The clip-clop of horse’s hooves sounded in the distance. Alec’s hand went to the pistol he had tucked in his pocket. Highwaymen preferred the cloak of night for their nefarious deeds, but it never hurt to keep up one’s guard. A rider appeared on the horizon, a dark silhouette against the light, but Alec recognized him and sent Chance galloping in his direction.
“Fiend seize it, Sutcliffe. This is an ungodly hour for a meeting, don’t you think?” the man complained when they pulled up their reins next to each other. His big bay skittered a bit, but he controlled his horse expertly.
“Town life has made you soft,” Alec remarked.
The man snorted. “Age has made me soft.”
Alec smiled at Lieutenant-Colonel Lucius d’Ambray. He was a tall, lean man with dark hair liberally streaked with silver, a weather-beaten face from hours spent outdoors, and cynical hazel eyes, all of which made him appear older than his forty-three years. Alec had been introduced to the military man during his two years of intelligence gathering, when d’Ambray’s role was to ferry correspondence from the agents in the field back to Whitehall. Sir Giles had been d’Ambray’s superior during the war. Today, the older man worked for the Home Office.
“This is about Sir Giles’s murder, isn’t it?” d’Ambray said, fixing Alec with a steady stare.
“Yes.”
Something that might have been regret passed over the older man’s stern features. “’Tis a damn shame. England lost a good man. I know Bow Street is investigating.” He hesitated, and the corners of his eyes crinkled as he gazed at Alec. “I heard that your uncle and his ward are assisting Mr. Kelly. May I assume you are involved in the matter as well?”
“You may.”
The lieutenant-colonel raised an eyebrow, a gesture of amusement rather than surprise. “’Tis not the usual thing for the Beau Monde to become involved in something so base as criminal matters.”
“No.”
The older man smiled a little at Alec’s monosyllabic response. “It appears as though His Grace is making a habit of it, though. I am aware that he involved himself last year with Lady Dover’s murder. But given that suspicion had fallen on you, his interest was understandable.” His saddle creaked as he leaned forward, his gaze locked on Alec. “I hope you realize that I would have testified to your character if the House of Lords had charged you.”
Alec inclined his head. “Thankfully, the matter never rose to that level.”
“I was in Switzerland at the time, and only learned about the incident when I returned to London. I heard the Duke’s ward was also intimately involved in the investigation. Miss Donovan—she’s an American, is she not?”
Alec’s stomach tightened, and he knew a moment of concern. The last thing they needed was for Kendra to come under scrutiny by the Home Office. The fact that there was no trace of the American before last August would raise too many questions for which they had no answers. And, God help them, if the government ever found out the truth—if they ever believed the truth, that Kendra was from the future . . . Damnation, he didn’t even dare contemplate such a thing. A woman who held secrets of the future in her head would be a valuable asset for any country.
The lieutenant-colonel was watching him. “She is,” Alec said, “but someday I hope to make her my wife.”
The lieutenant-colonel had been in service too long to show much emotion, but Alec sensed his surprise. “Ah, is that the way the wind blows then? Congratulations.”
If I can get the bloody woman to agree, he thought. Out loud, he said, “Thank you. However, I’m not here to discuss Miss Donovan.”
“No, you are here to talk about Sir Giles’s murder. Lord Sidmouth is naturally interested, as well,” he said, referring to the Home Secretary.
Alec had expected nothing less. “What is the measure of Lord Sidmouth’s interest? We have heard nothing from the Home Office.”
The other man smiled slightly. “You have no reason to fear that his lordship will take over the investigation, if that’s what you are inquiring. Your Bow Street man has an excellent reputation. For the moment, Lord Sidmouth is satisfied with the chain of command. Sir Nathaniel is keeping him apprised of what is happening.”
Alec seized on the one phrase that concerned him. “For the moment?”
“One never knows when it comes to politicians,” d’Ambray said. “I think Sidmouth fears there may be a Catholic component to the crime. Given the volatile state of affairs in Ireland, he most likely feels more comfortable keeping an eye on the investigation from afar.” He straightened in his saddle, lifting his reins. “I know a hostelry in the area. Have pity on my old bones, my lord, and let us have the rest of this conversation in comfort.”
