Garrett took a glass from the footman. “Easy for you to say, Claringdon. You don’t have another man’s blood on your hands.”

“I do.” Rafe Cavendish’s two words fell like lead to the rug.

Both men’s heads turned to face him.

“I have another man’s blood on my hands,” Cavendish continued, staring unseeing into the depths of his newly acquired brandy glass. “I know exactly what the guilt feels like.”

Upton shook his head. “No, Cavendish. Everyone knew Donald Swift never should have gone to France. He volunteered and there was no stopping him. He said as much in his letter to Julian. You did your best to protect him.”

“I failed, and an earl died because of me. The man had no children, no heirs.” Cavendish’s voice was heavy.

“He had Julian. Julian is the earl now.”

“You think I shouldn’t feel guilt? Is that what you’re telling me, Upton?” Cavendish asked, a wry smile on his face.

Garrett shook his head again. “No one blames you. No doubt Donald remained alive as long as he did because you were with him.”

Rafe tossed back his drink. “Perhaps, but the guilt gnaws at my soul.” He set his empty glass on the table and looked Garrett in the eye. “The same as it does yours.”

Garrett sucked air through his nostrils. “I understand, Cavendish. I do. But you shouldn’t blame yourself.”

Cavendish cocked a brow. “Perhaps you should take your own advice, Upton.”

*   *   *

Garrett strode down the club’s stone steps minutes later. He’d had that drink, after all, and another. What Rafe Cavendish said resonated. Finally. Through all the years and all the nightmares. All the people telling him it wasn’t his fault when he’d believed damn well it was … he finally felt … free. Damn Harold Langford for taking that bullet. Damn Isabella Langford for being conniving. And damn him for allowing his guilt to push him in a direction he had no business going.

It was true. No one blamed Cavendish for Donald Swift’s death. The earl had recklessly volunteered to go on a mission to France for the War Office under the guise of diplomacy. Rafe was one of the best spies the War Office had. Donald gave them away. It had ended in their capture and torture. Rafe barely escaped with his life and had spent the past six months slowly recuperating. Rafe was alive in spite of Donald, not the other way around. But Rafe felt guilt. He was the only other man who understood, the only other person who could absolve Garrett.

“Perhaps you should take your own advice.” Garrett repeated Cavendish’s words. The captain was damn right. Garrett could no longer live in the past, blaming himself for the actions of another man.