Marcus had been sent back to London in the winter of 1812 for some weeks to recuperate from his wound. There, while he was bored out of his mind and interred with Graham and his new bride Mariah, Marcus was asked by the Home Office to write up reports of some of his and Byrne’s adventures, to give the War Department and Parliament some idea as to the progress on the Continent. Unwilling to commit his or his brother’s name to the pages of an official document, Marcus, playing on his brother’s name and looks, assigned him an alias: the Blue Raven. He wrote in as official a tone as he could manage, but actions have a way of overcoming the constraints of vocabulary, and the official reports read something like very dry adventure stories.
Imagine Marcus’s surprise when, over his morning breakfast, he opened the
Times
and discovered one of his reports, printed in whole.
In subsequent days, it was followed by another, and another.
The response had been ecstatic: 1812 had not been an easy year; two wars were being fought, and fatigue was settling over the public. The Blue Raven had a way of keeping the population from despair. Just the name in print set tongues wagging, which the government translated into flag-waving and bond-buying.
When Marcus returned to the front and to Byrne, the stories continued in the press: some close to true, and some so obviously fabricated that when a months-old newspaper found its way to their eyes, Byrne and Marcus would laugh themselves silly over it.
They had never told Graham. Graham had succeeded their father to the title by the age of seventeen, and soon his condescending demeanor became fact. He was worried sick when both brothers took commissions. If he had known that one was the notorious Blue Raven and the other his inventor, he would have gone mad. So it was Byrne and Marcus’s secret. It became a thread in the fabric that held them together.
Byrne had never, in all their years as brothers and as partners, doubted Marcus: his intentions, his information, or his strength of purpose.
Until now.
“Fieldstone was right to fire you; you’ve gone mad.” Byrne grunted as he refilled his glass from the flask Marcus kept in his study desk. Marcus shook his head slowly. Even to his own ears, the story of his suspicions and subsequent actions that he had just finished telling his brother was on the far side of ridiculous, but he had hoped that Byrne, at least, would not have doubted him.
“How many times have I been wrong, Byrne?” Marcus asked pointedly. “How many? Out of all the information I ever collected or sifted through, I can only recall being wrong once, and that was when you ended up in a dairy field in the middle of Belgium, which actually saved you from walking into a sniper’s nest.” Marcus downed his own brandy.
Byrne shot his brother a chilling look.
“I didn’t say you were wrong, Marcus, I said you’ve gone mad,” he replied. “You confided your suspicions to Fieldstone—within earshot of a civilian?”
Marcus had the grace to look sheepish.
“And,” Byrne continued, his aggravation adding bitter juice to his rising voice, “you have since enlisted that civilian in your schemes? And who is this civilian, one might ask—not a man of learning or of trade, not even a person of discretion. No, you decided to involve the bright, gay, light-headed Phillippa Benning!”
Marcus couldn’t fault his brother’s thunderous look. It must have been a somewhat rude awakening to be holed up at one’s cottage in the Lake District, only to be assaulted by the rumor that you were actually running around London dockside.
For indeed, a rumor had snaked its way out from London proper, reaching any ear willing to listen. Maybe it was Johnny Dicks turning up dead. Maybe it was the black feathers raining down at the Whitford Banquet. Maybe it was the blue and black invitations Phillippa had circulated, promising intrigue and secrets revealed at the Benning Ball, but somehow, someway, the words “the Blue Raven” were being whispered on the breeze throughout England.
And as for Byrne, so pale, so cynical, and so damned tired, the notion of his resurrection set his expression to black.
Especially considering how close he was hovering at the edge of existence.
Byrne had not returned from the wars the same brash young man he had been upon leaving for them. To Marcus’s mind, the moment he began to notice a change was the moment he returned to the regiment, having recovered from the stab wound in his side. Byrne had become more protective. Oh, he still laughed, he still had his normal flair, but it was as if he had realized that in the thrill of his escapades, people could get hurt. But the blackness descended like a curtain once the ruthless specter of Laurent came into their lives.
