He watched the young footman scurry away and turned to Tremley. “As a matter of fact, this does have something to do with Chase.”
Tremley waited for Duncan to speak. When he did not, the earl said, “Christ, West. I haven’t all day.”
“Your study would be a better place for it.”
For a moment, West thought he’d disagree. And, to be honest, he wanted to do it here, in near public, where the walls of this immense house, bought and paid for with treasonous funds, had ears. He wanted to reveal his knowledge—the contents of the supremely edifying file from Chase—in front of a half-dozen servants who wanted nothing more than the destruction of their unyielding, unpleasant master.
But revelation to the world was not the goal.
The goal was that of all discussions of information since the dawn of time. A trade. West’s secrets for Tremley’s. Freedom for them both. Revelation for neither.
He waited a heartbeat. Two. Five.
He had waited much, much longer.
The earl turned on his heel and led the way to his office, dark and enormous, filled with unused windows, heavy velvet curtains blocking the light and any prying eyes beyond.
Duncan was keenly aware of the pistol in his boot. He did not think he would need to use it, but he was comforted by its presence in the dark room. He sat in a wide leather chair by the fireplace, stretching his legs long across the floor of the space, crossing one ankle over the other, resting his elbows on the arms of the chair and tenting his fingers together above his chest.
“I did not say you could sit,” Tremley said.
Duncan did not move from his position.
Tremley watched him for a long while. “You seem terribly sure of yourself for someone who is a heartbeat from jail with a single word from me.”
Duncan considered the wide ebony desk on the other side of the room. “That was your father’s.”
“What of it?”
Duncan lifted a shoulder. “I remember it. I remember thinking it was massive. That I’d never seen a desk as large. That he must have been very powerful indeed to require such an enormous piece of furniture.”
He remembered other things, too. Remembered staring through a keyhole, knowing he shouldn’t. Seeing his mother on that desk. Seeing the old earl take what he wanted. Give nothing.
Not love. Not money.
Not even help when they needed it most. When she needed it the most.
Tremley leaned against the desk, crossing his arms and blocking the memories. “And? Your point?”
“Only that it does not seem so large anymore.” West shrugged one shoulder, knowing the movement would irritate Tremley.
You do that when you want someone to think that you aren’t interested in what they are about to say.
Georgiana’s instant understanding of his interview tactic had unsettled him when she’d noticed it. No one else ever had.
Tremley certainly did not. His gaze narrowed. “What do you have on him?”
“Chase?” West asked, pretending to brush a piece of lint from his trouser leg. “Nothing.”
Tremley straightened. “Then you are wasting my time. Get out. Come back when you have something. Soon. Or I shall pay our Cynthia a visit.”
West resisted the urge to lunge for the earl the moment the words were spoken, the possessive pronoun hanging in the air like an invective. Instead, he played his first card. “I don’t have anything on Chase, but I do have something on you.”
Tremley smiled, arrogant and unperturbed. “You do.”
West matched the expression. “Tell me, do you think His Royal Highness would be interested in hearing that his closest advisor is skimming the exchequer?”
Something shifted in Tremley’s eyes, the barest proof that West was right about the embezzlement. But what of the rest of the file—Lady Tremley’s accusations? Her proof? Had she made worthy payment for membership at the Angel? “You haven’t proof of anything close to that.”
West’s smile did not waver. “Not yet. But I do have proof that you took the money to pay for arms in Turkey.” Tremley stilled, and West continued. “And I’ve proof that the Ottoman Empire is happily paying you to keep them well supplied with information.”
Tremley shook his head. “There is no proof of that.”
“No?”
The earl met his eyes. Lied. “There is no proof, because it’s a false accusation. And I should have you run up on charges of slander.”
“It’s libel in the papers.”
“You wouldn’t dare cross me.” West heard the edge of nervousness in the earl’s voice. Uncertainty, for the first time in years. “You don’t have proof.”
West sighed. “Oh, Charles,” he said, letting all his disdain show in the name he had not used since they were both children, when their power was far more imbalanced. When Charles was preceded by “Lord,” and West had had no choice but to take the blows he struck. “Have you not learned that I am exceedingly good at my job? Of course there is proof. And of course I have it.”