by Joanna Shupe
But a small amount of doubt stayed with her the rest of the day.
Chapter Six
The next afternoon, Quint’s mood was blacker than obsidian. The broken glass and ink spots in his study had been dealt with, but he was no closer to determining the person responsible for the break-in or what he had been looking for. From what Quint could tell, everything was in its rightful place. Nothing of value taken. His work was safely tucked away in a location no one save him would ever find.
In addition, guilt compounded his other worries. He’d lost control in front of Sophie. Acted like a child, shouting and throwing things. How could he ever face her again?
A timid knock on the study door interrupted his concentration. “Yes?” he snapped.
One of the maids—Elizabeth? Eliza?—appeared. “My lord, there’s a man at the door asking for a Sir Stephen. He seems quite adamant that the gentleman lives here. What should I tell him?”
“Where is Taylor?”
“He is downstairs, my lord. I was dusting and heard the knocker.”
“Who did he ask for—a Sir Stephen? No one by that name lives here. Tell him he has the wrong house.”
“That’s just it, sir. He says he does have the right house, that it’s one of your lordship’s guests.”
Guests? Quint rubbed his forehead. “Who is the caller?”
“Lord MacLean, your lordship.”
That gave him pause. He’d seen MacLean over the winter in the clubs and various social events, but the two of them hadn’t exchanged even ten words. Why would a Scottish earl—one he and Sophie had discussed recently—be on Quint’s stoop asking for a nonexistent houseguest? “Show him to the front drawing room, will you?”
She bobbed a curtsey and shut the door. Quint rose and lifted his coat off the chair back, shoving his arms into the sleeves. Could this have something to do with Sophie’s duel? He started around his desk and wondered if she had gone to MacLean after all.
Cursing himself a fool, he buttoned his coat and continued to the drawing room. Sophie should go to MacLean. Hadn’t Quint told her never to come back? He’d been purposely cruel last evening in the hopes of keeping her away. So relief should be the prevailing emotion, not this burn blossoming in his chest—a burn he suspected might be jealousy.
Lord MacLean stood when Quint entered. “Apologies for disrupting you, Quint. I was inquiring after your houseguest, Sir Stephen.”
Quint motioned for the man to sit as he lowered into a chair. “I fear someone’s bamming you, MacLean. I have no houseguest.”
The ox-sized Scotsman frowned, appearing genuinely perplexed. “I heard him say it with my own ears. Why would your cousin lie?”
“My cousin?”
“Ran into him at Madame Hartley’s two evenings past, in an argument with Lord Tolbert. Apparently Tolbert challenged the pup to a duel, wouldn’t accept an apology instead. I had to step in, and Tolbert took offense to a Scotsman involving himself in a dispute between English gentlemen.”
Quint’s eyebrows lifted, and MacLean nodded. “Indeed. I could not let that stand, you ken. Tolbert’s to meet me on a field of honor and Sir Stephen’s agreed to be my second.”
Familiar pieces of information slid around in Quint’s brain: Duel. Buckskin breeches. MacLean. Young pup. Cousin to the Viscount Quint—and then they fell into place. Good God.
She had truly gone too far this time.
His fingers curled around the edges of the armrests. It was all he could do to stay seated, not to jump up and . . . what? Shake his fist in impotent anger? Pen a strongly worded note? It wasn’t as if he could charge through Mayfair, demanding answers. Christ, he was pathetic. “What does Sir Stephen look like?” he forced himself to ask.
“Young. Scarcely out of the schoolroom, if you want to know the truth. A bit short, but then everyone seems short to me. Brown hair. Spectacles. Thin.”
Hiding her eyes. Smart. No, not smart, he corrected. Nothing about her scheme showed intelligence. Did she have any idea of how utterly ruined she would be if discovered? A litany of questions peppered his brain, but no answers emerged. He could not imagine a single reason why she would be out and about in London Society dressed as a man. At a brothel, no less.
