It was a complicated game, like chess but with money, commodities, and people as his pieces. Pawns, all of them—even the queen. He laid it all out, strategies and tactics, but never tactics without strategy. He’d suffered a setback in the Wilmot affair, but the papers he’d sought had not been found by anyone else either. He had to assume after so many months that he was safe, his secret covered by the blood of the men he had killed. Lady Wilmot was safe from him as well, her alliance with Forster too dangerous a challenge. He rubbed a coin between his fingers, a commemorative medal recognizing participation in some charity benefit. This one had been his brother’s. A medal for wasting the estate’s money in some foolish scheme or other. The outlay would have been acceptable if it had led to something: a new ally, a perception of generosity that could be taken advantage of later. But no, his brother had smiled on everyone indiscriminately, calling it noblesse oblige. He liked the feel of the edge of the medal against his fingers.
