Darius and the two footmen would take this in their stride, he was sure.
“Thought I’d pop ’im,” Smith muttered. “Got my nightstick in my pocket.”
After he had dismissed the possibility of innuendo, Andrew inferred the man was talking about a cudgel. “Only if we have to. Last resort,” he said.
Smith growled, but his “Yes, sir,” signaled obedience.
“Don’t like this yard,” Bull put in. “Dark, lonely, not near anywhere. Our orders are to look after you, sir. Get the list, pay the man, and then we’ll take ’im if we can. Then we go. I’ve got a watchman looking the other way while we use his lockup.”
“Good. That will be useful.” Andrew had vaguely considered tying their prisoner up and making him spend the night in the carriage, guarded by Smith or Bull. A lockup would serve the purpose much better. “How much did you have to pay him?”
“Not a lot. Master gave me some guineas for expenses.”
Darius had thought of everything.
If they took Bartolini, it would be a straightforward, clean arrest. Andrew would have to endure the man in the carriage with him, but if he wanted, he could travel on the box with the coachman. He might do that, despite the cold. He stamped his feet against the growing chill. At least it wasn’t raining.
Recalling what he’d done before appearing at Bow Street, Andrew took a few deep breaths and clenched his fists, relaxing them deliberately to dissipate some of his tension. A little was good. It kept him on edge, alert, but too much blunted his resolve and his reactions.
All this for a simple exchange, but he couldn’t help it. The purse of gold coins weighed down his breeches pocket, much as the pistols in his greatcoat dragged him down. He was not used to this town or this situation. He had faced murderers before but not like this.
After passing a couple of taverns, their doors open, filled with laughing, shouting clientele, Smith stopped before a narrow alleyway between two houses. They were no longer in a well-lit, comfortable part of town. Instead, the houses were smaller, their facades streaked with soot, gaps in the plaster work revealing the crumbling bricks beneath. Not quite a rookery, though. The shops had shutters closing their frontages, not iron bars. The horse dung was swept into the middle of the road, ready for the night soil men.
Smith simply jerked his head. “It’s not that bad,” he murmured, and led the way.
The alley barely took Andrew’s breadth, and his two companions had to shuffle their way in. Andrew didn’t like this one bit, but he clamped his jaws together and carried on. Ten paces from the road took them into a small courtyard, lit only by the half moon and starlight. The clear night proved fortunate in that case.
The courtyard was a smallish space formed from the backs of four houses. No larger than fifteen feet square, with another alley opposite them offering another way out.
A shadow detached itself from one corner. Smith strolled to the other side of the alleyway, where another passageway led away. Houses framed the courtyard, mean but like the ones facing the road on the respectable side of the poverty line.
Bartolini stepped forward. His neat society demeanor had melted away, replaced by a dark coat that had seen better days and a pair of breeches tucked into scuffed boots. Despite the evening chill, he wore no heavy overcoat against the chill and no gloves on his hands.
“Did you bring it?”
Andrew didn’t move. “Possibly. Did you bring the paper?”
The two men behind Andrew stood perfectly still when Bartolini opened his coat and groped inside, coming out with a folded piece of parchment. Stepping forward, Andrew took it and deliberately stepped back before unfolding it.
He glanced down the list of names. “Tell me who is on this list.”
Bartolini shrugged. “I never looked. If I open it, I know. If I know, they will kill me. I do my job, collect my money, and leave. Which is what I intend to do now.”
The trouble was Andrew didn’t believe him. The man shifted from foot to foot, gazing down at the packed earth beneath his feet. Everywhere but at Andrew’s face.
“Look at me.” He wasn’t deluded enough to think that a trained spy could not meet his eyes and lie, but he knew what signs to look for. “Now tell me some names on this list.”
Bartolini blinked and slid his gaze past Andrew once more. It was no use. They’d have to take him and question him later. “I might have let you go, had you told me the truth or made a better job of doing so.”
