Secrets to Reveal

by Tilly Wallace

  What had once been Sir John.

  When he was certain no one else lingered in the warehouse, Hamish shook himself free of his wolf form and rose, naked. Alick patrolled the perimeter, the large wolf sending the rats running for cover as he sought any further signs.

  Hamish examined the corner, which held an odd assortment of broken furniture. A three-legged table had a crate propping up one corner, and the chair had four mismatched legs. Sir John seemed equally broken. His upper body was lashed to the chair back, and in death the rope held him upright. Each forearm was tied to the corresponding thigh. His left trouser leg was still neatly rolled and pinned at the knee where the lower limb was missing, and his clothing was stiff with old blood. Multiple cuts showed that whoever abducted him had taken his time with Sir John. Perhaps Harry’d had little information to share, and so his killer vented his frustration on the cryptographer.

  Hamish stared at the ruined body, once a man he’d called friend. How long had it taken for the stabs and slashes to drain his blood? He peered at Sir John’s neck, which was free of any obvious puncture marks. He wondered if the vampyre had lapped at every wound to the man’s body, as there was little blood staining the floor under the chair. Hamish didn’t need to look closely at the bloody mouth to see the final insult to the quiet clerk. His tongue sat alone in the middle of the table.

  “We failed our mission.” He ground his jaw. The man’s death was on his head now. Complacency was as much their enemy as the French. He vowed there and then to not only avenge Sir John, but to exact justice on each and every man who was a party to the plot.

  Alick returned and shook like a wet dog, his fur disappearing to be replaced by pink skin. Then the large naked Highlander stood and rested a hand on Hamish’s shoulder. “To be fair, who would have thought a lowly clerk would be snatched from the Royal Arsenal? The place is crawling with soldiers, and I was across the road. This took some giant-sized bollocks.”

  “Or are they that desperate to have their list returned?” Ewan said. He threw each of the naked men their clothes from the satchel at his side. Hamish pulled his shirt over his head while Alick scowled at his as though unsure what to do with the item.

  Ewan rolled his eyes. “Do cover yourself, Alick, and show some respect for the deceased.”

  “Do you think he told them what they wanted to know?” Quinn asked.

  Hamish couldn’t answer. Dead men have no stories to share. “They could have removed his tongue because he talked, or because he didn’t. We have no way of knowing.”

  “Or perhaps they wanted him silenced in the afterlife so we wouldn’t know their next move.” Ewan crossed his arms and stared at the corpse with a curious detachment. Very little shocked him, and death never bothered him, no matter what form it took.

  “What about a seer who could talk to his shade? Then we would know what happened here, or would that not work without his tongue?” Quinn said.

  “Aside from the question of whether a tongueless shade can speak, it also only works if he lingers in this realm. Even then, shades are notoriously cryptic and difficult to understand.” It was a possibility worth pursuing and he would suggest it to the war secretary, but new shades were often confused by their state and had little to say until they settled, time they didn’t have.

  Hamish idly rubbed a hand over his chest. The dull ache didn’t budge, and he suspected it wouldn’t until he saw Aster before him. “We need to find Aster. I don’t believe she is party to this, but I do think she ran. Perhaps on some instruction from Sir John.”

  “Where would a secretary with no family go?” Ewan asked.

  Where indeed? She had no family to bolt to, and he doubted she would run with no direction in mind. His star was a smart woman; there would be some place that she considered safe. A seeking spell would do no good, given her presence was cloaked to begin with. Before he contemplated seeking mage assistance, Hamish needed to deal with the matter before them. “Quinn, go find a runner. We can at least ensure Sir John has a decent burial.”

  The younger man trotted away. Hamish went through the dead man’s pockets, while Alick and Ewan did a thorough search of the surrounding area, looking for anything those responsible might have left behind.

