Night fell. In the dim hotel room, Mason Crawford sat alone on the living room sofa, a mess of liquor bottles and glasses before him.
The air was thick with the potent smell of liquor. A bottle must have spilled, but Mason Crawford neither knew nor cared which one it was or where it had landed.
Right now, his mind was replaying the same scene over and over: what he had witnessed on the street that afternoon.
Timothy York wrapping his scarf around Summer Thorne, and then kissing her.
Timothy York.
The man everyone in Valois praised—noble, upright, the picture of dignity and restraint—was actually capable of something like this.
And yet, for Mason Crawford, the fact that it was Timothy York wasn't all that surprising.
Even before he'd seen it with his own eyes—or perhaps, before Felix York had even told him the news—he had already suspected as much.