He glanced at the two men. They stepped forward. Bartolini lunged, leaping for the far alleyway, but Bull merely moved to one side and blocked his exit, catching him in his arms.
Bartolini sobbed, “Let me go! It is not me you want. I swear it!”
A smooth voice behind him said, “Green apples aren’t easy to come by at this time of year.”
* * * *
“My father sent me,” Mr. Court said when Andrew spun around to face him. “I am to collect the paper and take it back to London. The code words are to reassure you.”
Andrew regarded him with suspicion. Court had an unsavory reputation, but then many people did, and they remained patriotic. He knew the code words.
Handing over the paper did not sit well with him. At the very least he wanted to keep hold of it until he knew more. He needed time. “Do you have proof? Written orders or some such?”
Court scoffed. “Of course not.” He glanced at Bartolini. “You can let him go now.”
“I’d rather not,” Andrew said mildly.
Court’s thin mouth curled. “Fancy some fun, do you? I can’t blame you. If you want that kind of thing, he’s a pretty boy. It’s not for me. I did hear rumors about you.”
“Did you?” The caricature. He would not bother to refute or admit it. He had no way of proving anything, any more than Court had any way of proving his claim. “You listen to rumor and innuendo? Or do you create it?”
Court shrugged. “I do not have to like you or what you do. It’s an abomination.”
“So is defiling your hostess’s house with whores and debauchery.”
“She deserved it. She refused my perfectly civil offer to marry her. You’d think a dried-up spinster like that would be grateful for some attention from a real man.”
Andrew tried hard not to allow his personal dislike—no, make that detestation—of the man to get in the way of the job he was supposed to be doing here. But he could not. Nor would he hand the list over to him.
“And the caricature?” He might as well hear the worst.
Court shrugged. “Your lover spoiled my fun. Why should I not spoil his?”
Andrew had no inclination to deny that Darius was his lover, especially to someone like this. “Even though it could send him to the gallows?”
“Oh, it won’t. His family would take care of him. Maybe he’d end in Rome with his perverted cousin.”
“A son of the Duke of Kirkburton,” Andrew reminded him mildly. Paying for the print and caricature merely for petty revenge struck him as somewhat extreme. Especially when— “Are you short of money?”
“Isn’t everybody?” he shot back but then bit his lip and glanced away.
He had not meant to say that. Why not?
“I’m not.” Or he was not at the moment, though when he got back to London, he did not know what he would find waiting for him. The gold still weighed down his pocket. It did not belong to him, though he could use it on this mission.
“Then you can give me some, can’t you?” Court taunted, sneered. Someone with that attitude would not consider anything sacred. Even a list that could result in the deaths of so many people.
A movement behind them took Court’s attention, his gaze going past Andrew to the two footmen and their prisoner. In the next breath, he’d lifted his pistol and fired.
The sound rocketed around the small space, the
ringing in Andrew’s ears like a welcome to hell. He spun around.
The two footmen sprawled on the floor, both spattered with blood, their eyes glinting in the moonlight, their jaws dropping. Between them, the bloodied body of Bartolini lay, crumpled and most definitely dead.
Taking a step back, Andrew fumbled for his weapon, but he was not fast enough. With the smoking pistol still in one hand, Court clapped another to Andrew’s forehead.
A strange calm settled over Andrew, as Court visibly swallowed, his Adam’s apple moving up and down in his throat. He’d pulled back the hammer. The stink of black powder singed Andrew’s nostrils.
“Drop your weapons on the ground,” Court said.
Andrew had very little choice, except to take his time. His hands surprisingly steady, he pretended to fumble until Court pressed the barrel firmer into his skull. “We don’t have all night.”
Somewhere, a church clock chimed the half hour. That would make the time half past ten. Would he see eleven?
If Smith and Bull had not stepped forward to take Bartolini’s arms, Court would not have taken them by surprise. But the two men were heavily armed, much more than Andrew.
