Six!
Why on earth would the cryptographer place more than one marker in the same—
“McCurren!” Juliet groaned to herself.
Juliet grabbed her pelisse and gloves and left the house, dinner completely forgotten.
≈
“Are you dim-witted?” Seamus heard from the study door as he read. He looked up, and upon seeing Juliet Pervill, he exhaled in disbelief.
“I’m sorry, sir.” The butler lowered his head in shame.
Seamus rose from his favorite chair and just stared at the woman who shouldn’t be there. “William, the lady is all of five foot and . . .” He looked at Juliet. “How tall are you?”
“Three inches.”
“Five foot, three inches!” She waited patiently for him to finish dressing down his butler. “And she weighs all of seven stone!”
Juliet snorted.
“And still you cannot keep the woman out of my house?”
She began walking around his library, calmly examining his books and totally unconcerned by his ire.
“She threatened to—”
Seamus was only half listening, distracted by Juliet’s leisurely wanderings. Her swaying hips, her meandering walk.
“I don’t care what Lady Juliet has threatened to do.” Seamus threw his hands in the direction of the study door, saying, “Toss her out.”
“I think you will want to hear what I have to say.” Juliet dropped into his favorite chair and placed the London Times in her lap as if his threat to have her dragged from the room were somehow boring her.
Seamus raised a brow, peering closely at the paper and seeing that Juliet had read his article.
“Leave us,” he ordered his butler and then looked at the small woman. “Why did you inquire if I were dim-witted?” he asked the one person in London who could label him as such.
“Because, Mister McCurren,” she began, “you have just placed six anomalies in the same article of the London Times.”
“Did I?” Seamus smiled, enjoying her irritation. “How do you know that it was I who placed the anomalies?” He swept his eyes over her, curious as to her method.
“Mathematic probability.”
“Explain?” he asked, sitting on the ottoman.
He looked at her if she were speaking Greek or rather one of the few languages that he did not understand.
God, but the lass was pretty.
“James Habernathy”—she held out one little finger— “you”—a second—“and I”—a third finger—“are the only people who knew in which order the markers were being published. Therefore,” she reasoned, “we are the only three who knew which publication would be printing the marker this week.”
“Did you ask James if he printed the anomaly?” Seamus inquired, enjoying their game and trying not to notice the elegant curve of her neck.
“No, I have not asked Mister Habernathy.” The lass rolled her big blue eyes. “Nor have I asked the French cryptographer if he managed to muck up his own code.”
“All right, yes,” Seamus admitted. “I hired a man at the Times to read all articles submitted for publication. If he found one containing an E, he was to add an E to every paragraph of the article.” He shrugged arrogantly, not seeing a problem. “Now that we know their method of relaying information, we can disrupt it.”
“I need to know which anomaly is the Frenchman’s so that I can analyze it against the other articles.”
Seamus stared at her, furious. “You no longer work for the Foreign Office, Juliet.”
“Thanks to you.” The lass stared back and continued speaking as she rose. “And while your methodology of disrupting the code is extremely effective in the short term, the French will undoubtedly counter.”
“How?” He stood. The intellectual in him had to know.
“As much as the Foreign Office would like to believe this cryptographer a stupid man, he is not.” Seamus just stared at her. “The simplicity of his code rather brilliantly allows for variances of markers and retrieval sites.
“Therefore . . .” Juliet looked up at him, teaching him the error of his ways. “By disrupting his code just this once, you have effectively lost the opportunity for the Foreign Office to observe those four markers forever.” His brows furrowed. “Seamus, you have just told the cryptographer that we are investigating his code and he will change all markers and retrieval sites as soon as is possible.”
“I realized that, Juliet,” Seamus said, annoyed by her condescension. “However, my main concern is with disrupting the flow of information.”
“And if I were the cryptographer, I would find out who was disrupting it.” She stared at him and for the briefest of moments he saw fear in her lovely eyes. “Promise me that you will be careful, Seamus?”
“The French will be forced to dispatch a man to the Times to investigate,” Seamus said, ignoring her so that he might hide his sense of gratification for her concern. “I’ll inform Falcon of the opportunity first thing tomorrow morning.”
“I agree.” Juliet nodded, distracted as she gazed at his lips, clearly remembering their last encounter. “I’ve also spoken with . . .”
The lass blinked, and seeing the look of a woman who had said more than she should have, he demanded, “Whom did you speak with, Juliet?”
“Falcon.” They stared at each other, both knowing she was lying.
Seamus put both of his hands on her cheeks, fear clogging his throat. “Please tell me you are not investigating this code on your own, Juliet,” he ordered more than asked.
“How could I?” She stepped out of his grasp. “I no longer work for the Foreign Office.”
Seamus stared at her, too familiar with her mind to be fooled. “You did not answer the question.”
“What if I am investigating the code?” Juliet shrugged, seeing no reason to deny it. “I am no longer working for the Foreign Office and therefore am not subject to its dictates.” She met his eyes pointedly. “Nor yours.”
“Juliet,” Seamus said, his alarm cloaked by anger. “If you continue to investigate this cryptographer, I will have you arrested.”
