Reports. Oh, God. With a sinking feeling of dread, Edwin opened the file to find, in his father’s own handwriting, pages and pages of notes. He choked down alarm and began to scan them systematically.
The further he read, the more his stomach roiled. Every report began with a letter to a Frenchman named Aubert and contained a series of notes detailing information his father had gleaned at the opium den.
Apparently, certain British naval and army officers had enjoyed indulging from time to time in the odd Chinese practice of smoking opium. On those occasions, they’d inadvertently let slip bits about strategies of the war in France and the Peninsula. Father had then pieced them together into these reports.
There were crudely drawn maps, troop movement sketches, gossip about where Wellington intended to strike next. It was a damning set of documents, indeed.
No, how could this be? “Where did you get these?” Edwin demanded.
Durand shrugged. “They’ve been in our files for years. Our spy Aubert passed them on to the embassy after the war, and we kept them, in case we needed something else from your father.”
“In other words, needed something with which to blackmail him,” Edwin said tersely.
The acrid scent of cigar smoke swirled between them as Durand took another puff. “Or his son.”
Edwin’s blood chilled. “What the devil does that mean?”
Durand flicked some ash. “All I need do is send this to the press, and you’d be ruined in society.”
“You wouldn’t dare.” Edwin fought to hide the tumult inside him. “With all the talk of another revolution to depose Charles X, your superiors have their hands full. They won’t appreciate your stirring up a hornet’s nest in England.”
“What hornet’s nest? I’d merely be guaranteeing that your position in society drops to somewhere below that of a charwoman. Especially after the scandal that your brother’s criminal conviction engendered. Your sister’s recent marriage might have restored the family name to a small degree, but this would destroy it for good.”
Somehow Edwin managed a shrug. “That would merely mean I’d no longer have to deal with the likes of you.”
“Ah, but you wouldn’t be alone in your loss of consequence, would you?” With a grim smile, Durand pushed away from the cabinet. “How do you think Lady Clarissa would react if her association with you turned her into an outcast in society, too?”
God rot the bastard. Edwin knew how Clarissa would react. She might not care that his father had been a spy, but she would most assuredly hate leaving good society. Not being able to go to parties and routs and be the belle of the ball.
Durand pressed his point with ruthless efficiency. “Do you think she’d even consider marrying you if there was a chance it might mean suffering in solitude with you for the rest of your life? Does she care about you that much?”
Edwin feared he knew the answer to that, and it made an unmanageable anger roar up inside him. “My relationship with my betrothed is none of your concern. And yes, she’d stand by me. Because unlike you, Clarissa has a sound character.”
“I wouldn’t be too sure of that,” Durand said.
The crafty remark only further fired Edwin’s temper. With a growl, Edwin thrust his face into the other man’s. “If you’re insinuating anything insulting about my fiancée—”
“No.” Durand’s face clouded over. “Though she isn’t the woman you think she is.”
“Because she won’t marry you, you mean? That only proves her intelligence and good sense.”
Durand stiffened. After stubbing out his cigar in a salver, he slid the file from Edwin’s clenched fingers. “Careful, Blakeborough. If you keep provoking me, I might just send this to the press for the fun of it.”
“Go ahead. Then you and I can be churned under the gossip mill together. You’re not the only one who can spread slander effectively.”
Durand’s cold stare would have frozen fire. “Have you considered that I could implicate you in your father’s activities? You were, what? Eighteen or nineteen at the time this was going on? Not too young to be helping your father spy.”
“There’s not a shred of evidence I had anything to do with it,” Edwin scoffed. “I was away at university.”
“Not all the time. And you were certainly old enough to accompany him to that private opium den.”
Edwin suddenly found it hard to breathe. In the last year of the war, he hadn’t been at university. He’d been at Mother’s side during her final hours. And he had visited the opium den once, too. If someone were to remember, were to misconstrue that . . . “Why are you doing this?”
“I want Lady Clarissa. I had a claim on her long before you started courting her. I know you don’t love her, and I doubt she loves you, either. The two of you behave more like friends than like prospective spouses.”