"It was Diego's letter." Annabel sat up in her bed against the pillows, still holding tightly to Raimundo's hand. The frilled cuff of her nightdress fell over both their fingers. "I can't figure out quite why he wrote it to me. Save that he seems to have felt some need to justify himself to me. I think he realized he was caught up in something very dangerous and he might not survive. He wanted to cast himself as a hero. In any case, he wrote a letter in code and hid it in the case for the necklace he gave me that last night. Perhaps he meant to tell me it was there later. Or thought I'd find it if anything happened to him. He told me not to think ill of him. That he realized what I'd been doing, but that he was actually working for the British under deep cover." She looked at Harry.
"I think it's more likely he had just switched sides and offered his services to the British again," Harry said.
Annabel gave a faint smile. "That sounds more like the Diego I knew. He always seemed to want to see himself as a hero. In any case, he told me he was working for the British. I think he may have learned about my being an agent from them. Then he warned me the Goshawk wasn't to be trusted. And he told me Raimundo was a French agent, and I shouldn't trust him." She looked up at Raimundo. "Nothing had happened between us yet, but I think he sensed something. I think he was jealous."
"Did you suspect?" Raimundo's voice was low and hoarse.
She shook her head, gaze on his face. "No. But once I read Diego's letter it made sense. I knew what you wanted for Spain. I could imagine how you'd have thought the French could offer it more readily than the British. I was worried for you, especially with the situation in Spain now. I couldn't figure out how that connected to Diego's warning about the Goshawk, but I was afraid it was all tangled together, and if I said anything about his warning about the Goshawk it might lead back to you. So—" She hesitated.
"We know the Goshawk was my husband's brother Edgar," Mélanie said. "We know he was diverting funds for his own ends."
Annabel's gaze flew to her face. "I knew the Goshawk was Edgar Rannoch. I kept wondering if I should warn someone or if it was all in the past. My first instinct was to go straight to you," she said to Harry. "But I was afraid anything I said might somehow lead to the truth about Raimundo."
"So you asked questions, but wouldn't tell me why," Harry said.
Annabel looked at him, her gaze wide and candid. "I wanted to learn the truth first before I decided how much to tell you."
"And then you went to Harry Palmerston," Mélanie said. "You'd started to suspect Edgar was diverting funds."
"It was one thing that occurred to me. I knew Carfax had questions about Diego's death. He'd had Will Cuthbertson try to get information from me four years ago. I wondered if that meant Carfax could have been behind Diego's death. But with Diego claiming he was working for the British, I wondered if Diego had been working for Carfax in the end. And if Carfax had been suspicious of the Goshawk."
"You're a formidable woman," Raoul said.
She smiled at him, her fingers laced through Raimundo's own. "I've always had a knack for putting together puzzle pieces. It comes in handy."
Raimundo was staring down at her. "Annabel. You went to great lengths—"
"Well, of course I did." Her grip on his hand tightened. "You must know I love you. A thing like learning you were spying for the other side couldn't change that."
Wonder broke across Raimundo O'Roarke's contained face.
"Annabel," Mélanie said. She already was more than half-sure of the answer, but she needed to hear it. "Who attacked you?"
Annabel's gaze locked on Mélanie's own. Her eyes were dark with compassion. "Edgar."
Malcolm descended the steps of Glenister House. He needed a few moments to think, to let the night's revelations and the conclusions he still wasn't quite prepared to face sink in. And with those conclusions, the inevitable decisions that would have to follow.
He stuffed his hands into the pockets of his greatcoat and turned down Charles Street. The Coburg Hotel was still brightly lit, but the rest of the short street was in shadow. The air was damp and cool. Mist swirled in pools of lamplight and thickened the shadows. The past was coming into focus. The future remained a landscape he couldn't contemplate.
A rush of movement hurtled from the side. He fell to the cobblestones, somersaulted backwards, and kicked his attacker on sheer instinct. A boot heel caught him on the shoulder. A hand grabbed his arm. In the glow of the lamp, Malcolm met his brother's blue gaze and caught the gleam of a knife.
"Damn it, Edgar." Malcolm grabbed Edgar's wrist as Edgar tried to bring his knife hand down. "I know."
"I knew it." Edgar tugged against Malcolm's grip. "I knew it was only a matter of time."
Malcolm kneed his brother in the groin and kicked his knife hand. The knife went skittering over the pavement. Malcolm lunged for it and skidded on the damp pavement. Edgar grabbed the knife and sprang at Malcolm. Malcolm grabbed for his wrist. Edgar jerked out of his grip and forced the knife down. A shot rang out.