Court nodded to the men. “You two do the same or your master is a dead man.”
Plucking the pistols from his pocket, Andrew dropped them to the ground and held his arms out from his sides. “Do you want to kill me too? I won’t be so easy.”
“I’ll think of something. Bartolini tried to escape. I had no choice but to shoot him.”
Two men stepped out from the shadows. In that moment, Andrew understood Court meant to kill him and the two footmen. A fool, no doubt, but a fool with friends.
“I have witnesses.” Court sounded harsh, his voice tight.
Could Andrew use that tension against him? A moment’s reflection persuaded him of the folly of taking that course. All he could think was that he regretted with all his heart never knowing Darius in the true sense of the word, in the most intimate way possible. He’d been a fool, giving up his happiness for fear.
He was afraid now. His mind raced. There must be a way out, there had to be. Keep talking, that was the first thing. “Unlike that poor unfortunate, I will be missed. Questions will be asked.”
“I will not be here to listen. I was never here.”
Of course he was. They were ambushed and murdered by persons unknown. That was what would be said. Court could claim to be anywhere. Dissipated in a whorehouse, or in the country, obeying his father’s edict.
Or did General Court know? Was his son doing this with his approval?
“So you plan to sell the list twice?”
Court ground the gun harder against Andrew’s head, but Andrew didn’t try to back away. Court was trying to overwhelm him, make him tremble with fear. Even though Andrew was aware his hands shook, he would not give the man the pleasure of knowing. He clenched his fists, balling them tight to still the movement.
That was what he would do. He was not entirely unprepared. He’d always been good with his hands. One moment’s distraction and he could get that weapon away and plant a facer on his enemy.
“Bartolini already paid you for the list. Do you need money that badly? Badly enough to murder for it?”
“Yes.”
Chapter 14
The damned problem was that Darius had already sent his best men with Andrew. He’d thought to protect him against Bartolini, but as matters turned out, he needed more protection against Court.
As he stood by his horse, about to swing into the saddle, his cousin Ivan approached him. A few moments’ conversation and Ivan was in possession of the few salient facts he needed. He returned to his own dwelling and had a horse saddled for his own use.
Darius accepted his help with relief. Ivan was a principal in the business they owned with Darius’s twin, Valentinian, but more than that, he was a good man in a tight spot.
He listened to the rest of the story as they paused for refreshments and horses on the way. The second horse Andrew had was a slug, and he was forced to change again at the next inn. Fortunately, this one proved younger and more amenable, meaning another agonizing wait. At least he could outline the situation.
“So you love this man,” Ivan’s dark brows rose slightly, the statement more a question, and his blue eyes gleamed.
“Haven’t you been listening? It’s the security of the nation at stake!”
Ivan curled his lip. “Isn’t it always? But this is different, is it not? This matters to you in another way. Don’t try to deny it, Darius. Every time you say his name your expression softens.”
“You should have been a lawyer,” Darius grumbled. “You’re as bad as Andrew.” Using the first name was a tacit acceptance, since he’d taken care to say “Mr. Graham” up to now.
“In any case, in court last year, when you should have been paying attention to Val, you couldn’t take your eyes off Andrew Graham.”
Darius shrugged and bit into the meat pie the landlady had brought out. She’d provided two and a collection of victuals they could, if necessary, eat on horseback. Darius had stuffed a saddlebag with bread, slices of cold meat, and some cheese, as well as a bottle of beer he had no intention of trying to quaff while he was galloping ventre a terre. “Maybe,” he said when he’d cleared his mouth. He took another bite and chewed appreciatively. “But he’s a widower with a small daughter, and he has a living to make.”
Ivan snorted. “You’re an Emperor.”
“I have to persuade him of that.”
The landlord brought a fine chestnut for Darius’s use. After checking the girth, Darius swung into the saddle and took the reins, thanking the landlord with a nod. He pocketed the token that would tell the next inn they stopped at where the horse belonged, and they took to the road once more.