“Do you know who murdered Sir Giles?” Alec asked bluntly, once they were settled into worn leather wingback chairs before the fire crackling in the taproom of the Stag Head hostelry, drinking coffee.
“If we did, don’t you think the man would be in Newgate?”
“Not necessarily. It would depend on who the man was, and if the Home Office had use for him.”
D’Ambray smiled briefly. “There is always the greater good when one is dealing with politics and the security of one’s country. But I am being sincere, my lord. We do not know who killed Sir Giles.”
“What about suspects?”
“There are always suspects, especially for a man in Sir Giles’s position. As I mentioned earlier, there is worry that Irish radicals may be behind the murder. There are some whispers about the Scots, as well, although those are not as forcible or loud. Both countries have a predilection for violence.”
Alec was of the mind that their predilection for violence was the same as in any other country, including England, but he remained silent.
D’Ambray frowned, his gaze searching Alec’s face. “I am aware of the invisible ink on the body, my lord. A spy trick.”
“Garroting is also considered a spy technique.”
“Yes.”
The other man took a long sip of coffee, and Alec sensed that the action was meant to give him time to consider something. The lieutenant-colonel let out a sigh as he lowered the mug. “There are no official suspects, you understand, but one person came to my mind when I heard of Sir Giles’s murder—Mr. Silas Fitzpatrick.”
“I don’t believe I am acquainted with Mr. Fitzpatrick,” Alec said. “Who is he?”
“No, you wouldn’t be. He doesn’t exactly travel in your circles, my lord. He’s an Irish immigrant who opened a coffeehouse—the Liber—in Mayfair about two years ago.” He paused. “You must be aware of how coffeehouses and taverns are often used as rendezvous points for radicals and spies.”
“Sir Giles thought the Liber was such a place?”
“Yes. Mr. Fitzpatrick has been vocal on his support of Irish emancipation.”
“So are most respectable Whigs,” Alec said with a shrug. “There is no shortage of men and women voicing such sentiment. What is it about Mr. Fitzpatrick that makes you think he killed Sir Giles?”
“Sir Giles confided in me that he thought Mr. Fitzpatrick and his men were following him.”
Alec arched a brow. “Following him? For what purpose?”
“Possibly because Sir Giles had the Liber under surveillance as well.”
“So they were spying on each other?”
D’Ambray smiled slightly. “’Tis the way the intelligence community works. Although I always got the impression there was something more that Sir Giles was not telling me.”
“Like what?”
“Perhaps I’m being fanciful. But if Mr. Fitzpatrick is the Irish spy that Sir Giles suspected him of being, there may be a reason for the invisible ink.”
“Are you aware that the symbols drawn on Sir Giles appear to be crucifixes?”
“Yes, I had heard. I thought perhaps a taunt? The madman left Sir Giles’s body in what had been a Catholic church.”
“Did Mr. Fitzpatrick ever threaten Sir Giles?”
“Not t
o my knowledge.” D’Ambray picked up his mug again and frowned. “There are also aspects to this murder that are . . . troubling. Cutting out his tongue. From my understanding, it wasn’t done for torture, which would be more typical. I can’t imagine why Mr. Fitzpatrick would do such a thing—spy or no.”
Alec thought about what Kendra had said. “Someone who wants to send a message?”
“But what message, and to whom?”
Alec could only shake his head. He switched subjects. “What about Sir Giles himself? Did you notice anything peculiar in his mood or behavior?”
D’Ambray’s gaze dropped to his coffee mug. Alec watched something ripple across the older man’s face, too subtle for him to discern. Finally, the lieutenant-colonel sighed. “I no longer worked directly for Sir Giles, and my current duties take me away from the country for long spells. However, we did meet on occasion, at his club or elsewhere.”
He fell silent. Alec waited.
D’Ambray continued, “About a month ago, I noticed that he appeared unnerved about something.”