Her eyes turned to slits of blue ice. “You would not dare!”
“Oh, yes.” Seamus lifted her chin with one finger so that she would see his determination to protect her. “I would.”
They stared at one another for a very long time and Juliet called his bluff. “You don’t have the authority to have me arrested.”
“I would get it,” he said. “You know that I can.”
“How?”
“I would inform Falcon that you are interfering with the investigation. After all”—Seamus smiled—“you did just place these six anomalies in the London Times.”
Her beautiful mouth fell open when she saw that he was serious. He would have kissed her if he was not quite certain that Juliet would bite straight through his bottom lip.
“That is not amusing, Seamus.”
“It was not meant to be, Juliet.”
It was meant to keep her safe, protected. But increasingly Seamus felt that he was the one who needed to protect himself from Juliet Pervill.
“Fine,” she said and turned toward his study door.
“Fine?” Seamus repeated on a rush of air. “What the hell does that mean?”
She shrugged her pretty shoulders dismissively. “I’ll not investigate the cryptographer.” Her eyes gleamed with defiance and he knew instantly that she had something else in mind.
“Juliet!” Seamus growled at her. “What are you planning to do?”
“Good evening, Mister McCurren.”
≈
The Welshman watched the lovely Juliet Pervill leave Seamus McCurren’s home, her head lifted in defiance as the Scot glared at her from his front door.
He smiled as he watched Lady Juliet’s lithe little body climb into her carriage. She looked every bit the lady, fresh and innocent. But her continued visits to McCurren’s home led one to conclude that the innocent youn
g lady was not so innocent.
His cock jumped at the very thought.
He kicked his horse in the side and followed the lady’s carriage, propelled more by his increased fascination than by his fee.
The carriage rolled to a stop in front of Lord Appleton’s town home and the Welshman steered his horse across the street. He watched as Lady Juliet got out of her carriage and climbed the front steps. But then she stopped and turned in his direction.
The lady stared into the dark and he smiled, wanting her to see him, to know that he knew what carnal acts she was performing with Seamus McCurren. A burst of light bloomed, lighting up the left side of her pretty face as the front door of the house opened, drawing her attention away from him.
Juliet Pervill stepped inside and he looked up at the second floor of the house. The Welshman grinned as a light moved across her bedchamber window and he waited, picturing the girl as she undressed and then got into bed.
Aroused, he gave a regretful sigh and then turned his horse to go and watch the man who had just taken the lady to bed, all the while wishing that he were that man.
Chapter Twenty-three
~
Mathematical columns were like music to Enigma, and she could spot a sour note quickly. She tapped her finger on the paper and said, “You made an error here.”
The accountant glanced at the neat rows and stared at the miscalculation, terrified. “Yes, you’re correct. I apologize and will—”
“Are you trying to rob me, Mister Matthews?” Enigma whispered in his ear so that he might feel her threat.
“No!” The accountant shook his head and swallowed. “No, I would never . . . that is to say, I fully understand the penalty for doing so.”
“Very well, Mister Matthews.” Enigma smiled, more from the profit Dante’s Inferno had brought her than for the accountant’s compliance. “I believe you. Now, finish balancing my books.”
The man nodded and Enigma walked out of the tiny office at the back of the brothel, only to be intercepted by Chloe. “The Welshman has just arrived. I put him in bedchamber four.”
“Where’s Mister Collin?”
“Downstairs,” Chloe said, never asking questions.
“Keep it that way.”
Enigma walked into the brothel room and was stunned by the amount of anticipation she felt when she saw the little Welshman sitting on the well-worn bed.
“Good evening, Mister Jones. It is so nice to see you again,” she said to her sometimes employee.
“Evening.” He bobbed his graying head and looked around the room, nervous as a virgin in a roomful of rogues.
“It will be just the two of us tonight,” Enigma informed him, not wanting Mister Collin with her when she received this particular report. “Is that all right with you, Mister Jones?”
The man paled. “Oh, yes. I . . . that’s fine, just fine by me.”
Enigma walked toward the Welshman, flashing a bit of thigh. “Just tell me what you have observed of Seamus McCurren this past week.”
“Well.” The man swallowed when she sat next to him on the bed. “Mister McCurren keeps to a routine.”
“Does he?” Enigma’s left brow rose, fascinated with any insight she might gain into Seamus McCurren’s interesting mind.
“Yes.” The Welshman referred to his ever-present pad of paper. “He leaves his home at the same time every morning, early like.” The man’s beady blue eyes looked up to verify that she was following. “And he comes home at about the same time every afternoon. Excepting this one time when he was right late.”
“And where does Mister McCurren go every morning?” she asked, envisioning the handsome Seamus McCurren’s movements.
“Whitehall,” Enigma stilled but the little man continued to talk. “Mister McCurren goes to the Foreign Office, every day like clockwork.”
“Tell me.” Her heart was racing and she smiled to divert his attention away from the importance of the question. “Have you ever heard anyone call Mister McCurren by the name ‘Falcon’?”
Her breathing was becoming shallow from trepidation and more than a little excitement as she waited to discover if the brilliant Seamus McCurren was also the elusive Lord Falcon the French were so keen to capture.