At last, Dover came into sight, the forest of masts providing a counterpoint to the smooth stone of the castle, its round shape distinctive even in the moonlight. They had risked footpads and highwaymen riding here after dark, but what else could they do?
They trotted into town, deciding to go straight to the courtyard where the meeting with Bartolini was supposed to take place. Darius had the address of the meeting, but no idea where the yard was. Nor, it appeared, did anybody else they asked. Until they stopped at an inn.
There, one of the workmen knocking back his beer told him, although it took both Darius and Ivan to work out the directions. It was not that they did not remember, merely that the directions were somewhat idiosyncratic.
After discovering a street with the same name as the courtyard, they took the gamble that the yard lay close. They were right, but they had to tether their mounts and walk slowly up the street before they detected the narrow alleyway.
What clinched the matter was the sound of Andrew’s voice.
“Do you need money that badly? Badly enough to murder for it?”
The blast of a pistol discharged exploded in Darius’s head. Dragging out his own weapon, he took off at a run.
An answering shot came like an echo, not as loud as the first.
A narrow passage led him to a small yard filled with the stink of blood and burning gunpowder. The acrid smell left a tang in his mouth. Darius ignored it and everyone else in the yard as he hurtled toward the blood-spattered figure lying prone on the ground.
He couldn’t be dead. Please God, he wasn’t dead.
Andrew weakly pushed himself up and rolled on to his back. “Faugh, this place stinks!”
Seizing him, Darius skimmed his hands over Andrew’s face and shoulders before dragging him up and clamping his mouth to Andrew’s. He needed that kiss more than he needed air. He didn’t care who saw him or what they thought. “Oh, my love, I thought I had lost you!”
Andrew gave a shaky laugh and tossed a small pistol to the floor. “I never liked that thing, but I’m glad I
had it today. I always carry it.”
When he tried to push out of Darius’s arms, Darius held on tight. He couldn’t let him go yet.
Andrew leaned back. “The idiot saw me drop two pistols. He should have made me take my coat off, and then he’d have seen the small pistol in my breeches’ pocket. It’s not a comfortable thing to use. The hammer has too much spring in it, and the pan is too close to my thumb.” He lifted his hand, revealing a singed knuckle. “But it saved my life, so I suppose I’ll have to keep it now.”
“I will build a shrine to it.” Darius ignored the noise going on around him, the discussion Ivan was holding with Smith and Bull.
“Court’s dead, I presume. He had two men with him.”
“They’re gone.” Ivan broke off his conversation to inform him. “A couple of bullies ran back into the house behind us.”
“So that’s how he got here without us seeing him.” Andrew tried to stand.
Darius helped him to his feet but kept his arm around his waist, as much for his own comfort as Andrew’s. “We came here, as arranged, to meet Bartolini,” Andrew said. “Who is dead, by the way. Court shot him.”
“He didn’t want anyone left alive to condemn him,” Darius said dryly, sparing the heap of humanity slumped to the floor. “Court could then sell the list again. He’s very short of money.”
“I imagine he was. I didn’t think he committed the crime for love of France.”
Andrew’s dry tone made Darius laugh. “He could also make contact with Bartolini’s master,” Darius said. “Dealing with him directly, he could probably obtain a better price. His father is careless with the information entrusted to him.”
“Are you sure it isn’t more than that?”
Darius nodded. “Almost certain. I will, however, mention the matter to my father. I think Court was a deluded, spoiled child who assumed he was the most important person in existence. I have seen his like before. He could probably justify his actions, at least to himself. It was his father’s fault for leaving the papers unguarded, I imagine. Or his father’s fault for not ensuring his son had enough money.” As usual, in a stressful situation, emotion drained from Darius, leaving him coolly analytical. He’d regarded the effect as a gift. It had certainly put him in good stead before, and he was thankful for it now.
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