by Alanna Lucas
He gave the order. “It’s time.”
Everyone took their place. Grant crept through the brush, careful not to arouse attention as he neared the servants’ entrance. With all the activity above stairs, slipping in unnoticed should be simple.
The outer door was ajar. The clanging of pots and arguing voices ricocheted from down the long corridor. The smell of roasted meat wafted along the hall, mingling with the cool night air.
“Not that one. Take this one and hurry. Lord Cyppe will not be pleased if we fall behind schedule. Remember what happened last time?”
Grant slipped inside the house, darting from doorway to doorway, staying out of sight. The stairwell nearest the kitchen was bustling with activity. That one must lead to the dining room.
Opposite lay another set of stairs. Grant presumed it led to other areas of the house. With a quick glance about him, he rushed across the hall and up the quiet stairwell to the second floor.
This hallway was not lit, but distant sounds of dinner conversation and laughter reminded him he was not alone, and caution was still the first order. Heart pounding against his chest, he sucked in his breath and raced across the wide space, reaching the music room without attracting notice. He quickly tested the handle, opened the door just a hair’s breadth, and sneaked inside.
Relief eased some of the tension that had been plaguing him since he’d been given this assignment. Now if only he knew Miss Atwell was safe, he’d be able to completely focus on the task at hand.
The room was dark, save for a sliver of moonlight peeking through the partially pulled drapes. Keeping to the shadows, he edged toward his destination. The soft tick tock of the clock grew louder with each step he took. It was an odd place to keep important documents, but one few would suspect.
He skimmed a gloved hand across the smooth wood case, starting from the bottom and working his way up. His well-above-average height had been a hindrance at times, but tonight it worked in his favor. As his hand neared the top back edge of the case, a slight dimple in the wood caught his attention.
Outlining the groove with his finger, he added pressure to slightly concave center. A soft click interrupted the cadence of the clock. Reaching behind the ornamental finial, he discovered a panel had opened. The concealed space did not feel very large, but it was stuffed full with papers. He pulled out the sheaves and crept toward the stream of hazy moonlight.
He knew what would be of use and what could be left behind. There were several letters from Lord Cyppe’s former mistress, Madame Minott. Those were of no use to the Home Office. She had already confessed and provided enough documentation to convince Grant’s superiors of Lord Cyppe’s involvement in Typhon’s plot to destroy the British monarchy.
Flipping to the next page, Lord Sutton’s name practically jumped out at him. Oh, so you are acquainted with Lord Cyppe. This alone was worth Grant’s efforts tonight. Thumbing through the rest of the stack, several blank sheets caught his attention. Why would Lord Cyppe conceal blank papers—unless they were not blank? He pulled them out and tucked them into his coat pocket.
He had what he came for. Now it was time to leave.
He returned the remaining papers to their compartment on top of the large clock, and clicked the panel closed. The room, minus several sheaves of paper, was the same as when he arrived. Lord Cyppe would be none the wiser.
Grant retraced his steps back to the servants’ stairwell. Within a matter of minutes, he was outside, his presence and departure undetected. A cool evening breeze was pressing at his back, urging him further into the darkness beyond. His flight from the house was easy, almost too easy.
“Got it,” Grant whispered to Simon as he rejoined him behind a large shrub.
“Miss Atwell should be making excuses for an early departure at any moment.” Simon paused, a wide gleam crossed his face. “I love it when things go according to plan.”
Grant shook his head. “Don’t speak too soon.” He’d only share those sentiments when all three of them had reconvened and were heading back to London.
They waited in silence. The seconds turned into minutes, twenty agonizing minutes to be exact. Dread crept into Grant’s gut. The thought of Miss Atwell being discovered tore at his insides. He was concerned for her well-being, just like he would be for any of the agents. Nothing more, he tried to convince himself.
He scanned the exterior, then the windows from top to bottom. Nothing. No movement, nothing out of the ordinary, nothing except Miss Atwell was late.
“Something’s wrong.”
What had she gotten into? He knew this was too dangerous for the daughter of a viscount. He should have told Lord Fynes “no”. What if something happened to her? How would he even begin to explain to Lord Atwell? She did not belong in this world.
With his mind made up, he stood, preparing to take action. “You go around to the right and I’ll take the rear.”
He’d only taken two steps when a soft slurred whistle, each subsequent note lower than the one before, met his ears. Miss Atwell.
Relief coursed through his veins, but the gnawing in his gut remained.
Simon and Grant maneuvered toward the drive. In the distance, he saw Lord Carteron’s carriage, presumably with Miss Atwell safely ensconced inside, edge away from the house, away from any danger.
Less than a few minutes later, the carriage slowed as it approached the meeting point. The door swung open. Simon jumped inside first, followed by Grant.
“Good evening, gentlemen,” Miss Atwell’s jovial voice broke through the silence. “That was a great success.” Grant heard the excitement, the adrenaline rush in her voice. Damn, she was enjoying this. He didn’t know whether to scold her or be impressed.
The relief that he’d felt a moment ago gave way to anger.
