The Dark Affair by Máire Claremont

arisen . . . circumstances that I believe will induce you to comply with my offer of assistance.”
    He rolled his eyes, then turned his head to the side as though she were some trying harpy come to harangue him to death. “Indeed?”
    She swallowed back any hints of reticence or soul-trying guilt and rushed, “I believe your father is unwell.”
    His head snapped back toward her, and his body ratcheted against his straps. “Unwell?” Shock edged his tone before he gritted, “Tell me.”
    The command was sharp and compelling, and she tasted more bitter guilt upon her tongue. After all, she was using him now for her own ends, even if she might help him in the process. And good God. The way his body moved. There was that tiger again, sinews wild and feral anger humming as its bound body madly attempted to tear free of his cage. Every muscle in his chest strained against his thin linen shirt, and his face drew into a hard mask.
    “Tell me,” he hissed.
    She sat quietly. Hating herself for using him so cruelly. But she couldn’t allow herself to be moved. Too much was at stake. Her brother’s safety, the viscount’s freedom, and the fulfillment of a purpose she’d struggled to meet since the famine.
    His harshness softened into a sort of desperation before he pleaded gently, “I beg of you. What has happened to him?”
    “He is ill,” she whispered, her throat tightening traitorously . . . because her words were very likely as true as they were manipulative. “It is just the few things I have noticed. A weakness, a tiredness in an elderly man such as your father has left his heart weakened. You can see it in the pallor of his skin.”
    Powers’s gaze traveled carefully over her face. “He never said such a thing to me.”
    “He would not, would he?” It was so simple to play upon the strange relationship of father and son. Yet there was nothing easy about it. “Especially given recent events.”
    Powers turned his face away from her, his gaze fixing on the ceiling.
    Another sharp, nasty little dagger of guilt chinked at the armor around her heart. “And he is most worried about you, which adds to his weakness.”
    “He needn’t be,” he said tersely. “I shall be well when these bastards leave off. After all, there’s not a damn thing wrong with me.”
    “You’ve a fine way of showing it, have you not?” She gestured to their surroundings. “I understand you were most . . . out of countenance when you were brought to this place.”
    “It was a mistake. Putting me here. I could have sorted myself out had they left me to my own devices.”
    She bit back the reply that according to the accounts she’d read, he’d been in no state to stand, piss in a pot, or make anything but wild conversation, and apparently, it had been the second time in only a few days that he’d been in such a way, which was why his father had brought him to this place. “But you are here. And the doctors are on the verge of declaring you incompetent.”
    His eyes flared as indignation heated his features. “They sodding well can’t.”
    “But they can,” she replied evenly. He had to understand just what a predicament he was in, and she had to lead him to believe marriage to her was the best way out of it. “If you continue in your present and often public displays in which you do seem quite mad to onlookers, you will be permanently locked away for your own safety, and then there is no heir for the earldom and no escape for you.”
    The fire sifted out of his gaze, and a muscle clenched in his claw. “And that is why my father is worried?”
    The note of regret that stained that simple question nearly reversed her tactic, but she’d already come too far to cease marching down this damning path. She’d not turn back for fear now. “It is not the only reason for his concern, but of course, as a peer, he is concerned for the lineage of such a prestigious family.”
    “And you?” he asked hollowly, his hands