17
Hamish
* * *
Hamish found himself trapped in a rather ironic situation. For a confidential agent supposed to be ferreting out intelligence, he found he lacked any information of relevance. His contacts were either dead or missing. Even his wolf was only able to track Aster so far, then lost all trace due to the river. Ewan and Quinn had similar issues in London. The perpetrators of the crime had left no scent, which implied they had used a mage trick to mask their presence. It would also explain how one managed to sneak up on Alick, and why no one saw anything.
Whatever was afoot, he only knew one thing for certain—it revolved around the list of names that Sir John had worked to decipher.
The names were important enough that the puppet master had decided to silence those who knew of the list. That gave Hamish his best clue, for names by themselves were meaningless. Those named could claim it was a private list of invitees to a house party. Even if he knew every name on the list, they still had no real direction until the conspirators acted. What mattered was the deeper purpose that linked those names. What role did they have to play and what was the magical strike that France laboured on?
Hamish knew nothing of the conspirators’ intent. Even Harry the spymaster knew only vague whispers of isolating England and magical weapons. Hamish struggled to lay his hands on viable intelligence, like a callow youth who floundered in the dark of the barn, while an older girl laughed and danced away from his attempts to capture her.
His priority was finding Sir John and Aster. His gut told him things would not play out well for the older clerk, but was Aster with him? She had returned to the boarding house alone, collected only enough to carry in a bag, and left. No one accompanied her or chaperoned her movement and she said she would return when she was able. Did that prove her duplicity or show she had escaped? If she were truly innocent, why had she not sought him out or left him a more personal message?
His thoughts were rabbits running from the hounds, bouncing through the heather and hiding from view. If only the wolf could run them all down and force them to make sense. With every beat of his heart, fear grew for Aster. He had to see her safe and unharmed. One truth anchored itself in his heart, man and wolf in perfect agreement—he wanted her safe and happy with him. When he found her, he wasn’t letting her go, regardless of whether the Unnatural Act passed or not.
That morning, Hamish dressed carefully and rode out with his men for London and the War Office headquarters. He needed direction from higher up the chain of command, and he intended to go to straight to the top. He bound his wolf in chains deep inside him. If his concern for Aster broke through he feared what the creature might do. Now more than ever, he needed to appear civilised.
They rode to Whitehall, in Central London, and the ornate Horse Guards building. From there Hamish proceeded alone, leaving Alick and Ewan to take Quinn on a scenic tour of the city. Which meant they would end up at either one of the gentlemen’s clubs or a brothel. Given Quinn’s luck at games of chance, they would probably earn more money than they spent. He would meet up with them later to discuss their next move.
Within the Horse Guards, there were plenty of capable men on hand to take his mount and see to its needs. He dismounted and passed the reins over to a waiting guardsman. With a slap on the gelding’s rump, he headed into the bustling building, seeking his high-profile target.
He planned to barge into the office of the Secretary of State for War and the Colonies—more commonly known, since the long title didn’t fit on any name plaque, as the war secretary. The Earl of Bathurst had taken up the position only recently, but was already making a name for himself in the role. He was trying to impose some order on the conduct of the Peninsula War.
Hamish wound his way upward and came to an ordinary-looking door, then pushed within to an extraordinary office. The war secretary commanded two secretaries of his own, who sat on either side of the large outer office at identical desks. Hamish briefly wondered if they were twins, so similar were their identical stooped postures as they laboured at their papers. Silently, he wagered they weren’t as efficient at their jobs as Aster.
Two heads snapped up in unison. “Yes?” the man on the left asked.
“Is he in? It’s vitally important.” Hamish kept walking toward the next door. He prayed the Tory member was behind the closed door and not holed up in some club.
The secretaries rose from behind their desks. Just let them try and stop me.
“You cannot go in there,” the one from the right-hand side said.
