Chapter Nineteen

O ne could only put off a summons from the Duchess of Camine for so long.

Percy normally found Charlotte's commanding and insulting presence refreshing, but being pulled away from his lovely wife—where a week's worth of carnal depravity in his bedchambers left him none too eager to return to polite society, or pants—had him less than pleased.

He was shown to a secondary drawing room, the one that wasn't used for normal callers, and proceeded to wait in the ungodly bright room with its gold, filigreed wallpaper and eastern-facing windows. The only thing acceptable in this torture chamber were the plush rugs underfoot in a most agreeable almond brown, a perfect match to his wife's eyes.

Percy's irritation came back with violent vengeance. By the time the door had opened and the Duke of Camine had entered, he was half-blind and spitting for a fight.

"What the hell is this? I came, so where is your wife?" If this was a stupid social formality to reinstate their acquaintances after his marriage, he was going to break something.

Hamish leaned an arm on the mantel and grinned. "The honeymoon is going well, I take it?"

"Bugger off. I could be there still if it weren't for this unwelcome interruption."

Hamish took pity on him. "There's a man here. Called this morning. Charlotte is with him now, interrogating him."

That was what had happened to the main receiving room. As much fun as watching another man crack under the scrutiny of a relentless duchess sounded, Percy doubted he'd been called here like a dog to admire Charlotte's ability to render a man to ash.

"What has that to do with me?"

Percy didn't like how his friend's smirk slipped. "The caller is uniformed and in possession of official orders."

Percy froze, something like dread fighting its way to the surface. After he'd revealed his past to Danny... It had to be a coincidence. "Have you seen these orders?"

Hamish shook his head. "Confidential."

The men shared a knowing look. Hamish didn't know the extent of Percy's past, but he knew enough to know ‘confidential' was a blanket term for ‘covert,' especially when it came to agents not officially on any public record.

"Charlotte will keep him entertained, or restrained , until you make a decision one way or another," Hamish said.

Gratitude never came easily to Percy, but he offered it now sincerely. "My thanks, Hamish." Whatever the ‘orders,' they couldn't be good. But despite his book length of skills and talents, he wasn't a soothsayer. "I'll see him."

Hamish nodded and went to the bell pull.

Two minutes later, the door to the drawing room opened and the Duchess of Camine entered, expression severe—a byproduct of a one-sided conversation with an unwilling partner—while the uniformed man in question followed, his buttons and boots polished to a high shine that would pass any inspection, and a crown on his shoulder that indicated an officer of years and rank.

Strait-laced, confident: Percy took stock of the man's personality by his airs alone. The fact the major had served at least eight years didn't bode well either. Since when did ranked officers make recruit calls?

When the major's gaze landed on Percy, recognition evident in his hard stare, Percy knew he was fucked.

Expression wooden, Charlotte offered introductions, her displeasure at being thwarted unmistakable when she announced the officer's name and rank first against protocol. "Your Grace, this is Major Wallace with Her Majesty's Army. Major, this is Percy Cole, Duke of Grandfellow."

Wallace stepped forward, his feathered bonnet giving the man's highland station away. "I apologize for not approaching you sooner." His gaze cut to the duchess. "I was waylaid by outside forces who assured me you were indisposed."

Not just the force of a duchess , Percy thought. His gaze narrowed. "You had me followed." It wasn't a question. Those trained eyes he'd felt on him hadn't been his imagination. A Highland soldier would know how to keep himself hidden during surveillance.

Wallace nodded. "My orders were to keep you in sight until your orders were received."

"Orders from whom?"

Wallace didn't respond but had the good mind to step back at the feral grin curling Percy's mouth.

It was always easy to hold one's tongue... until someone skilled threatened to slice it open.

Percy sighed at the need for restraint. He had few reservations the Duchess of Camine would stop him from bleeding the man dry, but the carpets in this room really were exquisite.

"What do you want with me, then?"

Wallace cleared his throat and leveled Charlotte with a superior stare, the dismissal clear.

"If you'll excuse me," Charlotte said, glaring at the major. "I have embroidery to tend to." She swept from the room, a decided chill left in her wake.

Percy flinched at the loud snitch as the door closed. Major Straitlaced better pray he never found himself in a dark alley with the duchess. He'd learn exactly how comfortable the woman was with needles... and a bloodied man.

Hamish did a fine job not strangling the man for the insult to his wife, but that didn't stop the Duke of Camine from growling, "Get on with it."

Wallace extracted a sealed roll from inside his coat and handed it to Percy.

Breaking the wax, Percy opened the orders and his stomach bottomed out.

Percival Cole, Captain in Her Majesty's Army, is reinstated to active duty as of the twelfth day of the month.

