Sin threw open another door. It hit the wall and bounced back, but not before he caught sight of what the two occupants inside the room were doing on his settee.
“Apologies.” He grabbed the handle and pulled the door shut. “You might want to lock the damn door,” he shouted through the wood.
“Abercairn isn’t in there, I take it.” Sutton padded after him as they searched the castle for the elusive earl.
“No,” Sin said shortly. That was every drawing room in Kenmore. Where the bloody blazes could Abercairn have gone after dinner? He hadn’t joined the other gentlemen for cigars and whisky after the ball. Had he retired already?
The glow from Summerset’s candle followed them around the corner, thirty paces behind. True to his word, his friend was staying close, although the caution was unnecessary. Abercairn would either go quietly, or he’d go unconscious, but after he confessed, he would be leaving for London and Liverpool’s retribution. Sin couldn’t wait until the man was someone else’s problem.
He rounded yet another corner and eased open the next door, not wanting to catch any other couple in a compromising position. He peered inside his private study, and his shoulders hardened. The Earl of Abercairn, Earl of Brandon, and the Viscount Eirlie sat in his leather chairs, drams of whisky in each of their hands. Abercairn lounged with his feet kicked up on Sin’s desk.
Son of a … Only Sutton’s hand clamped tightly to his shoulder prevented Sin from tossing the shit sack from his chair.
“Manners are a bit different in the north it would seem.” Sutton leaned back against a cabinet, perched his arse on the top edge. “Annexing a man’s private study as though it were your own isn’t quite the thing.”
Brandon had the grace to look embarrassed. He set his glass down and stood. “I believe I’ll call it a night. Good evening, gentlemen.”
“Come, come, Brandon.” Abercairn lifted a cigar from the desk and blew a neat ring of smoke into the air. “We’re invited guests. We should be welcome everywhere. No need to turn tail and run.”
Brandon gave them a tight smile and slipped out the door.
Sutton toed it shut behind him.
Abercairn sighed. “Brandon has always been a wee bit of a disappointment.”
Sin gritted his teeth. “I must speak with you, Abercairn. In private.”
The man spread his hands. “Eirlie is one of my closest friends. Nothing is private between us.”
Was that right? Sin stalked forward and knocked the earl’s legs to the floor. “Fine. Have it your way. I frankly don’t care about preserving your reputation.”
Abercairn arched an eyebrow. “This sounds serious.” He leaned back in the chair and laced his fingers together over his stomach, his cigar bobbing. He grinned at the viscount. “Whatever do you think the Marquess of Dunkeld could think to impeach me by?”
Sin’s temper spiked. “How about twenty thousand pounds deposited into your wife’s account from Lucien Bonaparte.”
The room stilled. Abercairn raised his cigar and drew deeply.
“Not such a laughing matter, is it?” Sin found the top to his best damn bottle of whisky and shoved it into the bottle. “Seems rather a paltry sum to turn traitor for the French.”
“This isnae true, is it, Ab?” Eirlie scooted to the edge of his seat. “Dunkeld has overindulged, is that it?”
Sin turned his glare on the viscount. “Do I look as though I’m in my cups? This man, who has pretended fidelity to the union of England and Scotland, has been behind the riots, and the assassination attempt on Beaumont, if I’m not mistaken.” He turned back to Abercairn. “Well? Have you nothing to say for yourself?”
Abercairn crossed one ankle over his knee and ground the end of his cigar into the sole of his boot. “It sounds as though your mind is already made. What use is there in words?”
Sutton leaned forward. “Unless you have some explanation for the deposits, you’ll be arrested. I assure you words can be useful when trying to defend/avoid the hangman’s noose.”
Eirlie rested a hand on his throat, his eyes wide. “Ab, tell him it’s nae true.” He glared at Sin. “You cannae just threaten an earl with execution. Ab, tell him.”
Sin turned his back to the viscount and stood over Abercairn. “I can understand your desire for a free Scotland. But to join with the French in order to do so in unconscionable.”
The man merely smiled.
“Dear God.” Eirlie jerked to his feet. “My brother was killed at Waterloo. How can ye work with those bastards?”
Abercairn gave no response.
Eirlie shook his head. “I have nae love for the French, or anyone who would take orders from them.” He set his glass down on the desk, the soft clack echoing through the room, and turned on his heel.
Sutton drew his legs back so the man could pass and gave him a sympathetic nod. He turned back to Sin and Abercairn, crossing his arms.
A sudden movement, a hiss of fabric, and the sickening sound of metal meeting flesh and bone. Sutton slumped forward onto the carpet, landing heavily on his side.
Sin whirled, only to feel the barrel-end of a pistol press into the back of his head.
Eirlie slapped a short iron rod into the palm of his hand. “Of course, my brother wouldnae have been fighting the French if it wasn’t for the filthy English.”
Sin flexed his hands, the urge to thrash and beat overwhelming.
Eirlie slipped his weapon into a pocket and pulled out his own pistol. He pointed it at Sutton’s prone body.
Abercairn pressed the muzzle into Sin’s head. “As you see, I am nae the one without friends here. Perhaps we should have that talk. I need to know what ye do. And who ye’ve told.” He nodded at Eirlie, and the man threw the lock on the door,
The click echoed hollowly in Sin’s ears, the metallic ping holding a dread sense of finality.