Hamish smirked. The war secretary was in, then. He smiled at the two men and pushed into the next office, the inner sanctum of the man running the war. He was standing at his window, staring out at the sky, and he turned at the intrusion and the harsh words from his guardians. He raised an eyebrow at Hamish.
“Captain Hamish Logan of the Highland Wolves, Lord Bathurst.” He gave a bow. “Until he was murdered, I was on a mission under Harry Wilkes.”
“Ah.” The eyebrows rose upward. “A wolf in person.”
The gaze swept over Hamish, possibly looking for furry ears or a tail. “I understand you will one day inherit an earldom, captain?”
“Yes. Assuming the House votes that I have the same rights as any other Englishman.” Hamish clasped his hands behind his back and warned his wolf to stay silent. Parliament feared those Unnaturals who were better than ordinary men and it rankled that they sought to chain them up for being superior.
The war secretary made a noise in his throat. “Horrible business about Wilkes.” He waved a hand at the two heads sticking around his door. “That will be all.”
The man before him looked for all purposes like a solicitor. Tall and thin, he was dressed all in black, save for a cream shirt and cravat. Obviously he planned to spend his day at the office, not the club. His once-dark hair was peppered with grey and cut short on his nape.
The war secretary held out a hand to Hamish. “These are troubling times.”
“They are indeed. Even more troubling when agents are murdered by a vampyre masking himself with a mage spell.” As Hamish shook hands, he hoped the war secretary was up to date on recent events. Given the dispatches littering his desk and the troubled look on his face, he probably knew all too well the strife facing England.
The war secretary’s brows drew together in a deep frown. “You are sure it was a vampyre? We have not had a confirmed sighting of one on English soil.”
“Harry was drained of blood, as was his butler. Someone had tried to mask the puncture wounds by slitting their throats afterward.” Hamish would find the creature responsible and end it—however one killed an undead creature with no heartbeat.
Lord Bathurst gestured to the Chesterfield sofas arranged by the fireplace. “We have been caught unprepared and betrayed from the inside. Only a few people knew of the work Wilkes did for me.”
An understatement if ever there was one. Four men were dead, and two people were unaccounted for. “Did Harry Wilkes know the list had made its way to Sir John?”
Lord Bathurst rubbed a hand over his brow, trying to iron out the deep frown lines. “Most certainly. He delivered it himself to our war mage a few days ago. He oversaw the cypher being stabilised and then handed it off to Sir John.”
There was no way to know what, if anything, Harry had told his assassin before he died. More troublesome, the assassin knew the significance of the spymaster’s work. An ordinary face swam before his gaze and then sunk back into the shadows. Harry’s death would leave their network crippled until another stepped into the breach. “It is worrying that someone knew the identity of our spymaster. Like Sir John, Harry presented the image of quiet scholar.”
The war secretary rubbed the bridge of his nose, as though readjusting invisible glasses. “Yes, and that troubles me deeply. I had hoped Sir John’s work would cast a light upon the latest plot and on a larger problem. Wilkes was worried our network had been compromised. Hor
rible to have it confirmed in such a manner.” Silence settled over them, interrupted only by the tick of the grandfather clock in the corner of the room.
“It would seem that whomever it is, he is determined to keep us from ferreting him out.” Hamish let out a sigh. He had blundered and cost men their lives, a mistake he would not make twice. “I have failed in my mission to have a care for Sir John. I will admit I did not appreciate the level of threat.”
The earl tapped his hand on the arm of the sofa. “None of us foresaw Wilkes’s position being compromised in such a manner. And Sir John has worked as cryptographer for years. He seemed so safe tucked up at the Royal Arsenal. We have perhaps all became complacent. Who thought they would strike under our noses in a base crawling with soldiers?”
Hamish drew a deep breath to settle his inner wolf, which paced inside him. “Another indicator that French mages are behind this, for they masked the men’s movements and scent. My man watching the Arsenal would have been killed if not for him being a lycanthrope. That is at least one advantage we have—they do not appreciate what the Wolves can do.”
