my gut.

“Do not touch me again,” I grit, nails biting into my palms. “And if you think for even one second that I won’t go to Kathryn Levell about this, then you’re downright delus—”

“Guthram.”

Silas Hanover wheels back around. “What?”

A single finger jabs in my direction. “Burns,” he says, letting the ripped sleeve fall to the floor. He lowers