Isobel appeared at the door in front of him.
“Oh, Peter,” she gasped, her eyes full of tears. She made to approach him, her arms held open for a hug, only to pause, and stare at Peter in horror when he backed away.
“Don’t, Isobel,” he growled in a hoarse voice. “Just don’t.” He brushed past her, refusing to look at her again, and pushed through the study door. He didn’t really give a damn what Sir Dunnicliffe had planned for his men. It wouldn’t change Peter’s intention to go after Scraggan himself. Sir Dunnicliffe was bloody useless now. Whatever he was going to do, it was going to be too little too late. If the man had appeared only a couple of days earlier, then he could have been able to step in and keep Jemima off the gallows. As it was, poor timing and bad judgement had murdered her. Peter
wasn’t sure he wanted to even see the man, let alone listen to his officious plans.
Something deep inside him, however, some intrinsic need for answers, made him want to see this Sir Dunnicliffe for himself. To see the man who was just as responsible for Jemima’s death as the hangman who had supervised her hanging. As he entered, he eyed the man standing before the fireplace with blatant contempt and immediately moved to the brandy decanter, making no attempt to introduce himself.
Although he had heard stories of Sir Dunnicliffe’s service in the armed forces, he had never been personally introduced to the man who had been lauded by many as a brilliant, intellectual soldier whose forethought and planning had won many battles against the French. Only, this time, his forethought and planning had failed, and for that Peter would never forgive him.
“Good afternoon.” Sir Dunnicliffe bowed politely toward him.
Peter gave him a perfunctory nod, and slouched in a chair beside the fire as a clearly furious Dominic burst into the room.
“Where the bloody hell have you been, man?” he demanded, stalking across the room to stand before the new arrival, a glare of accusation on his face. “We sent word for you several days ago. It doesn’t take that bloody long to walk here from London!” Fury burned in the tense lines of his body as he paused before Sir Dunnicliffe, a muscle ticking rhythmically in his jaw.
Unperturbed by the rude welcome he had just received from both men, Sir Dunnicliffe drew himself to his full height and sighed apologetically.
“I apologise for our unfortunate delay,” he said officiously. “We were unexpectedly delayed with some government business. It was unavoidable, I’m afraid.”
Dominic moved to stand practically nose to nose with the man, his eyes hard and merciless. “Do you realise that your ‘unexpected delay’ caused the unjust death of an innocent person?”
Sir Dunnicliffe simply stared directly back at him, almost defiantly. “I’m sorry. If we could have arrived earlier, we would have, but unfortunately matters were taken out of our hands and there was little we could do.”
Dominic swore, and turned away just as Edward and Sebastian arrived.
“Please excuse our anger,” Sebastian offered, having heard Dominic’s shouting from the corridor. “One of our own was unjustly executed this morning, and we are all in mourning.”
Sir Dunnicliffe stiffened and stared at Peter in alarm.
“Who else?” His eyes flew around the room to land on each man in turn, as he waited for someone to fill him in.
Dominic sighed deeply, and somewhat apologetically offered the new arrival a glass of his best brandy, before waving everyone over to the chairs next to Peter and the fireplace.
“What?” Edward scowled, not understanding the question.
“Who else died?”
“Jemima,” Peter answered. Even saying her name was painful. “She was murdered this morning.” He watched Sir Dunnicliffe slowly take a seat on the wing-backed chair opposite, a dark frown on his face. There was something unusual about the man, only he couldn’t figure out what. His drink-laden mind wouldn’t operate clearly but, drunken stupor aside, there was something about Sir Dunnicliffe that was vaguely - odd.
“Murdered?” Sir Dunnicliffe sounded the word cautiously, as if realising there was something he was missing. He studied the toe of his boot intently and waited for someone to fill him in.
When neither Dominic nor Peter seemed inclined to explain, Sebastian took it upon himself to inform the man of the circumstances of Jemima’s demise earlier that morning as briskly as possible.
“Ah, I see,” was all Sir Dunnicliffe said as he glanced at each man in turn.
“You got word about Scraggan, I take it?” Dominic snapped, unwilling to allow the man off the hook just yet. He was well aware that Sir Dunnicliffe had not actually told them anything, and, given the circumstances of the morning, it rankled. A lot.
Sir Dunnicliffe nodded and looked sideways at him, before taking a long, fortifying draught of the amber liquid in his goblet. He knew if he had any chance of getting out of the room alive, he had to choose his words carefully. He couldn’t afford to mess things up; at least two people’s lives were at stake.
He nodded and glanced at Dominic. “We got your message. The Star Elite are in position and have been watching him for some time now.”
The conversational tone of his voice belied the brutal efficiency of the small group of elite soldiers who often worked undercover on the most secret missions for the War Office. Very few people knew of their existence, with only a handful of men in the War Office, and the Prince Regent himself, aware of what they have done to gain results. For this particular group, failure was not an option. Sir Dunnicliffe wondered if Peter and Dominic really knew anything about the group of men they had left behind to tie up loose ends in Norfolk, and somehow doubted it. They had certainly progressed from the rag-tag group of ex-soldiers Peter and Dominic had once considered friends.
“I need to take this -” Sir Dunnicliffe’s words were drowned out by a muffled scream from outside the window. Within seconds the room erupted into chaos, as they ran to the French windows as one to see who was screaming this time.
“They’ve got Eliza,” Edward snarled, slamming out of the French doors, and breaking into a run after the burly man carrying a screaming Eliza across the manicured lawn to the trees.