He barked out, “What took you so long?” He didn’t want to even contemplate what could have happened if Miss Atwell’s role tonight had been discovered.
“I had to give a believable performance. Despite what you think, Lord Cyppe is not a fool.”
“Believable performance? What kind of…” Sucking in his breath, Grant clenched his jaw in a vain attempt to control his temper.
The tension in the carriage was palpable. Simon must have sensed Grant’s rising anger. Before Grant could vocalize his displeasure, the other man spoke up. “Did you discover anything?”
“Lady Baxter made a reference to Miss Anjou traveling to the coast and visiting some castle ruins.”
“Seems innocuous enough.”
Miss Atwell tugged at each finger of her gloved hand, slowly revealing delicate creamy skin. Grant shifted in his seat. Why would such a simple act befuddle him? Because it is entirely inappropriate, and Miss Atwell is far too enticing.
“One would think so, except the mere mention of the coast caused Lord Baxter to break out in a sweat, and Lord Cyppe to quickly change the topic of conversation to the migratory pattern of ducks.” Miss Atwell pulled a small slip of paper from the glove she’d just removed. “I thought this might be of some use.”
She passed the paper to Simon, who then proceeded to unfold it. Holding it up to the moonlight filtering in through the window, he said, “It’s an address.”
Grant took the scrap of paper from Simon. “I know who this address belongs to.” Beitel was a street thug and a petty thief. Why was he associating with Typhon? Grant suspected the man was in over his head, but he kept his thoughts to himself. He didn’t need Miss Atwell getting involved anymore than she already had.
No sooner had the thought crossed his mind, than Miss Atwell enthusiastically suggested, “We should investigate—”
“No, we should not.” He would see Miss Atwell safely ensconced at Atwell House, and then he and Simon would deal with this. Grant’s temper was hanging on by a thread. The plan had been for Miss Atwell to keep an eye on Lord Cyppe while he retrieved vital documents, not the other way around. “Would you care to explain how you came into possession of this?”
> “The guests were engaged in various conversations while waiting for dinner to be announced. Lord Baxter must have believed he was being quite sly when he slipped this small folded piece of paper between two seat cushions.” Miss Atwell’s giggle filled the space. “He was sweating so profusely he looked like he’d just emerged from the lake. He doesn’t hide his nervousness well. When dinner was called, I managed to retrieve it and slip it into my glove.”
Grant hated to admit it, but Miss Atwell was quite resourceful. However, the fact she could’ve been discovered soured whatever admiration lingered in his thoughts.
What was wrong with him? The Legion had other female agents, not many, but still none who had ever come close to disrupting him the way Miss Atwell did.
Thick, uncomfortable silence suffocated the small space until Miss Atwell shifted in her seat, questioning Grant, “Did you retrieve the documents?”
“Yes.” His short response was curt even to his own ears, but it sufficiently ended any further attempt at conversation.
If the previous silence had been uncomfortable, the tension that now enveloped the carriage was bloody well painful. Grant cursed himself inwardly. The ride back to London was going to be long and arduous.
Chapter Three
“Good evening gentlemen,” Miss Atwell coolly stated with a nod, all warmth and enthusiasm having left her voice. She hadn’t even waited for the door to be opened before she’d pushed the door wide, leaped from the carriage, and strode up the front walk of her residence.
Her cold farewell had only served to darken Grant’s mood. It was his fault she was annoyed. He fought every urge not to race after her, but thankfully common sense won out. It was for the best. Stick to the assignment, he reminded himself. Romantic entanglements were a hindrance in his line of work.
Grant fingered the scrap of paper. The hour was late, but not too late to investigate at least one piece of information they had uncovered that evening.
Simon glanced over at Grant and nodded his head. “Do you want to discover what’s at that address?”
“You read my mind.”
“If I had to guess, I would say that slip of paper is not the only thing on your mind,” Simon said with a knowing look.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Grant snapped back at his friend.
“Nothing,” Simon responded with a hint of sarcasm that only served to annoy Grant further.
He was in no mood to discuss anything but the task at hand, and even that was debatable at the moment. He tapped the roof of the carriage twice, giving the signal to the driver to return them to the manor.
“We’ll go to the address on foot.”
Darkness shrouded them as he and Simon walked along in silence. The sounds of night grew louder the closer they got to their destination: babies wailing, people yelling. There was no privacy, just an endless sea of poverty. Even the air had a different quality, with a certain corrupt stench about it.
Grant knew Simon would be on high alert and watching for any potential threat. He took the lead, Simon falling in a few paces behind him to cover his back. They continued along the narrow streets as if they belonged to this world. The darkness increased in this part of London. Rickety structures leaned into one another, practically spilling onto the cobbles. It looked as if one strong gale would topple the entire area.
The air grew thick with the stale scent of unwashed bodies living in cramped quarters. Grant detested that people, some of whom were decent and found themselves in a bad situation, had to live in such squalor. The thought of children being born into this made his stomach churn.
He approached the dilapidated building with caution. “This is the place.”
Simon turned around, keeping his back to Grant. “I’ll watch the alley,” he murmured over his shoulder.