“Unnerved? How so?”
He looked up at Alec. “Perhaps that is not the right word, and I really don’t know how to explain it. Sir Giles was normally the most unflappable of men.”
“I remember.”
“I had a meeting with Sidmouth, and literally ran into Sir Giles. I apologized profusely, but he . . . he simply stood there for a moment, as though his wits had fled. Not usual at all for a man like Sir Giles. He was obviously distracted, but there was something more. He seemed deeply troubled. Naturally, I asked him if all was well.”
“And how did he respond?”
“At first, he brushed off my inquiry, but then he confessed that he’d recently received information that had disturbed him.” D’Ambray shook his head. “I asked, of course, but he said that he wanted to keep his own counsel. At the time, I confess that I put his distraction down to his work in the Home Office and his responsibilities there.”
Alec paused before trying, “Did Sir Giles speak of his son?”
D’Ambray’s grimace was enough to give Alec his answer.
“Not often,” D’Ambray elaborated, “but when he did, I must confess that I was grateful that I’ve avoided the parson’s mousetrap. I got the impression that Lady Holbrooke doted on the boy. Sir Giles blamed himself for not taking him in hand when he was younger, and failed to recognize that he’d turned into a scapegrace until too late. It’s ridiculous, of course. Sir Giles had enormous responsibilities. The very existence of England was at stake. He could hardly leave Whitehall to coddle a child!”
“And not really a child. Gerard Holbrooke is, what? Five and twenty?” Alec lifted his mug, regarding the lieutenant-colonel over the rim. “Did you know that they had engaged in a public fight at Tattersalls?”
“Good God, no. When?”
“Two weeks ago. Apparently, Mr. Holbrooke was foxed enough to strike out at his father.”
“The fool.” D’Ambray shook his head, appalled. “That would have been humiliating for a stoic man like Sir Giles. In all the years that we were acquainted, I only saw him openly distraught once, and that was when he lost one of his intelligence agents in Spain.”
“’Tis the price of war,” murmured Alec. He’d been aware of that steep price when he’d worked for Sir Giles in Italy. As he lifted his coffee mug, he saw something change on the other man’s face. “What?”
D’Ambray pursed his lips. “Nothing, truly. It’s just that Sir Giles mentioned the young man’s name recently—Evert Larson.” He hesitated. “I’m not certain. It may be a coincidence, or perhaps I am conflating the two issues, but as I reflect back on my encounters with Sir Giles in the last month, it seems like Evert might have something to do with his recent state of mind.”
Alec frowned. “How so?”
“I think he must have said something . . .” His eyes grew distant, as though he were trying to recapture the memory. But then he shook his head, sighing. “Forgive me. I cannot recall the specifics. Though I believe it’s near the anniversary of Evert Larson’s death, so that may account for Sir Giles’s troubled mood. The loss of the young man weighed heavily on him.”
“It would be difficult to lose someone you recruited,” said Alec. “No doubt Sir Giles felt a sense of responsibility.”
“Yes, but there was more. Evert Larson wasn’t only a man he recruited; he was the son of an old friend. Unfortunately, their friendship did not survive the young man’s death.”
Alec took a slow sip of coffee. “Who is his father?”
“Mr. Bertel Larson. He owns an apothecary shop on Cromwell Road in Kensington.”
That surprised Alec. “An apothecary? Pray tell, how did Sir Giles form a connection with such a man?”
The lieutenant-colonel smiled. “Perhaps I should have said that Mr. Larson is a very successful apothecary? But that is not how the two men were connected. Sir Giles once told me that they’d been boys together in Hammersmith, and fought in the same regiment against the colonist uprising in America.”
“A very old friendship, indeed.”
“They maintained their connection, even though Sir Giles’s military career outmatched Mr. Larson’s, and His Majesty granted Sir Giles a baronet title.” He blew out a breath. “The man really was a brilliant strategist. Such a terrible loss.”
Silently, Alec agreed. He’d had only a handful of encounters with the man himself, but he’d admired Sir Giles’s keen intelligence. “How did Mr. Larson’s son die?”
