Gabriel hesitated. He had assumed from the moment the beautiful woman had entered the cellar that this was a trap. He would be a fool not to.
But could he in all conscience ignore any opportunity to discover a traitor to the crown?
Who knew how many British soldiers had been l
ost because of the mysterious bastard? And how many more would be put at risk in the future?
He had no choice but to allow her to take the lead in the farce they were playing.
At least for now.
“My word.”
“The traitor is…”
She allowed her words to dangle, feigning a reluctance that was no doubt intended to whet his appetite. Instead it just annoyed him.
“Yes?” he snapped.
“Mr. Harry Richardson.”
Silence filled the cellar as Gabriel struggled to accept she had dared accuse his brother. Then, with a murderous fury he grasped her arms and hauled her forward to glare down at her treacherous beauty.
“You bitch,” he rasped. “I knew this was a trick.”
Her face paled to a sickly shade of ash, but she grimly refused to admit the truth. “Non. You must listen to me.”
“Listen to the filthy lies that drip with such ease from those lovely lips?” He shifted his hand to wrap his fingers around her neck, his grip just hard enough to reveal how easily he could put an end to her lies. “I have a better notion. Why do I not choke the truth from you?”
He felt her swallow convulsively, her eyes darkening in genuine fear.
“My pocket,” she managed to squeeze out.
“What?”
“Reach into my pocket.”
“Why?” he mocked. “Do you have a viper hidden?”
“I have proof.”
Gabriel gave a sharp laugh, not certain why he was surprised that his enemies would sink to accusing his own brother of such treachery.
Was there not a saying that “the rules of fair play do not apply in love and war?”
Keeping one hand wrapped around her throat, Gabriel used the other to slip into the pocket of her dressing gown.
“I had already planned to kill Jacques Gerard, now I intend to make certain that the process is as slow and painful as…” He forgot how to speak as he pulled out the small, round object he found in her pocket and glanced at the antique gold ring carved with a familiar signet. “What the hell?”
“You recognize the ring?” she asked softly.
Recognize it? Of course he damned well recognized the thing. Hadn’t he personally put it on his brother’s finger after his father’s funeral? He had worn it himself until he had been forced to accept the ring bearing the Ashcombe crest.
He barely dared to breathe as he fought back the deluge of emotions that threatened to drown him.
Shock. Disbelief. Rage.
Insufferable regret.