Chapter 26

Sebastian had planned to leave Virtue's side once she fell asleep, a simple decision that strangely weighed heavily on his heart. The promise he had made to never leave her side haunted him, making the mere act of even stepping into the next chamber feel like an immense betrayal.

He blamed himself for what had happened to her. Had he been here, or had he allowed her to accompany him as she had so desperately wanted, perhaps none of this would have happened—and that realization was not lost on Sebastian.

And so, he waited and watched as she drifted off to sleep. Lying in bed beside her, he lay perfectly still as her eyelids gently fluttered and her breathing steadied. It happened quickly, for she was still sick and weak from the poisoning. If this past week was any indication, she would not wake until mid-morning tomorrow. A sleep that was close to death, one that unnerved him and often had him checking her breathing in the night to make sure it wasn't the case. Now, he watched her, a sense of peace settling over her features, wishing nothing more than to remain by her side.

But he also knew that he could not rest until he found the culprit responsible for what had happened, and there was no chance of him doing so if he stayed here all night. Additionally, someone was waiting for him, someone who might help him find justice—or more fittingly, vengeance.

With a heavy heart, he leaned down and gently kissed her lips, a kiss which had her smiling even in her sleep. With that bittersweet image imprinted in his mind's eye, Sebastian forced himself to stand and leave the room.

From there, he stalked the halls of his castle, his destination his study located in the northern tower. The night was silent and dark, so much so that even the howling of the wind was but a whisper beyond the walls of the keep. He climbed the steps of the tower briskly, taking them two at a time, conscious of his tardiness. Upon reaching the top, he noticed the study door already ajar, a sliver of light spilling into the dark hallway.

"You are late, Your Grace," came a rugged voice with a thick accent from within the dimly lit room as Sebastian entered.

"And you are early," Sebastian grumbled as he swept toward his desk, sparing a glance for the man sitting in the chair opposite his own.

The man retained his stony expression for a moment longer, before it ultimately broke into a wide grin and a peal of hearty laughter. "What can I say? I was thrilled at the prospect of seeing you again, my boy!"

"No need for the flattery." Sebastian fell into his seat, looking at his guest's gold-tanned visage for the first time.

"Bah! Six years without so much as a written word, and then three over the last week requesting my services? Sometimes, I think this connection is maybe too much on one side, no? But truly, I would venture any hardship to glimpse your esteemed countenance once again, hermano," he jested, reaching into his coat for a match to light his cigar. Catching sight of Sebastian's austere look, he swiftly added, "Shall we proceed to the matter at hand?"

"Did anyone see you, Mendoza?" Sebastian inquired, cutting straight to the chase. There was not an ounce of lie in Mendoza's words, yet the urgency of their current situation allowed little room for leisurely catch-ups. That could wait for another day.

"You assured me the need for discretion, cuante."

"Were you always so evasive in your replies?"

A toothy grin came in response. "Fear not, I exercised utmost caution. As far as the great country of England is concerned, I was never here."

"Good." Sebastian shifted in his seat. "Good."

The name was Justine Mendoza, an old acquaintance of Sebastian's, their connection stretching back to the early days of the Peninsular War. Not that he fought for the cause, of course. Rather, he was invaluable in another role—that of a ‘trader', a title he proudly went by that belied his true utility to the war effort, and now, Sebastian. He was a procurer of items that were hard to come by during times of strife, always for a reasonable price, and without the inconvenience of questions. Not a thief. Not a pirate. Merely a well-connected man who capitalized on the desperation war inflicted on ordinary citizens and soldiers alike.

As a commander, Sebastian had enlisted the services of Justine on numerous occasions. It was typically for something innocuous, such as securing extra bottles of brandy and wine to boost the spirits of his men after a grueling campaign—expenses that came from his own pocket. Occasionally, the requests were for weaponry, or even crucial intelligence about enemy movements. And once, as strange as it might sound, it involved acquiring a fresh pair of pantaloons.

The point was, Justine was a man who knew things, who knew people who knew things, who knew people who knew things about people who didn't want things known about them. An informant, as it was.

"It has been a while, Justine," Sebastian began awkwardly as he studied the short man sitting across from him.

"Six years, two months," Justine repeated, picking at his teeth with the miswak stick in his spare hand, in between each puff of his cigar.

"Something like that."

"You wound me, Your Grace," he pretended to pout. "You neither write nor visit. Why, I might suspect that the only value I held for you was in my goods and services."

"Does this shock you," Sebastian retorted dryly. "Or do you require more flattery?"

Another toothy grin split Justine's face, his smile incongruously large for his small head. "Lovely. Shows that I must be good at what I do. Seeing as you utilized my services sufficiently."

"Seeing as I did not have you arrested after the war, you mean? Your panderings toward the French were not as obscure as you might have thought."

