The farther that Fenwick dropped behind, the easier it became for Oliver to think clearly again. His master plan had failed. He felt a foolish affection for the manor. He had written some fine lines in that wretched gatehouse—and, what a preposterous thought, but he hoped someone remembered to feed the young dogs tonight. They had gotten loose in the melee today.
For now he had to silence that idiot Ainsley for his bumbling attack on the manor. Who had told the ass about the treasure? Joseph Treadway, obviously. Until Oliver had killed him, Joseph had been one of Oliver’s casual acquaintances. Fortunately they had never been seen together except at an infrequent party or in a gambling hell. And who had told Treadway? The pawnbroker? Elora?
Oliver took no pleasure in the thought of killing another man. Perhaps he could reason with Ainsley, explain to him that the duke would not look kindly upon the accomplice in the attack upon his future sisters-in-law. He didn’t think that Ainsley had recognized him. But one thing was certain—Oliver would be leaving England soon if the duke discovered the truth.
It raised the stakes. It changed the game, and Oliver didn’t like his odds any longer. Whatever fortune lay hidden in Fenwick, and he now doubted its existence, it would not be found before the duke put the premises under his protection.
Oliver despised everything the bastard stood for. But at least in the Duke of Ellsworth the fair ladies of Fenwick had a genuine guardian, whereas Oliver had brought them nothing but woe.