Percy scoured paragraphs of government bullshit, ending at a list of names signed at the bottom, more than one ranked signature present, including the new Home Office Secretary—a man Percy knew well.

The orders were official.

"Fuck."

Hamish took the paper from his hand and read over the information, his scowl pinching his brows into a deep V. "This is preposterous," he scoffed. "Percy is a duke."

Wallace nodded but spoke directly to Percy. "Your changed circumstances were noted. You are to deliver yourself to Her Majesty's army headquarters in Whitehall, rank intact." He nodded to Hamish and marched to the door, throwing over his shoulder, "Welcome back, Captain."

Upon the major's exit, the room, and the two men, were left in suspended silence.

He must have been dreaming. The entire production was ridiculous. Him, go back into the army? He'd been assured by his superiors that his transfer from squadron to the Home Office would be dealt with. Just as the conniving government sycophants had said Percy's last mission had been a sanctioned one with minimal risks.

The same mission that had left him and his partner exposed and at the mercy of French intelligence and pitted two childhood friends to fight to the death. Which made this command all the more puzzling. As far as Percy knew, everyone from his old life believed he was dead.

Everyone except Nic.

Percy felt the joy and hope that had sprouted up in the last few weeks shrivel and die in his chest. "The bastard has made his move." Damn, he was a fool! He'd let his guard down. Deep down, he'd actually believed Nic had died in the Thames.

Hamish didn't need to ask to whom he referred. "You think this is Nic's doing?"

Percy couldn't help but pace as he thought. Movement always helped when one was used to action. "Who else? It's the kind of delay tactic he'd use while preparing his next move." And if the army was made aware of his non-dead person, it was a matter of time before the Home Office came calling.

"Why give himself away like this?" Hamish asked.

"I don't know." The lack of knowledge was unhinging.

"Nic is dead," Hamish said firmly.

Percy stopped, a moment of hope stopping his running thoughts. "Did the Merry Men find the body?" He'd send Syd a bloody basket of flowers if they did.

Hamish sighed. "No." He returned to the pressing matter. "Are there any grounds they can re-conscript you?"

Percy nodded. "I was never officially discharged."

"But commissions were abolished."

"My contract was bought before the law was passed."

"That was twenty years ago. You can't join the army as a child."

His voice was dead when he said, "You can if you lie about your age."

Hamish's whistle sounded like an incoming cannonball. He clapped Percy on the shoulder. "Let this be a lesson in deceit, old boy." He sighed. "We'll go to the Home Office in the morning. And if they won't see reason, we'll take this directly to St. James Place."

Percy wouldn't acknowledge his relief at the other man's offer, though it was unnecessary. His connections in the Home Office would be of far more value. The reception, however, might prove tricky. "You mean to aid me in shirking my duties to the Crown? You have turned into a revolutionary."

Hamish grinned. "On the contrary. You're a useless duke now, remember? Your duty lies with your land and tenants. Ledgers and accounts won't see to themselves."

Percy shook his head, the idea of active duty not sounding so bad after all. "Nic will have foreseen the argument and made contingency plans."

"The man isn't God, Percy. He may outdo us all in evil machinations and ridiculous hair, but he remains unequal in the face of our forces."

"Since when can dukes outmaneuver anyone who can't be bought or intimidated?"

"Since never."

Percy rolled his eyes. "Markus and his merry band have proven they can't catch a cold. You shouldn't put your faith in them, either."

"I don't." Hamish smiled. "I do , however, know a group of women to whom Death Himself would beg for mercy."

Percy grasped his meaning and his own mouth quirked to one side. Hope wasn't dead yet. "No force like it on Earth," he agreed.

Dukes may be no match for his former partner—who could read Percy's actions like chapters in a book—but Nic Brandt stood no chance against the collective and unexpected force of duchesses.

"Think they'll agree to intervene?" Percy said.

"Save us poor menfolk through cleverness and grit?" Hamish snorted. "I pity the man who tries to stop them. Make sure to grovel accordingly."

The door opened and the Duchess of Camine entered as if she'd been waiting on the other side for this exact moment. Expression eager, she said, "We'll do it."

Percy gave Hamish a grin. "I didn't even need to grovel."

The humor faded quickly, spurned by the certainty that his greatest enemy still breathed. If Nic knew about his commission, then he'd know about his rise in pedigree. Striking now of all times, when Percy had just made his official appearance in society, he must've been watching him for some time, choosing this exact moment to reveal himself.

But why now?

Charlotte clapped her hands together, already preparing. "First we clear up this army matter, then we see to disposing of that miserable cur."

Percy snorted. And women said men were bloodthirsty. "You could've warned me I was walking into a formal reinstatement."

Charlotte skewered him with a sharp look. "If you had come when I'd asked weeks ago, I would have. I made it a point that the man must take his business here in front of witnesses so no mistakes would be made. I had no idea the man had official orders, only that he thought to impose on you."