“I don’t think any of us really appreciate yet what you and your men are capable of, Captain.” The speculative look returned to the war secretary’s gaze.
“What would you have us do now?” Hamish wondered if Sir John was even still alive. If he had been taken, Hamish could well imagine the lengths to which such men would go to extract the location of the list.
Lord Bathurst tapped his fingers on the arm of the chair as he thought. “Your mission now has a different direction. You must recover the list, but more importantly, we must know whose hand is behind this and find this French vampyre before we have panic on the streets.” The war secretary had a keen light in his gaze. Ferreting out nuggets of information was as exciting to him as charging straight at the enemy was to Hamish. The thought of fresh information was blood in the air, especially if it dealt another blow to Napoleon.
“Of course. There is another matter I must broach. Sir John’s secretary, Simmons, is also missing. Is it possible the French compromised that position?” He still couldn’t confess what he knew, or that he had once pressed Simmons against the little mare while he kissed her senseless—something he planned to do again just as soon as he could get his hands on her. He laid his hands flat on his knees so he didn’t wring them and betray his personal investment in the question he had asked. This was the pivotal moment. Were his affections wrongly placed? Had he opened his heart to a cold, murderous spy?
The earl leaned back with one arm extended along the sofa, and stared at Hamish. Then a slow smile broke over his face. “I know of Miss Simmons; an exceptional woman with a keen mind. I am saddened to think she has been captured along with Sir John.”
Hamish still couldn’t breathe freely. Despite the fact that the war secretary knew of Aster’s concealed gender, his basic question was still unanswered. “But what is her involvement in this matter? Was she merely a secretary, or did she labour to find Sir John’s secrets for France?”
Lord Bathurst shook his head, but the smile stayed on his lips. “A mere secretary? Certainly not. Miss Simmons is quite an exceptional cryptographer and I believe will rise to excel her mentor. She also plays a crucial role in analysing spontaneous Unnatural activity. Harry thought it better to keep her role quiet so as to minimise her exposure to any risk. Who would think the maid was one of our best analytical minds?”
“There is more to her presence, though.” Hope leapt in his chest and then plummeted back to earth. She was more than she appeared, but perhaps not what he thought. Another riddle.
“Yes.” The man was infuriatingly spartan with information, but that was to be expected from a Tory used to surviving on the deadliest sparring ground—parliament. “But some secrets are not mine to disclose.”
He swallowed bile and forced down his frustration. That would have to do. “Can you give me any direction to find those involved in abducting Sir John and the lass? I have suspicions, but no leads to pursue. I am a bloodhound with no scent and don’t want to waste time chasing my tail.”
The earl chuffed at the joke, then rose and walked to the window. A light fog encompassed London and had yet to disperse under the sun’s warmth. The spire of St Paul’s punctured a cloud. “I can give you the name of a man, but it must remain most confidential. He hears things from both sides of the Channel, and while he calls no man master, he operates under my protection. He may know who is operating in London at this time. Find him and see if he can offer you a scent to follow.”
It would have to do. Forge would leave no trail. If he were a vampyre, he would have minions to assist him and those men would be his weakness. His sort didn’t work well with their own kind, unlike the wolves, who were stronger as a pack.
With the informant's name in hand, Hamish left. The person of interest frequented some of the seedier taverns in the East End. Quinn was going to love this part of their excursion, and they would need all his natural luck. Hamish emerged from the main building and walked over to the stables to reclaim his mount. Before he could hunt the fox, he first had to find his hounds.
Alick and Ewan had favourite taverns when they were in London—not too respectable, and preferably away from the other army lads. The Highland Wolves were a new unit with no battles to boast of, and hot-headed Alick started many a fight they all had to finish. Their position grated on them, but it was an order from the War Office. Until they were unleashed and allowed to run alongside the other soldiers, they had to keep their mouths shut. No one would know they took assignments behind enemy lines, running acts of sabotage and working as spies—missions so dangerous it was suicide to send ordinary men, and even the wolves suffered the rare lost man.
