Phoebe started. "The duke forced his son to watch?"
"Kiernan was young, but you can rest assured he won't forget the price MacGregors pay."
"No," Phoebe murmured. "He won’t forget."
What better reason to commit treason than knowing that one's country won't defend you? Wasn't that what had happened to her father? He had given his life in service of his country, and had been betrayed by the very people who appointed him protector. Phoebe was startled by the unexpected memory of the duke's words when Kiernan came to the library the day she had told him of her father. “Your future wife was just telling me of her father's involvement with Arthur Thistlewood. You wouldn't remember, you were a boy then, but Thistlewood was found guilty of high treason and hanged in 1820."
Was it so strange that he remembered Arthur Thistlewood with such clarity after all these years? Perhaps not. The days after the Cato Street Conspiracy, the populace had demanded Arthur Thistlewood and his cohorts' heads—and had gotten them. The duke had shown surprise when Kiernan commented that Phoebe knew something of assassinations—that, she thought, should have given the duke pause, but he hadn't missed a beat, damn him. Neither had Kiernan, she realized. She'd forgotten, but when Kiernan asked what her father had to do with Arthur Thistlewood, and she answered that he was one of the men accused of taking part in the assassination attempt, recognition had flickered in his eyes.
Had he made the connection between Phoebe Wallington and Mason Wallington? If so, why not say something? But the answer was too obvious. Her heart beat faster. Kiernan recognized the name. Just as the duke did, she realized with a start. When Phoebe told him her name, he'd been surprised. He'd passed his surprise off as having known a murderer with the name Wallington, but that had been a lie. Both father and son knew who her father was.
"Forgive me, Winnie," Phoebe said, "but would you mind terribly if I excused myself? I’m rather tired.”
“I'm not surprised,” she clucked. “Go on up to your room and I’ll have Anabele bring some lunch.”
“Cold chicken and perhaps some bread would be nice, or anything of that sort.” Anything that would withstand a long ride.
The housekeeper smiled. “She’ll be up directly.”
Phoebe went first to the library. As hoped, she quickly located a map of the Highlands. She shoved the map under her arm and checked the corridor. Seeing it was empty, she hurried to the room she'd shared with Kiernan last night. She had only just arrived when a knock sounded at the door.
Phoebe put the map into the armoire, then called, “Come in.” The door opened and Anabele entered carrying a tray of food. “Good morning, Anabele. Set the tray there, please.”
The girl deposited the tray on the secretary.
“Thank you,” Phoebe said.
The girl turned to leave, but halted and said, "What's this?"
Phoebe turned as she scooped up something off the floor.
Anabele turned, a sheath of folded paper in hand. "It has your name on it, my lady." The maid hurried to Phoebe and gave her the note.
"Thank you," Phoebe said, and she left.
Phoebe unfolded the note and caught sight of Kiernan's signature at the bottom.
Phoebe,
Forgive me for leaving the day after our wedding. Unfortunately, I have business that can't wait. I will return in two or three days. I promise to make this up to you.
Your husband,
Kiernan
Phoebe stared at the words your husband and cursed the flutter in her stomach. In five years as a spy, she hadn't gotten into one speck of trouble. Inside of a fortnight of meeting Kiernan MacGregor, she'd become entangled with traitors and murderers, and was married to a man who was likely the ringleader. A sudden desire to cry rushed to the surface. She swiped at the moisture in the corner of one eye. Kiernan was off taking care of his business. She intended to do the same.
Phoebe refolded the note, crossed to the door and quietly bolted the door, then retrieved the map from the armoire and sat back down at the desk. The map had no index She began searching for the Dornoth Firth, the port John Stafford had referenced in his journal, the port Alistair preferred when he left Scotland for France.