“No.” The Welshman shook his head and then laughed. “Although he does have a ladybird, do you think she could be his Falcon?”
“Ladybird?” Enigma asked, annoyed.
“Lady . . .” The man looked down at his notes. “Juliet, that’s right, Lady Juliet Pervill.”
“I want to know everything.” Enigma raised her forefinger to emphasize her point. “Everything about this woman.” And then she remembered. “Is she Lord Pervill’s brat?”
“That’s the one.” The Welshman nodded. “Got her reputation ruined a couple of weeks back when she was caught entertaining Lord Harrington. Guess the lady has moved on to Mister McCurren now.”
“Lord Harrington?” Enigma thought of the middle-aged drunk and the stunning Seamus McCurren, sure that these men would never feed from the same trough. “What happened with Lord Harrington?”
“She were caught in her cousin’s library with him. The girl denies it, of course, says Lord Harrington done it to get back at her father.” Enigma smiled, remembering that Lord Pervill was now the proud owner of Lord Harrington’s town home. “Pretty little thing, Lady Juliet Pervill, clean like.”
Her nose wrinkled at the man’s defining pretty as clean. “You’ve done very well, Mister Jones. Has Mister McCurren had any other guests to his town home?”
“His brother visits a lot and Christian St. John. Juliet Pervill, of course.” Enigma felt a flash of irritation. “That’s it thus far, but we ain’t been watching him very long.”
“Keep watching him.” Enigma nodded as she thought of her profitable code. It would take a very intelligent man to detect it much less be able to identify the publication in which it would next appear and understand how to disrupt it. “Keep watching Seamus McCurren,” she repeated with a slight smile.
Chapter Twenty-four
~
The Marquis Shelton held the invitation to the weekend gathering in his right hand as he made his way toward that very event. It was a two-day journey from town but something about the invitation had compelled him to go.
“‘Lord Harrington cordially invites you to Harrington Hall for a meeting of the minds,’” Ian read aloud. “‘Meeting of the minds’?”
He shook his head. From what he had heard of the man who had so maliciously ruined Juliet Pervill, Lord Harrington had very little mind to meet.
Why not then send out invitations for a hunting weekend or a fishing party? Even a musical gathering would seem more likely than a “meeting of the minds.”
The invitation was decidedly odd and it was that peculiarity that had prompted Ian to accept the invitation. He had taken precautions, of course, two pistols as well as informing his butler of his whereabouts for the upcoming weekend.
No, if anything, the weekend might prove amusing, and if not, he could always retire to his bedchamber and polish his upcoming speech to Parliament.
Committed, Ian stared at the garish gate as they rambled onto Lord Harrington’s land. The parks of the estate were pristine and quite beautiful. Yet as they continued to travel mile after mile with no cultivation in sight, Ian began to wonder how the man sustained the estate.
He arrived at Harrington Hall at the same time as several other gentlemen. Men he knew and men he knew of. Well respected all. They were shown to their rooms and Ian stared out his first-floor window at the perfectly tended lawn, the sculpted hedges, and an impressive array of fountains.
The clothes in which he traveled came off first and he walked to the wash basin to refresh himself before he dressed for dinner. A half an hour later Ian joined the others in Lord Harrington’s drawing room, sinking into the right side of a settee as he waited and watched.
“Thank you all for coming,” Harrington began, “to the f
irst of what I hope to be several weekends in which prominent members of society gather to discuss the difficulties facing our nation and the possible solutions to those problems.”
“Forgive me, Lord Harrington,” an earl drawled, “but isn’t that the function of Parliament?”
Several men nodded, Ian included. He raised his finger toward a footman and asked for a brandy while he awaited Harrington’s ineloquent answer.
“Yes, of course.” Lord Harrington smiled at the earl. “However, Parliament is not conducive to extended conversations pertaining to these issues. Nor are the less influential members of the House willing to state their true beliefs or possible solutions in front of the entire body of Parliament for fear of reprisals.”
“A regrettable fact, to be sure,” the earl continued, “yet would not that same situation arise at this gathering?”
“Not if the members invited here for the weekend come with a willingness to listen to the others,” Harrington explained.
“It is my hope that these weekend gatherings will allow for an extended voice to those members who are rarely heard. And if not”—Lord Harrington held up his glass— “then we shall have a jolly good time hunting.”
The other men laughed and Ian smiled politely at Lord Harrington, a man who had yet to show his face during the current session of the House of Lords.
“What shall we discuss first?” a young viscount from Bath asked.
“I suggest we begin with the most pressing problem our nation faces. Napoleon.”
The group of English peers burst into a heated conversation, several maligning the lineage of France’s peasant emperor.
“Bloody Corsican,” one gentleman said, drawing Ian’s attention. “We should sail to Calais then march to Paris while the bulk of his army remains on the Peninsula.”
“You forget,” an older man said, “the bulk of our army remains on the Peninsula with the bloody Corsican.”
“I think we should call Wellesley back to England to guard our own bloody borders,” the earl standing by the fireplace interjected.
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