“I’m glad to hear it considering that you’re married to my sister,” Reynaud replied with an edge to his voice.
Hartley’s expression didn’t change, but his body seemed to grow more tense. “You should have no worries that I’ll take care of Emeline.”
“Good to know.”
“Now, now,” Vale said in a sickeningly sweet voice reminiscent of a nursery nanny. “I already gave him a drubbing for courting Emmie.”
Reynaud raised his eyebrows. “You did?”
“He did not,” Hartley said even as Vale nodded happily. “I threw him down the stairs.”
Vale pursed his lips and looked skyward. “Not my recollection, but I can see how your memory of the event may’ve become hazy.”
“Now, look here,” Hartley began quietly, a thread of amusement in his voice.
“Gentlemen,” Reynaud said, “we need to come to the crux of the matter, for it is indeed only a week after my wedding, and my lovely wife will eventually expect me to wait attendance on her.”
“Very well.” Hartley nodded, serious now. “What have you discovered since I last saw you, Vale?”
“There are rumors both that the Spinner’s Falls traitor was a nobleman and that his mother was French,” Vale said promptly.
Hartley cocked his head. “And where did you get this information?”
“Munroe,” Reynaud said, Vale having informed him at their previous meeting. “The first bit of information he had from a colleague in France; the second—”
“He got it from Hasselthorpe,” Vale said, “although he didn’t deign to share the information with me until a month or so ago.”
Hartley looked at him curiously. “Why ever not?”
Vale looked embarrassed.
“I expect because of me,” Reynaud said. “My mother was French.”
“Of course.” Hartley nodded.
“No doubt he thought that if I was already dead, there was no point in casting doubt upon my name,” Reynaud said drily. “But since it happens that I’m not dead . . .”
“Now we need to think of who else among the survivors had a French mother,” Vale said grimly. “Because whoever it is must be the traitor.”
“But there isn’t anyone else,” Hartley said.
Reynaud grimaced. “If you’re suggesting it’s me—”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Hartley snapped. “Just listen. There’s you, me, Vale here, Munroe, Wimbley, Barrows, Nate Growe, and Douglas—I’ve talked to them all.”
“Yes.” Vale said. “And all are from London and probably had ancestors running about in blue at the time of the Roman invasion.”
“Thornton, Horn, Allen, and Craddock are dead,” Hartley continued, “but we investigated them thoroughly. None of these men had French mothers. There simply isn’t anyone else who survived who could be the man.”
“Then perhaps it was someone killed,” Reynaud said softly. “Though that doesn’t make sense.”
“Who else had a French mother?” Vale asked.
“Clemmons had a French sister-in-law,” Hartley said thoughtfully.
“Did he?” Vale stared. “I had no idea.”
Hartley nodded. “He mentioned it once. A younger brother’s wife, but she is dead.”