Ah. He bowed over her hand, his contrition sincere. "You are a goddess, and I am unworthy."

She sniffed. "Apology accepted." Obviously feeling a rare sense of empathy for him, she advised, "Make sure to discuss it with Daniella. Wives like to be informed when their idiotic husbands decide to do foolish things."

Percy froze, something cold and unsettling churning in his stomach. Her words played inside his head. And again. He slowly released Charlotte's hand. "I should inform my wife."

She rolled her eyes. "That's what I said. I'm sure your duchess will have something to say about this whole business."

"My wife." The bans were posted, but the papers had been late due to the weather. Much of the country would just now be hearing about the nuptials of the Duke of Grandfellow to Lady Daniella Deime.

Hamish materialized at his side. "You've gone as white as a sheet. What is it?"

Percy felt his legs buckle. He half-sat, half-crouched on the edge of the divan, all his strength going to formulate a strategy.

Charlotte glanced at her husband. "Is he all right?"

Hamish shook his head.

"Is he faint? Shall I call for biscuits?"

"No biscuits," Percy said. "No tea, no tarts, no cake. No food." Not when his stomach was a somersaulting mess.

"No food?" Hamish dropped beside him, eyes wide. "Good God, man. What the devil is the matter?"

This couldn't be happening. But everything lined up. The timing, the delay. He was a married man, with a precious wife at home. If he got called away now, there'd be no one to protect her. Not even a lord could sluff off his duties to present himself when the demand came straight from the Crown.

The game was ending, forced by a man who'd lost too many battles but who was determined to come out the victor. Nic wouldn't show mercy or restraint. What transpired between Hamish and Charlotte, and even Renard and Camille, had been nothing but petulant tantrums by a man bored with too many skills to remain inactive. But what lay between him and Percy, that was personal.

"He will kill her." Nic was going after Daniella. The reinstatement was a way to tie Percy's hands. He lifted his gaze and saw his own horror reflected in his best friend's face. "He's going after my wife."

*

After vetting the runners he'd hired and confirming with Hamish that Danny was safe and guarded at Fellow Hall, Percy made his move.

He had no need for an escort. The floors may have been polished, the walls painted a new coat of the same slate grey. Agents may have come and gone, internal promotions switching figureheads like stacking dolls all with the same empty heads, but one thing the Home Office never did was change.

Entering the private entrance by way of a false pillar, Percy fought his stealth training and walked confidentially down the hall, his hat tipped back. Up a secret staircase to the second-floor offices, he opened the third door on the right.

Percy defended on instinct.

The blade came a second later. He caught the knife between his middle and pointer finger, a mere inch from his open left eye. Grinning, Percy lowered the weapon and regarded his former handler as he sat behind his desk, looking the same—if not a bit tired around the eyes—as always in a dark suit, bored expression, and a curled wig. "Nice to see you too, Ridley."

If David Ridley was surprised to see Percy's handsome mug, he gave nothing away. The man had always had the most unnerving poker face. "You haven't lost your touch, Percy."

One eye on Ridley, Percy used his other to admire the room with its golden inlaid mantel and burgundy drapes, and finally landing on the woodblock at the edge of the man's wide, mahogany desk. "Congratulations on your promotion, Home Secretary."

"Not nearly as impressive as your new title."

Percy laughed and crossed the room to toss the blade onto the stack of papers on the desk. "You know why I'm here?"

Ridley leaned back in his chair. "I cannot go against official commands."

Percy's fingers itched for his own blade concealed in his sleeve. They'd been friends once, a rare description Percy had handed out to a smaller number of people than the fingers on one hand. They both knew a single letter and Percy's service would be dissolved and his person free. But nothing about the Home Office was truly that easy, or free.

"I might, however, be able to request termination of your orders if you were to show good faith in your continued loyalty to the Crown," Ridley said.

Percy waited.

The man shifted through some papers, looking both busy and inconvenienced, a demonstration of his power over the situation. "There's a matter of your last mission."

"The French ambassador is dead," Percy said. The only thing that had gone right that night.

"Yes, a job well done," Ridley said. "Since you managed it while being in French custody at the time. We've missed having a man of your caliber."

Percy shrugged. It wouldn't do to give the man all the gory details. Ridley would know them all by now, anyway. "You plan to blackmail me into reinstatement of a different kind, then?" He shook his head, infinitely disappointed. "Poor show, old man."

"A single mission," Ridley said. "For a man of your talents."

Meaning subterfuge, espionage, and murder. "There's a mouse in the works?"

"More like a rat."

"And you need a snake." Because the last chase hadn't ended with him in a French prison. Percy cursed. "A fine metaphor, but I left for a reason. What's catching rats when there's a mongoose holding your tail?"

