Something only he could.
The others had formed a rough circle about them. Phillip lay sprawled, twisted half on his back, his head not far from Royce’s right shoe. The knife wound would eventually kill him, but he wasn’t dead yet.
He shifted to his right, crouched down. “Phillip—can you hear me?”
Phillip’s lips twisted. “Almost got you. Almost…did it.”
The words were barely a whisper, but in the intent silence, they were audible enough.
“You were the traitor, weren’t you, Phillip? The one in the War Office. The one who sent God knows how many Englishmen to their deaths, and who the French paid in a treasure most of which lies at the bottom of the Channel.”
Although his eyes remained closed, Phillip’s lips curved in an unholy smile. “You’ll never know how successful I was.”
“No.” Royce curved one hand about Phillip’s chin, with his other hand grasped the top of his skull. “We won’t.”
He sensed Minerva draw close, from the corner of his eye glimpsed the ivory lace of her gown. He turned his head her way. “Look away.”
Phillip dragged in a hissing breath. He frowned. “Hurts.”
Royce looked down at him. “Sadly nowhere near as much as you deserve.” With an abrupt twist, he snapped Phillip’s neck.
He released him. The features so like his own eased, fell slack.
He reached for the knife hilt, jerked the blade free. With Phillip’s heart already stopped, the wound bled only slightly. He wiped the blade on Phillip’s lapel, then rose, sliding the knife into his pocket.
Minerva’s hand slipped into his, her fingers twining, gripping.
Christian stepped forward; so did Miles and Devil Cynster.
“Leave this to us,” Christian said.
“You’ve tidied up after us often enough,” Charles said. “Allow us to return the favor.”
There was a growl of agreement from the other Bastion Club members.
“I hate to sound like a grande dame,” Devil said, “but you need to get back to your wedding celebration.”
Miles glanced at Rupert and Gerald. “Gerald and I will stay and help—we know the estate fairly well. Enough, at least, to help stage a fatal accident—I presume that’s what we need?”
“Yes,” Rupert, Devil, and Christian answered as one.
Rupert caught Royce eye. “You and Minerva need to get back.”
They took over and, for once, Royce let them. Devil, Rupert, Christian, Tony, and both Jacks accompanied him and Minerva back to the house, leaving the others to stage Phillip’s accident. Royce knew what they would do; the gorge was both close and convenient, and disguising the knife wound as a wound from a sharp stick wouldn’t be hard—but he appreciated their tact in not discussing the details in front of Minerva.
She hurried beside him, her skirts looped over her arm so they could stride faster.
The instant they came within sight of the house, the ladies—who had been banned absolutely from setting foot in the gardens until their husbands returned, and who, for once, had obeyed—broke ranks and came pouring out of the north wing to meet them.
They had, it transpired, been operating in shifts—some on watch, while the others did duty in the ballroom. Letitia, Phoebe, Alice, Penny, Leonora, and Alicia had just resumed the watch—they flocked around Minerva, reporting that all was under control, that although the grandes dames were suspicious, none had yet demanded to be told what was going on, then they announced that Minerva’s gown would no longer pass muster—she would have to change.
“And that,” Leonora declared, “is our perfect excuse for where you’ve been. This gown looks so delicate, no one will be surprised that you’ve chosen to change, even in the middle of your wedding breakfast.”
“But we’ll have to make it quick.” Alice beckoned them back into the house. “Let’s go.”
In a flurry of silks and satins, the ladies whisked Minerva up the west turret stairs.
Royce and the other men exchanged glances, drew in deep breaths, then headed back to the ballroom. Pausing before the door, they donned expressions of relaxed jocularity, then, with a nod, Royce led them back into the melee.