  The only item Hamish found was in Sir John’s waistcoat pocket. An old watch, battered and dented, the silver burnished with age. It was certainly not an expensive piece, nor worth the effort of stealing. One spot near the top was worn more than anywhere else. Probably just where he opens the back. Hamish’s thumb flicked over the metal, and the back sprang open to reveal the gentle sway of the mechanism at work. But something else caught his eye. There was a double layer, normally hidden, but age and wear had perhaps made the hinge too loose, and it dangled a fraction of an inch away from the back. Hamish caught the edge with his thumbnail and flicked it down.

  The hidden layer revealed the portrait of a familiar young woman. With her dark hair in a bun, a smile was forever caught on her lush, dark red lips and her serious blue eyes stared directly at the painter.

  Alick crowded over his shoulder. “Why does Sir John carry a pocket watch with a hidden portrait of Aster?”

  A curious question, made even more so when you took into account the age of the watch. This was no recent commission, for it looked years old. Was this the reason he’d hired Aster? She was his paramour? Jealously flared in his gut and his wolf growled at the idea. Impossible—not given the way she reacted to him. He would know if her affection lay elsewhere. Besides, there was the age difference between Sir John and Aster, which must be at least twenty years. There was a faint inscription on the other side of the tiny painting, etched in the metal. He moved under the hole in the roof and held the watch up to the light.

  “John, my heart will always be yours, Lilly. September 1789,” he read aloud. “It’s not Aster.” Now Hamish wondered who Lilly was to Sir John.

  Alick squinted again. “But it looks exactly like her. Who could this woman be?”

  Given the year, there was one explanation that sprang to Hamish’s mind. One reason why a man would carry a cheap, old watch next to his heart for over twenty years. “I think it’s her mother.”

  Alick frowned. “So why was Sir John carrying a portrait of Aster’s mother?”

  “I would say the clue is in the inscription,” Ewan said. “If this Lilly woman is Aster’s mother, then she had a relationship with Sir John some twenty-three years ago.”

  Alick grunted. Hamish stayed silent for several minutes, staring at the pocket watch in his hand. He held the reason why Sir John hired Aster and had then gone to such lengths to protect her.

  A father protecting his daughter.

  Hamish kept his own counsel long enough to ruffle even Ewan’s calm reserve.

  “Where to now?” his lieutenant asked in a soft voice.

  He made up his mind. With a snap, he closed the watch and slipped it into the inside pocket of his jacket. “I have a theory. Sir John will have a solicitor. We need to discover his name.”

  “Back to Woolwich then.” Alick sighed.

  Quinn would stay with Sir John and wait for the runners, to answer questions and tell the magistrate all he knew. The others fetched their horses, Hamish and Alick pulled stockings and boots over their feet. Then they rode the now-familiar road back to Woolwich.

  Sir John’s house was modest, as Hamish expected of a man who was probably married to his job and ventured home only to lay down his head at night. Two servants took care of everything, and looked bemused when he asked to be shown to Sir John’s office.

  “We haven’t seen him for going on three days now. When will he be home, then?” the housekeeper asked.

  “He will not. His life has been cut short,” Hamish said, and left the woman sobbing in the hallway.

  Sir John’s home office exhibited the same perfect order and symmetry as the Records Office. It didn’t take long to find the relevant papers; they were neatly filed and labelled.

  “Let me
guess,” Ewan said with a small trace of humour. “We must journey back to London?”

  Hamish experienced a measure of relief. This journey would be far shorter. “You and our horses are spared. His lawyer is based in Woolwich.”

  “This is most unorthodox,” the solicitor said. His brows drew together, and deep furrows ploughed through his forehead. He had the look of a man who bore far too many burdens, which were slowly collapsing in on him.

  “I appreciate your discretion, but this is a military investigation. Sir John has been murdered, and I believe there may be a clue held within the distribution of his estate.” Hamish crossed his arms and tried to rein in his eagerness. He would give the man five minutes before he would shed his skin, take his throat in his jaws and squeeze until he co-operated.

