What was one murdered colonel when the day had been so gloriously won? People die in battle. And if a man died from a shot in the back from his own side, well, that was regrettable but far from unheard of. It was battle. People lunged and mingled and dashed about. It was not always possible to make sure that bullets went where they were supposed to go. That was what they had said, in a patronizing tone that suggested that, after a decade in the army, he ought to have known that, too.

Except that this bullet had gone exactly where it was supposed to go — right into Colonel Arbuthnot’s back.

For the thousandth time, Robert wandered the torturous paths of might have been. It might have all turned out so differently if only he had paid more attention to the Colonel that night, when the Colonel had told him that he suspected Arthur Wrothan of selling secrets to the enemy. Robert had been ready enough to believe it. He had never liked Wrothan, with his sly quips, his toadying ways, and that absurd sprig of jasmine he affected, more suited to a London dandy rather than a commissioned officer in His Majesty’s army. But Robert had been preoccupied with the day to come, with the battle to be fought. There would be plenty of time to deal with Wrothan later, after the battle; plenty of time to interest the proper authorities and turn the whole bloody mess over to them. It had never occurred to Robert that Wrothan might strike first and strike fatally.

It had never occurred to him — but it ought to have. The scent of jasmine still made his stomach churn with remembered guilt.

That, however, was not something he was going to admit to Tommy. “If Wrothan did it once, what makes you think he won’t betray us again? Who will die next time? Are you willing to take that risk?”