"Now you insult me. I would never." He feigned shock with a hand to his breastbone.

Sebastian sighed and sat forward. "All right, enough pleasantries."

"Ah, business." Justine twiddled his spindly fingers eagerly, his beady eyes flashing their delight. "Just as I had hoped—for a moment there, I thought you might have only invited me over to reminisce."

Sebastian looked at him flatly. "Are you quite done?"

"I am," he chuckled. "Now, what is it you be needin'? As you may well remember, there is not much I cannot get these fingers on, if the price is right, of course. I took a little paseo through this castle on my way up here, and it's in dire need of furnishing. I know a man in the Spanish Isles who specializes in fine furniture. Por un módico precio, he can supply you with the most exquisite set of dressers you've ever laid eyes on—"

"I do not require goods," Sebastian cut him off, reminding himself at the same time to walk Justine out when he was done, and to check his pockets. "What I require is information."

"Ah..." His eyes flashed with a hint of intrigue. "So, this be concerning your wife, then, aye?"

Sebastian saw red. At the casual mention of his wife, and the very real fact that Justine knew what had happened, he was up and out of his chair, around the table, lifting Justine by the scruff of his neck and slamming his back onto the table before the little man could so much as blink.

"What do you know?!" Sebastian snarled in his face as he pressed his forearm down on Justine's throat.

"Nothing, cuadre!" Justine cried.

"Wrong answer!"

"I don't know nothin'—I just heard about the unfortunate incident that befell your lovely wife, is all!" he pleaded, kicking his feet as he tried to free himself; a futile gesture under the iron grip of Sebastian.

"From who!?" He pressed down harder until the man's face began to turn purple.

"Everybody!" he coughed and gagged. "You are a Duke! People talk – I was in that village down the road earlier—" He wheezed under the pressure on his neck. "It's all the chat there. Please!"

Sebastian growled at the little man. He gave him a look that told him that if there was even a breath of lie in his sentence, he would not hesitate to rip out his larynx from his throat. Sebastian had a reputation, Justine was more than aware of said reputation, and it was moments like this one that reminded him of it.

"All right." Suddenly, Sebastian released him. "I believe you."

"Cristo!" Justine gasped as he slid off the table and collapsed onto the floor, hacking and coughing violently. He pounded on his chest, trying to catch his breath. "That the way you treat guests, hermano?"

"You are no guest," Sebastian replied icily as he moved back around the table and retook his seat. "Not until your involvement in this ordeal is exonerated."

"Still..." He coughed again; choking up phlegm and then swallowing it. "The Royal Butcher indeed." He remained standing, half-turned as if he meant to flee.

"Please..." Sebastian offered the chair again.

Justine curled his nose. "You are not planning to attack me again, are you?"

"Not unless you give me a reason to."

Justine chuckled coldly and took the seat. But he scraped it back a little from the escritoire, readying to jump and run if it came to it.

"So, my wife," Sebastian started. "What did you hear?"

"Just that she was poisoned," Justine said with a sneer. "Dreadful business. Half that village is speakin' of it. They think it was you who did it, though." He chortled. "From what just happened, however, I get the sense the rumors are quite unfounded."

"What do you think?" he snarled.

Justine grinned. "Now, I think that you want me to find out who done it. Correct? That is why I'm here, no? Certainly isn't so you can show off your winning hospitality."

"You were always sharp," Sebastian muttered wryly. "But only half right. I don't want you to find out who did it. I want you to follow the man who I suspect is behind it. Follow him, gather evidence of his actions, and bring it to me. I'll… handle the rest."

"You know who did it?" Justine raised an eyebrow, intrigued.

"I think I do."

He chuckled. "And this man is still breathing? My, you really have reformed."

It was only a theory. Had Sebastian been certain of the identity of Virtue's poisoner, the culprit would not still be drawing breath, as Justine had so bluntly put it. Months ago, such knowledge would have yielded the same outcome. Previously, Sebastian's notorious temper and impetuous nature might have led him to exact swift retribution without a thorough investigation.

Things were different now. His marriage to Virtue had changed him, calmed him, made him more willing to see reason where once he would scarcely have bothered with such a thing. It was funny what love could do to a man.

All that was to say that if he was proven correct... the Royal Butcher might make a return, if only for a solitary evening. And, despite the gravity of such a return, he felt it might well be warranted.

"So, what is the name of this… miscreant?" Justine asked.

"Remember," Sebastian instructed, his voice firm and authoritative. "You are to merely shadow him. You are not to engage him, approach him, or take any action without explicit direction—"

"Yes, yes, of course," he waved Sebastian down. "Who do you think you are speaking to? I am a man of love, not war. Now, pray tell, who is the gentleman?"

Sebastian paused, the weight of his next words palpable in the dimly lit room. Once spoken, there could be no retractions. "Lord Prescott, my wife's ex-betrothed."