Pending a tower with an impenetrable lock, there would be no stopping her—and he could do nothing. He’d never regretted his condition more than at this moment. To think of her out in London, at night, unchaperoned, dressed as a man . . . any number of unfortunate things could happen. She needed a keeper—only her keeper would not be London’s biggest rake. The last man Quint wanted in Sophie’s proximity was the one before him now.
MacLean watched him closely, awaiting a response. On occasion, a reputation as a madman could definitely serve as a benefit.
Quint snapped his fingers. “Of course, my cousin. How could I forget the lad? I mostly keep to my study and cannot keep track of his comings and goings.”
“So he does live here?”
“Yes, he has been known to knock about the place. But keep your distance from him.”
“Why’s that?”
“He’s unpredictable. Raves like a lunatic some nights. Other days he cannot get out of bed.” He tapped his temple. “Non compos mentis.”
MacLean lifted a brow. “Well, I wanted to speak with him about Tolbert. He was supposed to call on me yesterday, yet he never showed.”
Understandable. To pass herself off as a man would be infinitely easier at night than during the day. At least she employed some restraint. “And as the boy’s appointed guardian, I am afraid I cannot allow that. His mental status would make him an unreliable second. He might suffer a fit and shoot you instead.” MacLean frowned but nodded, and Quint asked, “Do you happen to know why Tolbert challenged Sir Stephen?”
MacLean pushed his large frame out of the chair and grinned. “I dinna ken the whole story, but I heard it was over a woman at The Pretty Kitty.”
Quint choked, which he quickly covered with a cough. “Is that so? I’ll be sure and ask the lad next time I see him. So take care, for your own sake, to give Sir Stephen a wide berth. I would not even approach him, were I you.” He stood up and held MacLean’s stare. “Stay far, far away from Sir Stephen.”
MacLean held up his hands, his brows raised. “Not a problem. But he might get into less trouble if you can fatten him up. Lad’s skinnier than a fence post.”
A large carriage waited in the alley behind the tea shop. The driver jumped down at Sophie’s approach. “Greetings, my lady.”
“Good day, Biggins.” He flung the door open for her and set the step. “Thank you.” She climbed up and inside, the well-sprung vehicle creaking slightly in protest. The curtains were drawn and a lamp had been lit in the interior. Biggins closed the door behind her.
“I apologize for being late,” Sophie told the two women waiting inside as she settled on the seat.
“Not a problem, my lady,” Pearl Kelly said, smiling. “Mary and I have just been comparing tricks of the trade, as it were.” Carefully positioned chestnut curls framed Pearl’s delicate face, the style both youthful and flattering. Though it was early in the day, her jewels glittered in the dim interior. Sophie had never seen Pearl without something sparkling on her fingers and ears.
“I am indeed sorry to have missed that conversation. Perhaps—”
“No, you know that I cannot.” Pearl wagged a finger at Sophie. “Lady Winchester and the duchess both would have my hide. Not until your ladyship is married.”
Sophie bit off the retort, that she would never be married, because what was the point? No one believed her anyhow. She turned to the thin, black-haired girl next to Pearl. “Mary, thank you for agreeing to meet with me. I would have come to you at The Kitty, if it were possible, but I am afraid Sir Stephen must remain out of sight for a few days.”
Sir Stephen may have extricated himself from his dawn appointment with Tolbert, thanks to Lord MacLean’s intervention, but now he was involved in another, also thank
s to Lord MacLean. Who knew the men of the ton were such a hotheaded bunch behind closed doors?
Mary shrugged. “No problem, milady. It’s not every day I gets a chance to chat with Pearl Kelly and the daughter of a marquess.”
“And sneaking out won’t cause any problems for you?”
“No, milady. My friend Tibby will cover for me.”
“Still, it’s best not to keep you. I wondered if you could tell me about Rose’s fancy gent, the one she believed would set her up in a house.”
“Set her up? Rose never said anythin’ to me about gettin’ a protector, your ladyship.”
“She told her sister, apparently. I thought she might have shared the news with you as well.”
“I’m afraid not, milady. She did have some regular customers, but I never heard that one of them was sweet on her.”