"Your capture was never part of the plan." Ridley's expression hardened. "But it happened, and you escaped, as expected. The reason you are here remains, to clean up the mess you made."

Then HO knew.

Percy ignored the fingers of dread trailing his spine. A rogue agent was a blemish on any service, but one who kept their head down and their nose clean was of little consequence when there were other, more pressing men who needed killing, the reason Percy imagined he hadn't been hunted down like a fox in the woods. But an agent who attacked the peerage and left bodies lying in the street...

"You knew of Officer Brandt's recent activities," he accused. And the HO hadn't lifted a finger to stop it. Rage burned his insides, but Percy's mask remained cold. "Your complacency nearly cost two dukes their lives."

Ridley sneered. "None of his actions can be laid at our feet. Drawing unwanted attention, conspiring with political factions who are no better than mercenaries, Brandt relinquished his position the moment he stopped following orders and made a mockery of this establishment."

The factions' involvement was new. Percy tucked the information away. "You mean the moment you lost control of him ."

"Some in this office would claim you are the same liability." Ridley studied him thoughtfully. "You've made some powerful friends in the past years: dukes, duchesses, brothel madams."

Now they came to it. "How well informed you are."

"And now a duke yourself. What a turn of events."

Percy snorted at the other man's derisive tone. "Had I known my lineage was so well titled, things would have been different, trust me."

"Then you knew nothing?"

Percy's gaze narrowed. "Did you?"

"No." Ridley's displeased tone assuaged Percy's suspicions. His greatest skill had always been anonymity.

Ridley confirmed as much when he said, "We don't make a habit of recruiting men too easily identified by the populace."

"But that doesn't make me without use."

Ridley smiled. "You were always quick to the take." The older man rubbed his face, and the calculating gleam in his eyes faded. "The truth is I've known of your voluntary retirement for some time and chose to keep it to myself. You were a fine officer and a sublime aide-de-camp for our headquarters, and I wouldn't ask for your assistance if I believed there was anyone else who stood a chance at silencing Brandt."

As far as compliments went, it was gushing.

"Your recent rise to notoriety complicates the situation, but not egregiously," he went on. "I could have torn up your orders for recommission as soon as they passed by my desk, but to put it plainly, I knew you would not darken my door for anything less than a command from the Crown itself. So I took advantage."

"You didn't send the orders yourself?" Percy didn't like that one bit.

Ridley shared his displeasure. "I tracked the informant as far as the Birmingham East Office, where the name and sighting were lost in a contained fire too convenient to be anything but intentional."

Nic's signature.

Percy fought a shudder. "Then you're desperate?"

Ridley stood and went to the window that looked out onto the busy thoroughfare. "I'm not a young man anymore. I've scraped and worked my way up the ladder for a legacy I can leave my sons, and security I can leave my family. More so than any viscountcy." He rubbed his face again, the action leaving years behind in the creases around his eyes and mouth. "Decades of intrigue and death, conspiracies and cover-ups. I've done my best to act with honor and make decisions that are in the best interests of England."

He turned to face Percy, his once-broad shoulders weighed down with responsibility. "I'm tired, Percy. In the coming years, I have every intention of enjoying my own retirement. I've cleaned house, tied up missions, and trained my new protegees to a degree near criminal. Everything is finished, except this."

He took the papers from his desk—what Percy now saw were his official orders of reinstatement—and tore them in half before tossing them into the fire, where they curled into a smoky promise.

"Do this for me, old friend," Ridley said, all manner of antics absent from his tone and face. "You'll have the full cooperation of the Home Office and any agents at your disposal. Do this, and you will be redacted from every letter, every memory in every mission, and be free to the life of luxury you deserve. I promise you."

The offer was generous, but the consequences if the mission failed were long reaching. Nothing was that simple. There was more than one rat in the hen house it seemed, which made contacts and resources restricted regardless of old Ridley's best intentions. But as Percy knew, the HO wasn't without its use, either.

"And if I don't succeed?" Percy asked.

Ridley's expression was nothing short of disparaging. "For all our sakes, pray you do."

Percy nodded, a haphazard strategy forming to encapsulate the resources now at his fingertips that weren't tainted. Things like hermit inventors, government pardons, and incinerators to hide the bodies. With some luck, he may be able to mend fences and recruit an army at the same time. It would take a horde of demons to take on the Devil. Nic's inability to control his collateral damage would be the death of him.

"I have a plan," Percy said, calculating the players in this final game. "But you may need to compromise some of those honorable intentions."

Ridley's relieved expression turned to one of business and resignation. "Tell me."

"You admonish the mercenary." Percy smiled, knowing there was a good chance they'd all be dead by week's end. "But how do you feel about loveable rookery gangs?"