Brand struggled to believe the scene before him. Wycham—the traitor. Anger simmered, deep and bitter.

Roger cocked the gun, the click loud in the clearing. “Don’t even think it, Brand.”

Brand’s jaw tightened. “What the hell do you think you’re doing, Roger? This is ludicrous!”

“No, it’s not. It’s survival. I have no choice.” He glanced toward the carriage. “Verena, pray join us.”

Verena opened the door of the carriage and climbed down.

“Wait!” Brand took a step forward, stopping when Roger’s gun swung his way. “You don’t need her out here.”

“Oh yes, I do. I want both of you where I can see your hands. And do not think of using that blunderbuss you have hidden on the coach. I will shoot the lady if I must.”

Brand’s hands curled into fists.

“Roger Carrington,” Verena said, scorn thick in her voice. “I should have guessed.”

His cheeks reddened. “You don’t understand what’s occurred.”

“I know you’ve been blackmailing my brother.”

Wycham reached into his pocket and pulled a crumpled packet of letters from his pocket. He threw them to the ground. “They’re all yours. Where’s the list?”

Brand started to turn toward the carriage, but stopped, a thoughtful expression on his face. “May I ask how you got Lansdowne’s letters? It was damnably convenient that you should end up with them just as that list disappeared.”

“Wasn’t it? Actually, though, I had to manipulate the fates a bit.”

Verena frowned. “Manipulate?”

“I knew you wouldn’t just hand over the list. Especially not once you realized it might hold some worth. Therefore, I schemed a bit.”

“How did you know about James?”

“I met the redoubtable Mr. Lansdowne several months ago, in France. And when I met him, I was struck by the resemblance.”

“You knew of his dalliance.”

Wycham shrugged. “A little money in the hands of a poorly paid servant will yield far more information than one needs. Once I heard about the letters…it wasn’t difficult.”

“That is despicable,” Brand snapped. How had he been so wrong?

“No, that is good planning.”

Brandon simmered and he had to force his mind to calmness. Verena needed him.

Roger gestured with his gun. “Now Verena, I want that bloody list.”

“As soon as you take this list, you will be committing treason.”

“I don’t care.”

“Roger,” Brand said. “I don’t know what you’re doing, but—”

“Don’t know—do you realize what my debts are?”

“Your father—”

“Has no money. None, Brandon.” Roger gave a sharp laugh. “Oh yes, I was surprised, too. He’s lost it all on the market, investing in the most ridiculous things—there’s nothing left.” Sweat beaded on Roger’s brow. “My whole life was based on the fact that one day I would be the next earl. I was raised to be wealthy and powerful and not poor, dammit! I—I can’t be poor.” He swallowed hard. “So I will have that list. It’s worth a fortune.”

Verena shook her head. “There are worse things than poverty. Surely you can—”

“Get that bloody list!” Roger snapped.

“Roger,” Brandon said, stepping forward. “If you need money that badly, I will gladly—”

“No! I don’t want your money. I want my own. And I’m getting my own.”

There was a cry in his voice that reminded Brandon of when they were children. “Roger, I don’t know what’s wrong, but you are making things worse. Just put down the gun and we’ll—”

“Give me that damn list!”

Verena stood. “You want your list?” She reached into her reticule and pulled a small slip of paper from inside. “Here.”

Roger took an eager step forward, his free hand outstretched.

Verena leaned forward, the slip of paper in her fingers, though she made no move to get closer to Roger.

He didn’t notice; his eyes were on the paper. He took the two steps to reach her fingers when she let go. The breeze grabbed the curl of paper and tumbled it across the ground.

“Get that damn paper!”

Verena bent to reach it, covertly scraping up a handful of silt. As she straightened, she threw the dirt right into Roger’s eyes.

“Ahhh!” Roger staggered back, clutching at his face.

Brandon grabbed the blunderbuss and turned toward Roger. But before he could aim, a loud retort rang from the woods. Brandon’s gun went flying from his hands.

There, standing behind Roger, was Farragut. His brown eyes blazed angrily.

“Damn it,” Brand muttered.

“Come, now. Ye didn’t think Wycham capable of planning such a pretty cast, did ye?”

Verena looked at Brandon. “Who is this?”

Wycham swiped at his red eyes, blinking rapidly. “Let me introduce you. This is Farragut. He works for the Home Office.”

“Aye, that I do. I’ve forty years in this business. Forty bloody years. And fer what? Fer nothing! So I decided to turn my knowledge into gold.”

“The list,” Verena said softly.

“Aye. It’s of every operative we have in all of Europe. France alone was willin’ to pay over a hundred thousand pounds fer it.”

Verena pressed a hand to her forehead as if her head hurt. “You—you gave the list to Humford.”

“And me lad, Wycham here, was going to pinch it the night of yer dinner party. Humford was to take the fall fer the whole mess.”

“But then Humford lost it,” Brandon said, seeing exactly what happened.

Farragut scowled. “Bloody fool. I warned him this was important, I did. And what did he do, but lose the blasted list afore a day went by.”

Brand looked at Roger. “Where do you come into this?”

Farragut chuckled. “Ye’d best let me explain it. I needed someone to cover my tracks. Roger here was perfect—a desperate young nabob. And willing to do almost anything to get out from under his debts, even off Humford.”

Brandon turned to Wycham, whose eyes were red-rimmed and watering furiously. “You killed Humford?”

“I—I hit him on the head. I only wanted to stun him, but he wouldn’t be quiet. I was afraid he’d call attention and—”

“My God,” Verena said, “you killed him outside of my house. You must have tossed his body in the Thames, then returned for dinner.”

“No,” Brandon said. “Wycham said he hit Humford on the head. Who cut Humford’s throat?”

Wycham glanced at Farragut, who met his gaze with a look of contempt. The older man’s lips curled derisively. “I’m the one as took the body and got rid of it. Wycham was too ill to do more than stagger to yer house. He’s no stomach fer thet sort of thing.”

Roger’s face paled, though his jaw was set with determination. “Not this time. This time I will do what I must.”

“Roger,” Brandon said in a low voice. “You can’t kill someone in cold blood. It’s not in you. You’d never be able to live with yourself.”

A quiver passed over Roger’s face. He seemed to be holding his breath. Suddenly, he gasped. “Brandon, why did you come—”

“Roger!” Brandon snapped. “Take control! Be a man for once.”

Farragut laughed harshly. “Roger Carrington, a man? I’d like to see that. Fortunately, once’t he’s wealthy, no one will ask him to prove his manhood.”

“I am a man,” Roger said, his face pale. He leveled his gun at Brandon.

Brandon was conscious of the blunderbuss lying in the dirt at his feet. If only he could reach it without causing Roger to shoot wildly. Good God, what should he do?

Pretend like we already have it. Of course.

He looked at Roger. “I’m sorry.”

Roger’s brow lowered in confusion. “For what?”

“For killing you.”

“But…you haven’t—”

Brandon grabbed the weapon, lifted it and fired—but not at Roger. Farragut staggered back and fell into the shrubbery with a crash, his gun spinning through the air before falling into the bushes.

Roger’s mouth opened and closed, but no sound came out.

Brandon was aware that Verena had come to stand beside him, a small pistol in her hand. “Roger, put down your weapon.”

Roger’s lips trembled. He looked at where Farragut lay in the dirt, blood seeping from his mouth. Without another word, Roger closed his eyes and let his pistol fall harmlessly to the ground. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I’m so sorry.”