Sophie exchanged a quick glance with Pearl. “So these recent regulars,” Pearl said. “Any idea of their identities?”
Mary cocked her head and contemplated the question. “Well, let’s see. I only knows ’em by what she called ’em, er, their pet names. . . .” She raised her eyebrows.
“Yes, I understand.” Then Pearl said to Sophie, “They give them names based on the gentleman’s performance or preferences in the bedroom.”
“Ah,” Sophie said. “And so?”
“Let’s see. One of O’Shea’s men. She called him Sweaty. Another gent, called him La Gauche.” Mary put her hand in her lap, extended one finger, and swung it to the left. Pearl sniggered and Sophie blurted, “They can do that?” which caused Mary and Pearl to dissolve into a fit of giggles.
“Very well,” Sophie drawled to get back to the issue at hand. “Anyone else?”
“There was the Watcher. Never wanted to touch her, just watch her . . . you know.” Mary shifted on the seat. “One of ’em she called King George because he seemed not right in the head, God rest His Majesty’s soul.”
“Not right in the head, how?” Sophie asked, sharply.
“Erratic, I think. Not violent, just . . . strange. Talked all sorts of nonsense. But I don’t think he would have hurt her, milady. Rose had a good head on her shoulders.”
“I do not doubt it, but evil does not always show itself outright. Others you can think of?”
“Oh, there was a man who stammered when he got excited. Tangle tongue, she called him. That’s all I can remember, your ladyship.”
“Thank you, Mary. Will you send word if you encounter any of these men? I’d like to see if I can learn their identities.”
“I will, milady. More ’n likely they’ll start seeing other girls at The Kitty.”
Sophie dug in her reticule, pulled out a few coins, and handed them to Mary. “Hide these and use them for yourself.”
“Thank you, milady. I will.”
“You shall escort her back?” Sophie asked Pearl.
“Indeed, my lady. Be safe.”
“And you as well.”
A second visitor arrived not long after MacLean departed, one Quint could not turn away—no matter how much he wanted to.
“Quint, thank you for seeing me.” Lord David Hudson strode into Quint’s study, leaning slightly on the walking stick in his left hand. “Although you will need to explain why you refuse to come to me, illness or no.”
Hudson had served as Quint’s contact at the Home Office for seven years. Razor-sharp and charismatic, Hudson was undoubtedly one of the most important men in the British government, though what he actually did was a bit vague. He’d recruited Quint for service during the Napoleonic conflict, and Quint had enjoyed his years of developing complicated codes the French could not break. The two kept in loose contact these days. Hudson knew Quint was working on something but did not know the particulars. Quint preferred to keep his work to himself until it was completed.
“This could’ve been handled in correspondence,” Quint said. “There was no need to come all the way to Mayfair.”
“Yes, your man did attempt to turn me away at the door. And suffice it to say I did not come for the hospitality.” He glanced around for a place to sit.
Quint reluctantly cleared a chair of its contents. “What if I had contracted something contagious?”
Hudson strode to the chair, flipped up the tails of his topcoat with a flourish, and sat. He propped his walking stick against the desk. “But you have not contracted anything. You are perfectly well.”
Better not to argue, Quint thought. He had no intention of explaining precisely how unwell he was. “Now that you are here, perhaps you can explain why you wanted to see me.”
Hudson rested his elbows on the armrests and steepled his fingers. “How much do you know about the current political status of Greece?”
Quint cocked his head and sifted through the pieces of information inside his brain. “I know that revolution has been brewing there for a number of years, and that the Filiki Eteria has begun massive initiations with the plans of launching a liberation campaign against the Ottomans. The Greeks have the support of Alexander I, who is presumably hoping to colonize after the bloodshed, and England would rather Russia not get a foothold so close to our shores.”
“Very good. Castlereagh has maintained the need for status quo on the face of it, to preserve the peace of Europe as long as we can. But I am orchestrating things quietly to make sure, whenever it begins, this skirmish goes the way we want.”
“Ah.”