Walking up the two uneven and broken steps, Grant knocked on the door in the rhythmic pattern he hoped hadn’t changed. Seconds later the door creaked open a couple of inches.
“State yer bus’ness,” a gruff voice said through the darkened slit.
“We’re here to see Beitel. Cyppe sent us.” Grant waited and hoped mentioning Lord Cyppe’s name would gain them entry.
The door closed with the same loud creak and was bolted again. Muffled voices emerged from the other side of the door.
“I told you we should’ve forced our way in,” Simon uttered over his shoulder.
“Just wait.” There was a time and place to go charging in, but this was a delicate matter and patience was in their best interest.
The voices suddenly stopped. The door creaked open, wider than before. A concoction of stale odors—piss and rotting food—slapped him in the face. He breathed in through his mouth, but even that didn’t seem to help.
“This way,” a rather small man with a deep gruff voice that didn’t match his stature, commanded. He held a single candle in front of him as he began to limp down a short dark hall. The moment Grant and Simon were both inside, the front door slammed shut behind them. Looking over his shoulder, Grant saw the silhouette of an even shorter person, probably a lad, standing in front of an internal door. The lad seemed to be smirking as if he knew something they did not. The hair on the back of Grant’s neck stood at attention and his senses went into high alert.
Leaving behind the smirking lad, he and Simon followed the small-statured man with the gruff voice. It took a moment for Grant’s eyes to adjust to the hall that darkened with each step they took. He listened for anything out of the ordinary. Only the sound of babies crying, loud coughs, rowdy laughter, and drunken slander met his ears—all common for this part of town.
The man stopped abruptly, turned, and stated matter-of-factly, “Beitel’ll give you five minutes.”
He pushed the door open, allowing Grant and Simon to enter before closing it firmly behind them.
Several candles on a worn old desk lighted the small, dingy room. A rotund man sitting behind the desk was busy writing. His large belly shook in time with his scribbling hand.
“Beitel.”
At the mention of his name, Beitel glanced up from what he was writing.
“Who are you?” His quick intake of breath and wide eyes said he knew exactly who Grant was.
“That’s of no consequence at the moment. The more important question is, are you willing to divulge secrets in order to save your life?”
Fear shone in the whites of Beitel’s eyes. “I…I don’t know what you mean.” He pushed away from the desk, slamming the rickety chair into the wall behind him, and clambered to stand to his full height, which wasn’t very tall.
“I believe you do.” Grant kept his features calm and focused. “What do you know of Typhon?”
“Ty…Typhon?” Beitel swallowed hard, his face turning ashen. His voice was rough with anxiety as he muddled through the obvious lie, “N…nothing. I…I don’t know no Typhon.”
Simon stepped forward, moving to Grant’s side, closing in on Beitel’s space. Beitel trembled against the chair, sliding it out of the way as he pressed himself against the wall. Beads of sweat pooled at his receding hairline. His chest heaved with each breath he took.
Grant kept a hard glare on him, knowing full well Beitel would crack under pressure. Cowards always did.
A moment later his patience was rewarded.
“All right…all right,” Beitel began as he wiped his grimy forehead with his sleeve. “He operates in England but has informants all over Europe. He wants the monarchy to fall, like in France. Information from the Continent is transported to France and then brought to England by smugglers.”
“Where and which smugglers?” Grant questioned in a non-accusatory tone in an effort to ease the escalated tension filling the room.
“I don’t know.” Beitel wiped his brow with a shaky hand and then ran it down the front of his shirt over his large protruding belly.
“You don’t know or you won’t tell?” Beitel flinched at the tone of Simon’s voice. He began trembling like a f
ox caught by the hounds.
“I don’t know,” he yelled in panic, his goiter jiggling.
A long, brittle silence stretched between them. It would have been so easy to lose his nerve, but Grant steadied his voice. “Why did Lord Baxter give Cyppe your direction?”
Beitel’s beady eyes shifted from Grant to Simon, then back to Grant. He let out a long heavy breath. The foul stench of rotting teeth filled the room.
“I don’t know a Lord Baxter,” Beitel blubbered in a raspy breath. “I swear I don’t! Please don’t hurt me,” his cowardly plea sputtered from his mouth.
Grant and Simon remained silent, waiting patiently. They both knew the coward would divulge the information they sought sooner or later. They would wait all night if meant getting the answers they needed.
“I…I received a letter stating I was to recruit able-bodied m…men.” Sweat trickled down from Beitel’s temples. “I was given a nice sum and promised more once I delivered. The letter said I would be contacted by a member of the ton.”
“Which member of the ton?”
“I don’t know.”
Simon took a half step closer, which prompted Beitel to continue to speak.
“I don’t.” He gulped the words down. “I only know that he was to have a medallion with some sort of a snake on it or something.”
Grant felt Simon’s eyes shift toward him. They’d both known of the medallions’ existence, but had never seen one firsthand. The illusive medallions were reported to gain entry into some of the most elite and dangerous establishments in Europe. Not to mention that their distinct engravings, a winged human figure with two snakes tails beneath, were associated with Typhon.
