Jewel Tower.”
At Westminster? Built centuries ago, the Jewel Tower was first intended to hold King Edward III’s treasures, but it’s been used as nothing but storage for decades now. Which, now that I think about it, makes it the perfect place for a secret meeting.
Fuck.
“Who did he meet?”
Rowena shifts in the chair but keeps her mouth shut.
I narrow my eyes. “Miss Carrigan—”
“Don’t you think that I know what you’re trying to do?” she says, her voice rising sharply. “Don’t you think I know that if I say one wrong thing, you’ll pass judgment on him? And even if we . . . even if he and I aren’t—dammit.”
With my elbows propped on the back of the chair, I scan her face—what little of it I can see, at any rate. If Buckingham Palace hadn’t exploded last night, if Clarke hadn’t been murdered, if the queen herself hadn’t nearly died . . . I may have dropped the issue.
But Hell literally landed on our doorstep less than twenty-four hours ago, and, taking my hatred for the prime minister out of the equation, our leads are still slim to none. We’re short on time, down one agent, and stuck with the hand that we’ve been dealt.
Rowena Carrigan is all we have.
Resting my wrists on the chairback, I link my fingers together. “Ask me why Alfie Barker is chained in that cell.”
Her chin jerks back. “What?”
“Ask me.”
“I don’t . . .” Her mouth twists to the side in chaffed resignation. “Fine. Why?”
Leaning forward, I drop my voice to a husky murmur. “Because he tried to have your best mate killed. Because, in case you haven’t figured it out already, that’s what we do. We protect the Crown at all costs.”
She huffs out a grim laugh. “So, what? You’re heroes?”
“To some,” I allow.
“And to others?”
“We’re the monster in your dreams. The villain you don’t ever want to meet on a dark, quiet street.”
Her throat bobs with a convulsive swallow. “And to me? What are you to me?”
Your worst nightmare.
Because even if she had nothing to do with the fire at Buckingham Palace, she’s still my best way to cut Edward Carrigan down at the knees. Revenge isn’t pretty. There are always casualties, and I’m willing to shed blood to get what I want.
Vengeance.
The chance to leave the Palace behind and not look over my shoulder every other step, always watching, always prepared to find a knife plunged deep in my back.
Carrigan’s lackeys already managed to get me once.
“Godwin?” Rowena asks, her tone wary.
“I’m your judge, jury, and executioner,” I tell her softly, without a hint of warmth. “Now tell me who your father met with.”
It’s not a request.
With a sigh of frustration, she collapses back in the chair. “They were all MPs. The room was packed, shoulder to shoulder.”
Of course it was.
If this meeting took place two months ago, that means Carrigan started plotting the queen’s removal from the throne almost immediately after King John’s assassination. Definitely a quick turnaround, though . . . Does it make sense to burn your competition to the ground when you already plan to strip her of her identity?
A life taken versus a life politically ruined.
The two aren’t mutually exclusive, and I’m not sure the motives align.
“What’s the likelihood of you letting me walk out of here sometime soon?”
I tear my gaze away from my hands to look at Carrigan’s daughter. “This room or the Palace?”
“Both.” Her fingers knot the fabric of her shirt. “No, not both. The second. I’ve cooperated.”
“Barely.”
“I answered your questions,” she returns sharply. “You asked and you received. And now I’m telling you that I want to leave.”
“There’s no end date to treason.”
Her mouth falls open. “Treason? I’m not . . . there’s not—”
“You say that you just happened to visit the queen and then all hell broke loose.” I pause, letting that point hit home. “Then you tell me that you don’t speak to your father, but clearly you’re protecting him.”
“I-I—”
“You watch,” I drawl, “and you listen. Isn’t that what you just said?”
The handcuffs rattle as she scrambles to sit forward. “Godwin, I’m telling you right now, I don’t know—”
“You do,” I say, cutting her off. “You know exactly what was said in the Jewel Tower, and I don’t hear you rushing to tell me a damn thing.”
“Taxes!” she cries out. “They were talking about bloody taxes.”
She’s not the only one who watches and listens, and one look at her body tells me everything I need to know. Rowena Carrigan is lying. Maybe