“Where did you find it?”
“Jacques demanded it of your brother when Harry agreed to become a spy for France.”
He was shaking his head in denial before she ever finished her vile accusation. “No.”
“Jacques sensed that Harry might prove to be an unreliable ally so he desired a token to ensure your brother would not decide to betray his new employer,” she pressed.
His gut twisted, his blood running cold even as he told himself that it was a cruel trick.
Whatever Harry’s numerous sins, he would never betray his country. Never.
He clenched his fingers around the ring. “Why this?”
Sophia shrugged. “The ring would expose Harry’s own sins should he ever decide to be…indiscreet.”
“It proves nothing,” he forced himself to mutter. “The ring could easily have been stolen from Carrick Park. No doubt Vicar—” he mockingly stressed the title “—Gerard was often welcomed into my home.”
She regarded him with something perilously close to pity as she reached into her other pocket and pulled out a folded piece of parchment.
“And this?”
With a curse he snatched the paper from her hand, still attempting to convince himself that this was a deception. It only took a glance, however, for harsh reality to slam into him with agonizing force.
It was not just Harry’s signature or the stamped wax seal next to it that convinced him the note confessing his brother’s willing pledge to the Emperor Napoleon Bonaparte and his agreement to offer Jacques Gerard any assistance he might require that convinced him that it was not a forgery. It was the careless, nearly illegible penmanship that was distinctly his brother’s. It would be near impossible to duplicate. Damnation.
His mind reeled as the appalling implications of his brother’s treachery bit deep into his heart.
Soldiers had died. He shuddered to think how many. The Corsican monster had been allowed to continue his rampage across Europe and now the Peninsula, because England and her allies had been constantly one step behind. And masses had been driven from their homes to flee from the raging battles.
Was there any worse crime that could be committed?
Unwelcome memories of Harry seared through Gabriel’s mind. Images of Harry arriving home in the early morning hours appearing drunk and disheveled with the stench of cheap perfume on his clothing. Of the young man badgering his mother for yet another loan to pay for a flamboyant carriage or box at the theater. Of the burly men who arrived on the doorstep demanding payment from one gambling hell or another.
Weak and self-indulgent.
Two faults that had proven more dangerous than any murderous madman.
Unable to stand still, Gabriel paced across the dirt floor, his mind in turmoil.
Was it possible his brother had been forced into becoming a spy? Had he been blackmailed into writing the damned note?
As unlikely as it might seem, it was the slim thread he could grasp at.
“Tell me from the beginning.”
Sophia cleared her throat, no doubt relieved that Gabriel had not chosen to kill the messenger.
“From what Jacques has revealed, he and Harry attended school together.”
Gabriel frowned, unable to believe that the intensely driven Jacques could ever have chosen a shallow gamester who considered nothing beyond his own pleasures as a companion.
“They were friends?”
“I do not know the entire story, but they were at least acquainted closely enough for your brother to be aware of Jacques’s sympathies for the revolution, as well as his return to France and loyalty to Napoleon.”
Gabriel glanced toward his companion. “How can you be certain?”
“Because he made a most surprising visit to this palace over a year ago.”