Sound of Madness A Dark Royal Romance - Maria Luis Page 0,146
. . . if I can’t pull this off . . .
“I love him too much,” I tell Isla on a broken whisper.
“That’s really not possible.”
“It is,” I allow, “if I can’t save him.”
Isla’s gaze falls to my trouser leg, as if she knows exactly what I’ve slipped under the hem. “You have a plan, don’t you?”
A risky one.
The sort of high-risk move that I haven’t indulged in for years, ever since I—unbeknownst to me—hired Damien to build me a forum to sell the secrets of England’s politicians to anyone with the steepest bank account. And there’s only one man I can think of who would possibly know the manufacturer of the poison that Hugh used on Damien tonight.
Or be the manufacturer, at any rate.
“There’s someone . . .” Pressing my lips together, I battle with how to reveal. Isla and I may have found common ground with our connection to the Priest brothers, but we aren’t exactly friends. In the end, I admit, painfully, “There was an MP, many years ago, that my father sought to woo to his corner. I was the . . . wooer.”
Isla’s brows lower. “And he dabbles in poisons?”
“He inherited the largest pharmaceutical company in all of England when his father died. On the side, he often . . . dabbled.” More like he had a bizarre fascination with toxic animals from all around the world. An entire wing of his London mansion was once dedicated to storing everything from frogs to snakes. “He may know of the antidote.”
“Or have one.”
I nod.
Isla folds her arms over his chest. “I’ll go with you.”
“Not necessary.”
“It is, and I will.”
“Why?” I demand. “You owe me nothing and I don’t—”
“It’s honestly easier to accept that this is happening than to fight me on it. Don’t worry, I’m particularly handy when it comes to combat, and, lucky for you, I have only one stipulation.”
Warily, I ask, “Which is?”
“Saxon comes with us.”
45
Rowena
Saxon Priest is a grenade without a safety pin.
As he throws his car into park on King Street, I keep my mouth shut lest he actually explode. His movements are rigid, his raspy voice tapped with a rage that would sound more at home coming from Damien. If it weren’t for Isla sitting in the passenger seat, there’s a pretty good chance that he would have whipped the car right back around to murder his older brother.
Nearly eight months since Father had Damien poisoned, and Saxon was never told.
Afternoon sun slants through the windscreen, highlighting the furious lines of his scarred profile. With one hand on the steering wheel and the other nestled firmly over Isla’s thigh, I watch as he draws a deep breath into his lungs. On the exhale, he asks me, “Do you have enough?”
The heavy backpack in my lap could knock out an unsuspecting soul. “If he won’t hand over the antidote for one-hundred-K, then we go for Plan B.”
“Which is?”
“Revealing to the public what Mr. Keely does in his spare time. I’m sure his constituents would be only too happy to learn about their elected MP’s extracurricular activities.”
“Diabolical,” Isla murmurs, her blue eyes shifting to meet mine in the mirror, “I like it.”
“Somehow,” I mutter, “that doesn’t surprise me.”
With the backpack cradled to my chest, I push open the car door and step out into the heart of St. James’s. Before the Westminster Riots, this neighborhood would have been jam-packed with visitors peering into all the posh art galleries. Today, it’s empty. Bay windows are boarded up and the doors latched shut. The once pristine pavement is now home to abandoned rubbish that I kick to the side.
While I feel for the shops, which have long since closed, a twisted, vengeful corner of my soul takes solace in the fact that Quentin Keely can no longer lord it over everyone he meets that his corner of London remains untouched by civil unrest.
It’s been twelve years since I saw him last—since I found myself in his brick mansion on Ryder Street—but my feet carry me there as if it’s been only days.
You are not that girl anymore, Rowan.
Although Saxon doesn’t ask me how I’ve come to know about Keely’s hobbies, the concerned glance he sends me tells me that Isla filled him in. Her shoulder brushes mine now as though she senses the wild tangle of emotion beneath my skin. Under her breath, she says, “Just say the word and we’ll take it from here.”