Marcus had thought that with the end of the war and the subsequent end of Laurent, Byrne would return to his old self. Instead, the bullet that Marcus had had to pull out of his brother’s leg ripped through more than bone and muscle. The wound had never fully healed, and it left Byrne in constant pain and constantly seeking ways to alleviate it.
The lowest point was when, after having been missing for three days, Marcus pulled Byrne out of an opium den on the south side of the Thames, barely breathing, wasted away to almost nothing.
They kept him home for three weeks before Byrne threatened to go stark raving mad. It was then decided that Byrne, having inherited a cottage in the Lake District from a Great-aunt Lowe, would go to the country to recuperate, removing him from the vices and addictions that were consuming him.
But given Byrne’s current skeletal appearance, Marcus feared the months of solitude had only heightened his demons.
“Why are you doing this?” Byrne’s voice cracked and raged. “Why are you tearing into these old wounds—for a woman? A blond, empty-headed piece of vanity like Phillippa Benning.”
“You’re being exceedingly unfair to someone you haven’t met. However,” Marcus continued, staving off what he was certain would be a caustic reply from his brother, “the evidence is there. Fieldstone refused to see it. Hell, everyone refused to see it. Except her.”
“She’s using you. Actually, she’s using
me
, because she’s using you thinking that you’re me. And
dammit
, Marcus,” Byrne yelled, his anger finally catching up to him, “why didn’t you send for me? Why did you take this on yourself?”
“Because you’re not well,” Marcus stated quietly.
“Bloody right, I’m not well, but it’s not your place to do this! Its not your job—”
“Not my job!?” Marcus exploded, oversetting a small table in his anger. “Then, tell me,
brother
, what was I supposed to do? You were hurt—and lost. And suddenly, this man, this
thing
that was supposed to be buried in salted earth is back. If not my job, whose job is it? It can’t be you. Last time it nearly killed you—”
“Maybe it should have!” Byrne yelled back, rising swiftly.
Marcus froze.
Indeed, Byrne had come back from the war a changed man. But this . . . this was something altogether different.
“Byrne,” Marcus breathed his brother’s name. But Byrne shook it off, letting that road remain untraveled.
“I’m still here. I’m the one who has to face this—whatever it is.”
“Not alone. You’ve never had to face it alone.”
“I did that day!” Byrne replied, sinking into his chair. “I had to walk the length of that little village alone. I went into that inn alone. And, acting on information
you gave me
, I stood five feet away from Laurent, and I shot him. I killed him, and I plucked the pistol from his hand. And now you tell me he is still alive!”
“I know it seems impossible—”
“It is impossible.” Byrne rose, too anxious to stay still, and began pacing the length of the study, his cane offering small assistance. “He spoke with me. He knew who I was. He expected me. He was Laurent.”
Marcus knew why this one death haunted his brother. Because, in all the battles they had fought, in all the times they had fired their pistols to save their own lives, this was the only time they had committed murder.
The war had been over for nearly a fortnight. Surrenders had been made and accepted. But Laurent, he still ran free.
The man had been a particularly bloodthirsty kind of evil. He had no compunction in killing an informant once the information was in hand, even when restraining said informant would have allowed ample time for his escape. He taunted Byrne and Marcus, sneering whispers about plucking and serving ravens to his Emperor. And he slaughtered those who got in his way.
And so when, before they could board a ship for home, a scrap of information had reached Marcus about a man matching Laurent’s description, holed up in a fish’s fin, Marcus and Byrne had decided that it was for the good of two nations that this lead was pursued.
And while it was Byrne who walked that road, who shot that pistol, it was Marcus who led him to it. And it was Marcus who found his brother, unconscious from blood loss, sheltered under a dinghy beached onshore, as the tide crept in.
Marcus had wanted Laurent dead and was satisfied that he was—up until the moment that Johnny Dicks told him otherwise.
“I meant to spare you this,” Marcus said quietly, watching his brother continue to pace.
“Yes.” His brother’s voice dripped with disdain. “It’s so much easier to seduce Mrs. Benning without the actual Blue Raven around.”
“That’s not what this is about.” Marcus’s voice became low and cold.