  The solution to one aspect of their puzzle was so close his skin pricked and itched as though he were suspended in the moment of change. His hand kept straying to rub over his chest. The ache was sinking deeper, as was the realisation of how much he cared for Aster.

  “Very well, but I will trust to your silence about this breach of protocol.” The solicitor frowned from one man to the next, as if waiting for them to swear a sacred vow.

  “Of course,” Hamish murmured. “Not a word will leave this office.”

  Somewhat placated, the solicitor rifled through a drawer before making a satisfied humming noise. He pulled out a bundle of papers with a red ribbon tied around the middle.

  “Here we are,” he said as he took his seat and untied the ribbon. With both hands he flattened out the pages. “The last will and testament of Sir John George Simmons Warrington—”

  “Wait!” Hamish’s brain leapt as the lawyer recited the name.

  The solicitor stared over the top of his pince-nez. “I can start again. This is the last will and testament—”

  “No, I heard that bit. His name. What is his full name?” He leaned his knuckles on the desk and tried to read the folded paper upside-down.

  The frown returned to the solicitor’s face. “Sir John George Simmons Warrington.”

  Alick let out a whistle and chuckled. “Another one of those coincidences.”

  “They do seem to be piling up rather high, don’t they?” Ewan murmured.

  Pieces were falling into place. At last Hamish had the proof he needed of Aster’s innocence. She was simply the subject of a rather extraordinary series of circumstances. Although that still left the pressing question of how she had known to run and where had she gone to ground? “Please continue.”

  The man scanned the pages before him for several long seconds, muttering to himself under his breath, before he looked up. “Sir John has little to bequeath. As a second son, he did not inherit anything of substance from his father and thus had little to distribute.”

  The men assembled in the office all knew the truth of that. Each of them was a second son, and had to carve his own place in the world and earn his own living. At best they received only a token annuity from their fathers or, for the fortunate like Hamish and Ewan, a purchased commission.

  The solicitor tapped a section of the will. “His house in Kent is leased, and now that he is deceased, it will revert to the owner. He does own a small cottage, though. Not worth much, I’m afraid.”

  Aster would flee somewhere she felt safe. She needed a secure bolthole, perhaps a remote cottage she had heard Sir John speak of. Could she be there even now? “Where?” Hamish asked.

  Another pause and double-check of the papers in his hands. “Lowestoft.”

  “And the beneficiary?” He asked the question even though he already knew the answer. He just wanted to hear it aloud and have it verified.

  He solicitor took off his glasses and laid them down. “One Aster Rose Simmons.”

  Hamish turned to his men, unable to hide the smirk on his face. He was right. Lowestoft was two days from London, or a single day if a man didn’t mind riding in the dark and had horses along the way. It was far enough for the lass to run and escape any pursuers. He had found her bolthole.

  “I take it we’re off to Lowestoft then?” Alick said.

  “I go alone. You lot have another task to undertake while I am away.” He would make it to Lowestoft by midday tomorrow, even if he had to kill several horses to do it.

  20

  Aster

  * * *

  Aster stood on the edge of the cliff and looked out at sea. The tide was well in, and the waves crashed and foamed below her feet. Even the two wights had gone, chased away by the swell of the ocean. She let out a deep sigh and drew in the tangy salt air. Relief coursed through her limbs, and some of the stress from the last few days eased. The list had revealed its contents, which included a duke who stood close to the monarchy, but Hamish’s name was not among those who would betray their country.

  She took a moment to soak in the knowledge that he had remained loyal. Hope crept into her heart, spilled light into the dark corners, and eased her burden. Her heart warmed to think that his interest in her was genuine and now she would find out.

  With one task accomplished, she needed a course of action. It was time to return to London, discover what had happened to Sir John, and place the list in the appropriate hands. There was only one man she would trust. Only one man who might have some inkling of the list’s significance. She needed to find Hamish and place her life in his hands. If not, she would soon be dead anyway.

