Morgan answered, “nobody.” He pulled over a chair and positioned it at his uncle’s bedside before sitting down. “I thought it prudent to keep your dirty linen in the cupboard.”
“Your father,” Lord James spat grudgingly, his ravaged face pinched into a condescending sneer. “Your endlessly ungrateful idiot of a father. You did it for him.”
“For my father, yes,” Morgan answered shortly. “I discovered that, at the time, I wasn’t willing to sacrifice his good name in order to exercise a paltry justice on you. But that is neither here nor there now, as your sadly wasted body has saved me from suffering through another interview such as the one I had with Thorndyke—just to tie up all the loose ends now that the war is over, you understand. Dearest Uncle James—and I trust I have deduced correctly: that is a death rattle I hear in your throat, isn’t it?”
Lord James looked at his nephew, seeing the dangerous facade the world saw, the darkly handsome, impeccably dressed gentleman of fashion whose sartorial splendor could never quite disguise the fact that Morgan Blakely could be a very, very dangerous man.
“I’ve always hated you, Morgan. If it weren’t for you, I would have inherited all my brother’s wealth. I had so counted on that. Instead, all my plans have come to naught. And now I am dying, while my holy brother still lives, mumbling his prayers on his makeshift altar while you live high on the Blakely money. There is no justice in this world.”
“I see no need to make my father any major part of this discussion.”
Lord James’s temper flared. “Of course you don’t! I thought I had summoned you—but you were coming anyway, weren’t you? To be sure of my death? And you’re here to watch me die, not to discuss my hypocrite brother. My brother! Loves his God more as each new dawn brings him closer to his own day of reckoning. Funny. Don’t remember Willy spouting scripture when we were young and tumbling everything in sight. Even shared a couple of ’em.”
“That will be enough.”
Lord James ignored his nephew’s warning and continued: “Hung like a stallion, your sainted father, just like you. Hypocrite! That’s what our Willy is. You don’t like his praying and penance any better than I, do you, nevvy? Serves no purpose, does it, when we both know there is no God. You and me, we know. Only the devil, nevvy, only the devil. Believe it, nevvy. There is a devil. It’s him or nothing. He’s sent some of his fellows on ahead to welcome me. See ’em? Over there—hanging from the ceiling like bloody bats. The sight would set Willy straight on his knees for sure, bargaining for angels.”
A muscle twitched spasmodically in Morgan’s cheek. “Your mind is going, Uncle, otherwise I would have to take you to task for your obscenity. However, I see no crushing need to remain here and listen to your ramblings. If you wanted me here for some purpose other than to allow me the faint titillation of watching you shuffle off this mortal coil I suggest you organize your thoughts and get on with it.”
“Ah, yes. Indeed, let us return to the reason for your presence, and hang this distasteful business about spies and Thorndyke and your so damnable, so patient revenges. Poor nevvy—this is one death scene you cannot manipulate to your own designs. Morgan Blakely is not omnipotent this night!”
Morgan inclined his head, not in acquiescence but in obvious condescension.
Nevertheless, the smile was back on Lord James’s face, not that it was an improvement, for years of dissipation had taken a permanent toll even before this last illness struck him down. But all was not lost. His darts had begun to hit home. His adversary was attempting to leave the field—although not before telling him about Thorndyke, not before indulging himself with at least one surgically precise parting shot. Well, he had taken that shot, and now it was time to get to the real crux of this bizarre meeting.
“All in good time, nevvy. You had me worried there for a moment, admitting that you had allowed sentiment to keep you from turning me over to the government, but you’re still the same, all right! Cold to the bone. No wonder we hate each other so—we’re two peas in a pod. Killed your share and more, haven’t you? And liked it, too, didn’t you, boy? The devil’s deep in you, just as he is in me.”
His smile faded and he became intense, for he knew he was about to close in for the kill. “But you’ve got bits of your mother stuck in you, too. A soft side, a silly, worthless part of you that actually cares. That’s why I sent for you. You’re vulnerable, and I like that. I can use that. Listen closely, nevvy. You think you know me, but you don’t. Selling secrets to Boney was child’s play, something to do to pass the time. How do you think I’ve survived all these years? I ran through my wife’s money in less time than it took to bury her along with the puling brat she’d died trying to birth—good riddance to bad rubbish—and I had to poke about, looking for another, more reliable source of income.”
Morgan held out his left hand and inspected his fingertips, frowning over a small cut at the tip of his index finger. “How utterly fascinating, Uncle. I am, of course, hanging breathless on your every word,” he drawled with patently deliberate nonchalance.
“Damned impertinent bastard!” Lord James accused hotly, struggling to rise from his pillows. “Never have I met your like! Never!”
“No, no,” Morgan corrected, his tone insultingly amiable. “I’m your image, Uncle, remember? ‘Cold to the bone,’ as I believe you said. Oh, dear. Is that the gong calling me to dinner? What a fortunate escape. Never fear that I shall find my meal inadequate. I took the precaution of bringing a basket with me from Clayhill.” He rose slowly, pushing the chair back to its former position, the cool precision of his movements galling Lord James. “If you should chance to expire while I’m dining, please consider this our last tender farewell. Good evening, Uncle.”
Morgan was nearly at the door before Lord James spoke again, for it took him that long to regain his breath after his last outburst. He had to say this now—say what he wanted to say, what had to be said—or else Morgan would be gone for good, and James would have died for nothing. If he could not leave behind some festering evidence of his malevolence, the only legacy of a childless, bitter man, it would be as if he had never lived….
“That’s it. Run away. No one can capture the Unicorn!” he called out, his voice loud in the quiet room. He lay back against the pillows, listening to the drops of rainwater splash into the pan nearest the bed, waiting for Morgan’s response, but not really expecting any.
“I’ve always thought it the height of irony that you were the Unicorn,” he continued when he felt enough time had elapsed to build the suspense he desired. “England’s greatest spy. My nemesis. And so modest about it. If I had not broken the codes that made up the messages I delivered to the smugglers, I might never have guessed. Even Wellington never figured out which was which, did he? Pompous, posturing dolt! But I recognized you immediately, recognized myself as I could have been—would have been if Saint Willy hadn’t been born first. So, yes. Yes! I did know my treason could mean the death of you. It was part of the joy of the moment! Jeremy’s death was no more than an accident of good fortune. But the war is over. Napoleon is banished. And still you cling to your secrecy, still you stand quietly and allow another to claim all your glory.”
Lord James paused for a moment, then smiled. “I hold the key to that man’s destruction, nevvy,” he continued quietly, liking the hint of menace in his voice. “Would you like it? What would you and your patient revenge do with the perfect tool for that man’s destruction? Shall that key be my parting gift to you, your legacy?” He lifted one skeletal hand, indicating the bedchamber and all of the house. “Along with this decrepit pile, of course.”
“You’re lying,” Morgan said, his hand on the door latch, his back still turned toward the bed. “You have nothing I want. You were a most deplorable traitor, Uncle, barely worth the effort it took to ferret you out. You say you knew my identity, yet you seemed surprised to learn that I, in turn, had caught you out. But I will admit your dramatics are interesting, if a trifle lacking in style—especially that little bit about Jeremy. Perhaps you should have devoted yourself instead to penny press fiction.”