“Are you certain of that? You looked rather cozy this morning, and from what I hear, she’s not one to allow someone like you to cozy up to her. Without incentive.”
“She,”
Marcus said emphatically, “actually came up with a plan.
She
has allowed me entrée into a world that would have found me out had I gone undercover to infiltrate it.
She
actually has a brain, with a breadth of ability that would shock you. Her capacity for understanding what is important to this scheme is beyond yours, so I would be very careful what you say about Phillippa Benning.”
Marcus, in his rush to make his point clear, had come to hover over his brother. They stood toe-to-toe, but Marcus had always had the advantage of height. However, it was Byrne who in this instance had the advantage of understanding his brother.
A small smile turned at the corners of Byrne’s mouth, as Marcus, numb, slowly began to realize what he had just said—or not said.
“Marcus, you want to take a turn chasing that tail, be my guest, but don’t drag me or the Blue Raven into it.”
And with that, Byrne stood and headed toward the door.
“Unless you have a spare pallet here, I’m going to call on Graham and Mariah; they’ll put me up.”
His hand had reached the door handle when Marcus’s next words stilled its movement.
“He left his mark at the Whitford Banquet.”
Byrne turned slowly.
“His mark?”
“Laurent. He managed to slaughter a few dozen ravens in a pie and stole your pistols out of Whitford’s gallery.”
Byrne swore softly. “That bugger put the blasted things on display?”
“Did you expect him not to? They’re the jewel of his collection,” Marcus answered drily.
“I didn’t expect anything. I never wanted to hear of the damn things again,” Byrne mumbled. Then, after what Marcus considered to be a significant pause, Byrne asked, “And Fieldstone still ignores you?”
Marcus shot a glance over to the boxes Leslie had dropped off not too long ago, residing on top of his disorganized and yet in order desk. “As you see,” he replied.
Byrne sighed deeply. “What is the next event on this list?”
Marcus felt the tension that had knotted his stomach slip away. He managed to hold in his sigh of relief.
“The Hampshires’ Racing Party,” he answered evenly.
“And your Mrs. Benning has arranged admission for us?”
“No,” Marcus replied, causing Byrne to look up. “She has arranged an invitation for me. But I’m certain it can be expanded to include you.”
Byrne paused for a moment, leaned back against the door, contemplative. Marcus took the opportunity to make his final appeal.
“You have to trust me, Byrne,” he intoned seriously. “I’m right about this.”
“You’re not infallible,” Byrne retorted. “You
think
it’s Laurent, because he called me a pigeon. You don’t
know.
You think the Security section is involved—because of . . . of wax and paper, for God’s sake! But you certainly don’t know. You can’t think, Marcus, you have to know. You told me that.”
“I’m well aware,” Marcus replied.
Byrne sighed, began rolling his cane between his hand. “All right,” he conceded. “The Racing Party—I can try to sneak in as an underbutler or a waiter—houses always take on extra staff for large parties.”
“You can barely stand,” Marcus argued.
“I’m going,” Byrne commanded. “If you’re right, we’ll find out, but if you’re wrong, I’d know it, and I can go back to my cottage in peace.”
So that was it. Byrne didn’t believe him. He thought he was paranoid, or worse, using the Blue Raven to seduce a woman, nothing more. The fracture that existed between the once inseparable brothers cracked deeper.
“Fine,” Marcus conceded, “but you’ll never pass as a servant with that cane.” He regarded his brother keenly. “Why not go as yourself? We’ll see about securing you an invitation.” And then, off his brother’s look, “You’re in London society. You’re far more likely to run into someone you know.”
Byrne smiled ruefully. “I haven’t gone out as myself in years.”
Marcus’s grin mirrored his brother’s. “Give it a chance. Who knows? Could be your best disguise yet.”
Byrne weighed his options. “I’m not dancing,” he warned.
“I’ll send out a decree to that effect.” Marcus joined his brother at the door.
“Come on, I’ll go over to Graham’s with you. Keep Mariah from smothering you immediately.” He gave Byrne a slap on the shoulder, but Byrne remained still.