“Yes, you can see where I am headed, I suppose. I know the work you did against Bonny, and I also know your penchant for solving the unsolvable puzzle. I suspect you are attempting to crack Vigenère’s cipher during your self-appointed incarceration. I do not need to tell you how valuable that solution would be to the British government when every other government in Europe uses it. We could read and decipher every coded message ever sent. So the question becomes, who else knows of this work?”
Scary how much Hudson knew. “Absolutely no one.”
“I understand you had an intruder last evening. Why would someone bother doing that, do you suppose, unless you were close to cracking it?”
Quint stilled, hardly able to breathe. How had Hudson learned of last evening? “I haven’t the faintest idea.”
“Because there is no other reason. Are you certain you have not told anyone about your work? Lady Sophia, perhaps?”
Goddammit. Quint searched the other man’s face, but Hudson gave nothing away. There was no clue as to how he knew of Quint and Sophie’s . . . friendship. The man had ice in his veins; little wonder he’d risen so high in His Majesty’s service. “No, Lady Sophia is a friend. Nothing more.”
A small twitch of his lips was Hudson’s only discernible reaction. “I assume whoever broke in did not find anything. Is whatever you are working on in a safe place?”
“Yes.”
“Any chance you will tell me where you keep it?”
“None.”
Hudson tapped his fingers together in a slight show of irritation. “Quint, Castlereagh is . . . unpopular. People are unhappy with his policies, Peterloo, the Six Acts, and the like. And this discord is affecting his mind. Public opinion can be quite harsh when it turns against you.”
Quint tried not to react. He knew how the game was played. Hudson did not care to be thwarted, so now he’d loaded up his quiver with well-appointed arrows. Quint watched and waited.
“Doubtful he’ll last much longer,” Hudson continued, “and so we must begin to think about the future of England.”
“And you hope to succeed him?”
Hudson grimaced. “Heavens, no. Much too high profile for me. I prefer to remain in the shadows, where the real power resides. But there is someone already in mind, someone who will listen to reason when it becomes necessary. Like if, for example, a peer of the realm needed our protection.”
The skin on the back of Quint’s neck prickled. God, he hated politics. Why intelligent men did not instead put their time and efforts to more worthwhile pursuits, such as s
cience and philosophy, boggled his brain. Disease and famine might well be eradicated if not for politicians. And agents of the British government.
“I cannot produce what I do not yet have, Hudson. The work is under way but not finished. When it is ready, you will have it—and not a moment sooner.”
The man smiled amiably, though his eyes remained as hard as flint. “Of course. Just as long as I am the one to receive it.”
Meaning Quint might sell the cipher solution to a rival empire. “Whyever would you not be?” he countered coolly.
“I cannot imagine. But we find ourselves in strange circumstances these days, do we not?”
As Quint stared at Hudson, he quickly catalogued the man’s appearance. Shorn dark hair, the kind one used to see under wigs, receded off his forehead to form a point in front. Nails clean and short. Elegantly appointed with expensive tailoring. Same limp, from an injury he’d suffered fighting with Wellington in Portugal before landing in government service. No stain, smudge, or speck of dirt to mar the presentation. Why men wasted so much time on their appearance never failed to perplex Quint.
Nothing seemed out of place, yet there was something off, something he should be noticing. He knew it instinctually. The same walking stick Hudson always carried, the inside no doubt hiding a long, sharp blade. A small chunk of wood was missing from the handle, near the knob.
None of that should make Quint uneasy, however. So why did part of his brain insist on searching where nothing existed? There was only one answer: His mind had clearly deteriorated even further than he’d originally thought. The idea depressed the hell out of him.
Hudson snatched up his walking stick and levered out of the chair. Quint rose as well, disconcerted. “I shall leave you to it, then,” Hudson said as he started for the door. “Good day, Quint.”
When Hudson departed a few moments later, Quint called Taylor to the study. “Yes, my lord?”
“Taylor, the members of the staff, what are we up to now? Ten?”
“Nine, your lordship. The upper house maid quit earlier today.”