Hamish found his men at the third tavern he entered. They were laughing in a quiet corner. He didn’t sit when he approached them. He needed action, and his body was restless. “Saddle up, lads, we are on a hunt.”
They exchanged glances and, being pragmatic, downed their ales rather than abandon full tankards. Alick belched as they rose and headed out into the sunny day.
“Where to?” his cousin asked.
“East End. We are searching for someone who is much closer to the ground and may have knowledge of the rats we seek.” They rode through the back lanes until they came to the inn suggested by Lord Bathurst. Hamish wondered how the man even knew the place existed. It certainly wouldn’t have been on his social circuit.
They left their horses with a couple of lads. Alick growled at them and promised disembowelment if anything happened to either the valuable horses or tack. They might be on the seedier side of London, but it still took a lot to find a sight more frightening than an angry Alick, especially when he let his wolf canines drop in his mouth and his nose grew to a muzzle. To add to that, the scar down his face pulled white, and it really did seem as though his head had been split in two and roughly sewn back together.
The sun baulked at the entrance to this particular tavern, and within was dark and gloomy as a winter’s afternoon. Candles were few and far between, which probably worked to the benefit of the women plying their trade, given their age. Hushed conversations were carried out in darkened corners, and Hamish suspected the customs men lost a lot of money from the business done in here.
He approached one man slumped over the bar. “I’m looking for Handy Seymour. Have you seen him?”
The drunk shook his head. Hamish gestured to his men, who spread out and started asking the same question. The whisper flew from man to man and flushed out their prey. A shape detached from a shadowed corner and slid toward the exit. Alick reached out a large hand and grabbed him by the back of the jacket, hauled him to a corner booth, and plonked him down on the hard wooden seat. Then he sat next to him and grinned.
“We just want a quiet word, man, no need to panic.” Alick brushed dirt off the man’s jacket and then wiped his own hand on his trouser leg, as though he’d touched something foul.
&
nbsp; Hamish took the opposite bench while Ewan and Quinn stood guard. From the terrified look on the man’s face, he probably thought they were there to collect a large debt, one sliver of flesh at a time.
“Relax, we’re not here for you,” Hamish said, trying to reassure the man. “I just need your assistance in a personal matter.”
He settled a little, but still shied away from Alick, in case he bit. “That right? My help costs, you know.”
“I didn’t expect you to assist us for no return.” Hamish reached into his pocket and pulled out a coin. He slid it across the table, the glint of gold visible under his fingertip even in the low light.
The informant crossed his arms, looking more comfortable. The gleam of greed crept into his gaze. “Always happy to help a fellow human being. If I can.”
“I’m looking for someone, or possibly more than one man. They do not work for England, but are here looking for something their master has lost.” He hoped the man was as knowledgeable as the war secretary suspected. At the moment he was looking rather blank.
“You’ll have to be a bit more specific than that. I hear about lots of people who have lost things.” He sniffed and wiped his nose on the sleeve of his jacket, leaving behind a silver trail.
Hamish had enough of tippy-toeing around the truth; perhaps a direct approach would work. At this point he certainly had nothing to lose. Every second they were delayed was another second of danger for Aster and Sir John. “The men I seek killed two soldiers at the Royal Arsenal and kidnapped a clerk who worked there. That specific enough to jog your memory?”
The man’s eyes widened for an instant. Then he leaned forward and slid the coin away from under Hamish’s finger. “I’ve heard of them. Serious buggers they are, can’t take a joke and they’re useless at cards. Unless they’re cheating and using charms to fill their hands with aces.”
Hamish’s pulse jumped and he stopped himself from lunging across the table. Here was the solid lead they needed. “Any idea where I might find them?”
Secrets to Reveal Page 17
