Farrington was growing restless.

Beckett could tell because he kept shifting on his feet and blowing dramatic sighs through his lips.

It had been at least an hour since Beckett had stalked into gardens with Griffin and Farrington. He hadn't wanted to include Farrington, but Beckett's French was unreliable, and Griffin's was no better. They'd asked him to write a counterfeit note to lead Lawton to them this evening, and Farrington delivered. And then, for some reason, stayed.

The note simply read:

Tonight. Eleven o'clock.

Nondescript enough that Lawton's own actions would implicate him.

Beckett was regretting Farrington's involvement now as the earl kicked at the rose bush like a child. The three of them waited on the edges of the garden, within viewing distance of the shed. They would be able to clearly determine Lawton's intent if he came to this corner of the property.

"So..." Farrington grimaced and raised both eyebrows with a telling glance. "This is rather awkward."

Goddamn, this man. Beckett should have told Farrington to stay with Penelope. He did not like leaving her for so long, but knowing he was drawing the enemy away from her settled his nerves.

She was a brilliant woman, and he knew how she would feel about being left out of this part of the plan. But this was his job. And if Penelope got hurt, it would not only destroy him inside but also mean he had failed at his job.

Penelope had to stay safe. He had already seen her hurt far too many times this summer, and it already made him feel as though he had lost. Failed.

Not to mention, it physically hurt to be around her. That was honestly it more than anything else. Looking at her felt like staring at a lost dream.

Beckett pushed his feelings down, not ready to face them.

"No response?" Farrington probed again. "Well...fine, then."

"It is called a stake-out." Beckett scowled at the earl. "Talking is not required."

"Oh." Farrington made an over-exaggeration of dawning understanding. "That is the meaning for all this silent tension, then? I thought perhaps it might be something else."

"Such as?" Griffin asked, and Beckett glared at him.

The last thing he needed was for Griff to egg the man on.

Leo buffed his fingernails on his jacket before inspecting them. When he looked up, Beckett knew whatever he was about to say would annoy him to no end.

"I assumed it was because you learned that Colonel Ash here has been bedding your sister," he said cheerily.

As expected.

Beckett watched Griffin's face closely. He assumed there would be some sort of outrage at the topic, but there was none. Instead, Griffin cleared his throat, and a flicker of...something taunted his eyes.

Only after he checked Griffin's reaction did Beckett turn to Farrington and fully absorb what he'd said. Or, more importantly, what that meant.

He gritted his teeth. "She told you?"

Beckett felt incredibly possessive of all his moments with Penelope. Those were his—his and Penelope's. And he did not like the idea that she might have shared those moments with another man.

But Farrington waved the thought away. "Of course not."

Beckett relaxed, but only slightly.

"It is more than obvious," Farrington continued. "And given the clear rift between the two of you in the past days, one could only make assumptions about the cause."

Griffin rolled his eyes as he leaned back against a hedge.

"It took you so much longer than I expected, Colonel," Farrington continued, making Beckett whip back to glare at the earl.

"What is that supposed to mean?"

Farrington sighed. "I mean, I set you up perfectly, yet you squandered nearly the entire summer."

Beckett's throat grew dry. "Set me up?"

"Why else would you have been assigned to stay practically in her very chambers—"

"Careful, Farrington," Griffin growled, eyes suddenly alert. "I do hope you are not saying what I think you are."

"Are you mad?" Beckett cried, equally enraged. At this point, he had wholly forgotten his rules about stake-outs, being quiet, and anything to do with Lawton.

"Not at all!" Farrington cried.

"Why would you do such a thing when you are fully aware that Penelope is married?" Beckett spat on that word, the one he hated. He needed Penelope to be his wife, but she was already someone else's.

"Ah." Farrington stuffed his hands in his pockets. "See, it is because of her husband that I did it."

"What the devil—"

"I saw him," the earl cut in. "On my most recent trip to the continent, I found the marquess at the gambling tables in Milan, and he did not hold back from informing me he would not be returning. He had no intent to return to England and—"

"Is that him?" Griffin's voice, though hushed, cut through Farrington's storytelling. Which was just as well because Beckett had been on the verge of punching him.

Beckett's gaze followed Griffin's until he spotted what his friend did. A shadow moved across the back lawn, cutting through the gardens. As it grew nearer, it morphed. A body. Lawton.

It was Lawton.

And of course it was. All signs had pointed to him; they had for weeks. But now they knew for sure. The lord's intent could not be more apparent as he hurried toward them.

Beckett pulled out his weapon while motioning for the other men to do the same. Griffin's eyes connected with his for a long moment before he nodded and took off, skirting the hedges as they planned. He would cut in front of the shed while Beckett and Farrington flanked from behind.

