Page 88 of The Devil in Her Bed
Francesca clutched the phone with hands gone suddenly cold and clammy. “What?” She didn’t fight the yelling now. “How do you know?”
“That he has an invitation? Or that he’s yer lover?”
Francesca took the earpiece from her ear and made a nasty face at it. “Both,” she gritted out. “Either.”
“I cautioned him against having you two watched!” Cecelia called from the ether. “But he’s quite like you, Frank. Stubborn. His agents saw Chandler go into your house last night… and not come out.”
Francesca could just see the couple glaring at each other.
“I’ve had everyone watched,” Ramsay admitted with no trace of shame. “Kenway, his household, people I recognized leaving the council soiree last night, names I’ve gleaned from the council members ye’d already given over to us. They are all being followed. And ye’ll thank me for my stubbornness when ye hear what I have to say.”
Ramsay took a fortifying breath, and because he was so much like her in nature, Francesca found a place to sit down. If this was unpleasant for the Scot to impart, she wasn’t going to like to hear it.
“I did some digging on Chandler Alquist, Lady Francesca,” he started reluctantly. “He’s not just a spy, he’s a ghost. There are no records of him existing anywhere except for when he gained employ. He’s assigned to the most dangerous of cases, suicide missions and the like, and has been after the Crimson Council for some time. He’s done… terrible things, Francesca. Things that would make even a man such as I hesitate.”
Francesca let out a deep breath, clutching at the window seat beneath her. “I know,” she murmured. “He’s told me as much. And isn’t it said that one doesn’t send a saint to capture a sinner?” She patently refused to believe that he was anything but a good man. “Chandler acknowledges that he’s a monster, but he’s shown me someone different, Ramsay. He is an agent of justice, and sometimes justice is brutal.”
“I doona ken if you understand what I’m saying toye,” Ramsay interjected carefully. “Chandler isn’t a monster. He’s the man they send tokillthe monster. He’s death’s own emissary from the Crown, and if he’s on a job then people end up in the ground.”
“You mean to say, he’s an assassin?”
“I mean to say he lied to ye, Countess. He was never delivered an invitation to the ritual tonight, but ye were. This morning. My man witnessed it happen, and if ye doona have it, then I suspect Chandler does, and that he’s keeping it from ye.”
“That rat bastard.” Francesca swiped at a vase on the table next to her, sending peonies and other select flora flying as the crystal shattered on the floor. “He means to keep me from my revenge, does he? The high-handed cretin. I’ll fucking teach him a thing or two about—”
“About trying to keep those ye care about away from a dangerous situation by being dishonest?” Ramsay cut in, a note of amusement gentling his censure.
Guiltily, she traced the grain of wood on the table top in front of her with a fingertip. “That was different. I don’t want Cecelia and Alexandra caught up in this. Francesca ismylie. It’s my fight.”
“We doona wantanyof ye Rogues caught up in this,” Ramsay grumped.
“Is this the royal we?”
“Redmayne and I, the duchess, and Cecelia. We’d have ye let Chandler… whoever he is… deal with this. He obviously wants to keep ye safe, and the man has more than enough expertise. Sending him into the lair of the Crimson Council is akin to dropping an explosive into a room and shutting the door.”
“If I’m not there tonight, I think Kenway will suspect why. He has as many eyes in this city as you do, and I’m not naive enough to think I haven’t been watched by him, as well.” Though she’d been careful not to be tailed through the city that morning. “I think Chandler will be in danger if I do not attend this.” Anger and concern warred inside her stomach with such force, Francesca wondered if she might chuck up her lunch. “Do you know where they’re holding the ritual?”
The silence on the other end of the line stretched a moment too long.
“Goddammit, Ramsay. If you know somethingtell me.”
“Do ye have anything to tell me, Countess?”
Francesca worried at an escaped tendril of hair at the nape of her neck. “Chandler might be the most dangerous spy in the realm, but Kenway has an army of devotees that would throw themselves in front of a bullet for him. Kenway is deranged, Ramsay. He’s more sordid than you could have ever even suspected.” She spilled all the information about the night prior. About her father, the Cavendishes, the Lord Chancellor, and the rituals. She told him what she knew of their creed and what the council might be planning to do with it.
Once she finished, he said nothing for a moment, and then, “I wish we had more evidence. The kind to put this treacherous—nay, traitorous—council away for good. But as it stands, even if I set up a raid, I’ll have little more than several dozen charges of gross publicindecency, and no peer of the realm has remained imprisoned for long for an orgy. Not in this day and age.”
“Even a seditious orgy?” she wished aloud.
“There’d have to be proof. Testament. And I’m afraid hearsay from ye and Chandler just wouldna be enough. We need something to tie them to the massacre, to the kidnapping of those girls, to the murder of the Lord Chancellor. And, most important, specific plans for an overthrow of the monarchy. Can ye provide me any of that?”
She shook her head, forgetting for a moment that he was unable to see her. “The Lord Chancellor’s bones are fodder for the dogs by now, I’m afraid, and Kenway is much too clever to keep documents.”
“And he obviously has agents in the government.” Ramsay expelled another of his long, hissing breaths, and Francesca could all but see him pinching the bridge of his nose. “This is even bigger than we all thought.”
“I know,” she said, worrying at her lip with her teeth. “Tell me where Chandler is. Tell me what you know about tonight.”
“I doona think I should.” He hesitated again, and Francesca surged to her feet. “I have a sense of duty to protect ye.”