“I heard that he was attempting to save captured English soldiers from the Fifty-Second Regiment of Foot. If you wish to know more, you ought to speak to Lord Eliot Cross or Captain Hugh Mobray.”
“They know the details?”
“They should. They were the only two survivors.”
Alec frowned. “How many men died?”
“Ten or twelve. I’m not certain.”
“When did this happen?” asked Alec.
“Unfortunately, in the final days of the Peninsular campaign, near the Maya Pass. Early 1814.”
An apple-cheeked maid approached with a coffee pot. Alec waited while she replenished their mugs. After she departed, he remarked, “You said that Mr. Larson blamed Sir Giles for his son’s death. But surely he understood that was a possible outcome when his son signed on?”
“It is my understanding that Mr. Larson blamed Sir Giles for persuading his son to sign on in the first place. As you know, I was assigned Italy as my territory during the war, not Spain, but I met Evert in his early days. I understand why Sir Giles brought him on. He was an impressive young man. He had been training as a barrister, and his intelligence was quite formidable. He also had a talent for languages.” He smiled at Alec. “Much like you, my lord. Anyhow, Sir Giles and Evert were quite close, almost like father and son. I think Sir Giles was quite proud of him.”
Unlike his own son, Alec thought, but remained silent.
D’Ambray went on, “I was under the impression that Sir Giles had been keeping his eye on the boy for quite some time.”
Alec lifted an eyebrow. “Keeping his eye on him . . . in order to persuade Evert to serve England by becoming an intelligence agent?”
“Or work in government. Sir Giles never confided in me his plans for the boy. Then Evert was dead, and the families became estranged. I heard a rumor that Mr. Larson even had challenged Sir Giles to a duel.”
“Christ.” Dueling was not unheard of, but it was discouraged by Polite Society. Maybe because it was so often done by the hot-headed youths of Polite Society. “What happened?”
“To the best of my knowledge, nothing,” D’Ambray replied. “Dueling is about honor, not vengeance. I cannot fault Mr. Larson for his rage at losing his son.”
“No,” Alec conceded slowly. But rage could be twisted into revenge. Alec made a mental note to follow up with Mr. Larson. He returned to Sir Giles’s son. “Do you think Mr. Holbrooke could have killed his father?”
“In such a manner?” The lieutenant-colonel frowned, then shook his head. “No, I should think not.”
Alec said nothing, but wondered if that was true, or if, like Mr. Muldoon, the lieutenant-colonel simply could not fathom a son slicing out his father’s tongue. “You have given me a great deal to consider, sir,” he said, and drained his coffee mug. He set it down and stood. “Thank you for meeting me.”
The older man rose as well. “I pray you find this madman. He’s obviously a dangerous individual. Sir Giles is—was—not a man to be taken by surprise. So for that to have happened . . .” D’Ambray shook his head, and his eyes were grim as he met Alec’s gaze. “I wish I had pressed Sir Giles over what was troubling him. Maybe if he would have shared his concern, things might have been different.”
“Even if he had confided his troubles, I don’t think that would have stopped the killer.”
The lieutenant-colonel sighed. “I suppose we’ll never know.”
15
Kendra never had to sneak past her parents’ bedroom after breaking curfew. For the first fourteen years of her life, she’d never had any friends to break curfew with. The irony was not lost on her that now, at the age of twenty-six, her stomach was knotted in anxiety as she slipped into the mansion through the servants’ entrance. The household was fully awake, and Kendra held her breath when she spotted Mrs. Danbury through the doors that opened to the kitchens. Thankfully, the housekeeper’s attention was fixed on the Duke’s temperamental French chef, Monsieur Anton, who was complaining loudly in his native tongue and gesturing wildly toward the two footmen who stood stiffly nearby.
For some reason that Kendra had never understood, Monsieur Anton was paranoid that the English footmen were out to sabotage his culinary masterpieces. From the furious diatribe she overheard, the chef was accusing the two footmen of putting sugar in the salt cellar.
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