For once in his bloody life, Farrington seemed to be able to keep his mouth shut as they silently moved across the lawn, just far enough from Lawton that the lord would not realize until it was too late.

And then finally that moment came upon them. Crickets were the only thing to be heard ringing through the night as Farrington gave a nod. Beckett caught it out of the corner of his eye while also noting that Griffin was in position on the shady side of the shed.

"Hands up, Lawton," Beckett called.

Watching Lawton stiffen, raise his hands, and turn slowly should have made Beckett feel a certain way. This was what he was waiting for, wasn't it? He'd wanted to leave the estate since he arrived. He'd wanted to toss Lawton in prison for weeks, ever since hearing him gossip about Penelope.

Beckett should feel something.

But his motions were empty as he marched toward Lawton, caging him in and shuffling him into the shed's doorway with Farrington and Griff's help. Their guns stayed trained on the lord, whose eyes were wide.

"The note..." Lawton croaked. "It was you."

"Aye."

Beckett figured there was no point in denying it.

"I—" The lord stuttered.

"You thought that it was your French contact?"

"Well, yes." His brows drew together as Beckett's lips curled in satisfaction. "But—"

"No buts, Lawton," Beckett cut in.

"I do believe you just admitted to treason," Farrington chimed in cheerily. "How lovely."

"You do not understand." Lawton tried to take a step back, but as he did so, he ran into the butt of Griffin's gun, causing him to jump slightly from the reminder that he was being held hostage.

"I think we understand perfectly," Griffin snarled. His eyes shone in the dark.

"I am not responsible," Lawton tried again.

Farrington snorted.

"Then why are you here?" Beckett drawled lazily, watching as Griffin unraveled a rope and jerked one of Lawton's hands out of the air before doing the same with the other. Lawton's face began to swell with indignation as Griffin tied his hands behind his back, pulling him further through the doorway.

"The same reason as you," he spat.

That caused Beckett to pause. "How so?"

"Someone is smuggling weapons to the French," he hissed.

"Yes." At this point, Farrington sounded bored. "And that someone is you."

Lawton began to shake his head, and the fierceness of his denial and how his eyes continued to scan the area around them made Beckett frown.

"If it is not you, then who?" he questioned.

"If I knew, then I would not still be here."

Hairs rose on the back of Beckett's neck, and he saw the moment that Griffin felt it, too.

"Inside," Beckett urged, and Griffin did not waste a moment before dragging Lord Lawton by his tied hands into the depths of the shed. The only light inside was cast from the moon and the glow of the manor, and it made studying Lawton's expression that much harder.

"Talk," Beckett muttered as Griffin tossed Lawton to the floor. Crates lined the walls, but they were empty now. Griffin and Beckett had spent the better part of the day loading what they could of the weapons into Farrington's carriage in preparation to return them to the queen.

Now, Griffin and Farrington stood in the corners of the shed, leaning against the empty crates as they watched Lawton squirm. Beckett kept his gun trained.

When Lawton didn't immediately spill his story—which was irritating considering how eager he had been a moment ago—Beckett began for him.

"You knew the weapons were here, you have contacts at the French court, and you were lurking outside at night. You had best act quickly to clear your name, Lawton. The queen's guard should be here by dawn, I should imagine."

Color drained from Lawton's face.

"My cousin," he said, suddenly eager to talk. "He is a manufacturer in France. His business has been suffering, and he suspected it was related to the shipments from England. From Southampton. The only reason I even agreed to attend this wretched event—"

Beckett cleared his throat, unreasonable irritation coursing through him at the thought of Lawton insulting Penelope's party.

"Lady Hutton," Lawton rushed to continue, and even hearing her name made Beckett ache somewhere deep inside him. "When Lady Hutton spoke to me of undisturbed areas on her property, I thought perhaps that would be a lead for me to follow. And sure enough...." He nodded to the crates behind Griffin. "I wrote to my cousin, letting him know what I had discovered. He said he was sending someone. I thought—"

"You thought wrong," Farrington drawled.

"Yes. You all thought wrong."

Beckett whipped around, drawing his gun up to meet a new face. A feminine face.

He had been so engrossed in Lawton's spewing that he must not have heard the door to the shed creaking open. And now his gun swerved straight toward the barrel of another gun—one pointed straight at him.

Beckett frowned.

"Lady Bucklebee?"

Her eyes widened; she must not have realized from behind that Beckett was armed. And from her angle, she likely hadn't even been able to see Griffin and Farrington. She probably thought she could defend her efforts easily.

But now, three guns stared back at her.

She only faltered for a moment, though.

And then the woman's lips curled.