  If the list was this vital to the war effort, then her pursuers would never stop looking for it, or her. By escaping through the soldiers’ mess, she’d shown her hand. She knew what they were, and she had seen their faces. What features she’d discerned were imprinted in her mind, and she would recognise them if they crossed paths again.

  Even more damning, she had cracked their code, and in doing so had signed her death warrant. Events weighed on her soul. Now she found herself caught up in something more dangerous than she had ever imagined. If she stayed hidden, would the building storm pass over her head? If only she could stay at the cottage. Long ago, Sir John had a mage place a minor ensorcellment on the cottage, so the occupant could not be sought out by a seer. But how long would that endure if an opposing force tried to break the charm?

  Aster always imagined herself as a grain of sand on the beach of life; she’d thought to labour and die without coming to anyone’s notice. Then she had attracted the attention of a wolf, and dared to dream.

  A bark attracted her attention. Oddly, it sounded just like Dougal. There must be a stray dog down on the rocks. She turned, seeking the source of the noise, and spotted a small black shape hurtling along the edge of the cliff. Silky ears flapped in the wind with each leaping bound.

  “Dougal?” Preposterous. How could it possibly be her loyal companion?

  The terrier tried to bark and run at once, then gave up and flew at Aster instead. He closed the distance between them and leapt into her arms, licking her face and emitting excited yaps. She laughed even as she tried to comprehend how the dog had trekked all the way to Lowestoft.

  “How did you get here, boy?” She ruffled his fur. He must have run away from Mrs Roberts and headed in the direction of the one other place they knew.

  A regular thud echoed through the ground, and beat a dread tattoo through her body. Had they found her already? A figure bent low over a grey neck and elegant equine legs ate up the ground as the horse thundered closer. The man’s dark coat streamed out behind him as he chased the dog.

  Her heart pounded in her chest, and she curled her fingers into Dougal’s coat. Then the sun hit the figure and lit auburn streaks of fire about his head. A sob of relief broke free from her throat. Hamish.

  The horse’s legs had barely halted when he leapt from the horse. Aster found herself swept up in his embrace, and Dougal tumbled to the ground. Hamish pressed his lips against her ear.

  “You’re safe. Thank God, you are safe.” With his fingers tangled in her hair, he drew her head back and claimed her lips. He kissed her ur
gently, as though he sought reassurance through touch and taste and couldn’t rely on what his eyes told him.

  Aster met his hunger, digging her fingers into his shoulders as she pressed her body to his larger one. He turned to protect her from the light breeze, shielding her with his torso from the wind rising off the ocean. Sobs of relief welled up in her chest. She couldn’t believe he was holding her in his arms, and still he kissed her. Heat spread through her torso, and her sobs turned to quiet moans of need.

  He nipped her bottom lip and pulled back to rest his forehead against hers.

  “He was your father,” he whispered. Not a question, but a simple statement.

  She nodded as a single tear rolled down her face. “Yes.”

  He brushed the tear away with the pad of his thumb. “Such beautiful, mesmerising eyes. On Sir John they were unusual, but on you they are ethereal. As though I gaze at a midnight sky. Your mother named you well, calling you Aster, the star. No wonder you wore the tinted glasses to hide the similarity to him.”

  She had no need for the tinted glasses out here and they sat on a shelf in the cottage. Then Hamish rained kisses on her face, until Dougal made it clear he had been neglected for far too long. The dog jumped up at their legs, barking for attention, until Aster absently reached for his ears as he stood with paws resting on her leg.

  “Why are you here and how on earth did you find me? Has the cloaking charm been broken?” she asked as questions filled her mind. As much as she wanted to believe the button had conjured him, there was no trace of mage blood in her.

  “Your location is still hidden, but I have a confession. I had an ulterior purpose for being at the Royal Arsenal. My men and I were given a confidential mission to protect Sir John while he worked on something vital, and to be alert for a French plot.” His thumb stroked her face in constant light circles.