“My husband,” she said intensely.
He gave a little laugh and lifted his shoulders; Breadalbane was a byword for cunning hypocrisy; her devotion jarred as strangely out of place.
“Others beside your husband would fall if I—or any informed,” he answered quietly.
She sat up, shaking her furs to the floor. “I care only for my husband.”
The coach rattled and shook and the lamp-wick leaped and flickered.
“Only for my husband—and if his share in this is discovered it means ruin—if not death—to him.”
The very words seemed to come with an effort from her tongue; she blenched at the bare thought of the possibility she spoke of.
“I shall not mention your husband’s name,” said Jerome Caryl.
“If ye put them on the track they will discover for themselves.”
“Lord Breadalbane has weathered rougher storms.”