A Tip of the Cap (London League, Book 3)

by Rebecca Connolly

“You see that?” Rook said to the others, sounding mildly impressed. “Skillful misdirect.”

  “It serves him well,” Rogue grunted. “Makes him a genius with interrogation.”

  “I’d like to see him interrogate,” Rook commented, folding his arms nonchalantly. “I’ve heard tales.”

  “The real thing is much better than the stories,” Gent said, leaning against the doorframe, not taking his dark eyes off Malcolm.

  Malcolm snorted and pretended to shuffle papers. “I hate you all.”

  “That seems rather harsh,” Gent remarked blandly to the others.

  “Indeed,” Rogue agreed. “Hardly polite.”

  “I’d wager he thinks those words often,” Rook mused thoughtfully.

  Gent hummed a little. “Yes, but to say them out loud?”

  “I say them all the time.” Rogue shrugged. “But then, I’m not Cap.”

  “There really are very important things you all could be doing,” Malcolm informed them without looking up.

  “At what stage do you think it would be important to point out to our fearless leader that he should be at home with his new wife?” Rook asked his colleagues. “Though no doubt with his skillful misdirection, he probably won’t answer straightly anyway.”

  The mention of Beth made Malcolm stiffen slightly, and he focused with more determination on his reports.

  “No, he would not,” Rogue sighed, which was something Rogue never did unless he was taunting. “But he really should consider his new wife.”

  “He really should,” Rook agreed mildly. “She is quite a beautiful woman.”

  “Mmm. Remarkably attractive.”

  Malcolm wondered what the Shopkeepers would think of him killing his own operatives. Surely his reasons would have been sound enough, and they were always encouraging him to consider younger candidates for positions.

  “I told him,” Gent said suddenly, throwing his hat into this ridiculous ring, “that if I were not already married and madly in love with my wife, I would have liked the new Lady Montgomery for myself.”

  “I am not married,” Rook pointed out rather unnecessarily. “And I would have happily pursued her, and she would be Mrs. Pratt by now, and I would not be here if she were, loyalty to the Crown or not.”

  Malcolm gripped his pen tightly and paused a fraction of a second as he made notes. Other than that, he made absolutely no response to their banter. An incredulous scoffing sound met his ears, and he fought against the curiosity to look up at Rook.

  “Did you see that, Rogue? He didn’t even blink. He should be coming at me in a rage for saying anything of the sort about his wife, and he is simply sitting there.”

  “If you’d said anything like that about my wife,” Gent told him in his usual offhand manner, “I would have my hands around your throat.”

  “I’d just gut you,” Rogue grunted, which was Rogue’s usual way, as well.

  Rook hummed a little. “And you would be well within your rights there. I would expect no less. But this…?”

  There was silence again, and this time Malcolm could not ignore the urge to look up.

  Now his colleagues were not horrorstruck, they were speculative.

  He could not do this. He would not discuss Beth or his marriage, he would not crack open what remained of his heart to let them see the chaos within, nor would he let them have a hint of that which absorbed his mind constantly these days.

  He couldn’t talk about Beth. He couldn’t even pretend he could talk about Beth, because she was always swirling about in his thoughts. Where she was, what she was doing, how she was getting on at Knightsgate and with the children.

  If she missed him…

  He couldn’t guarantee what would come out of his mouth if he spoke of her. He didn’t know what he felt about her. He didn’t know what to do about her. He didn’t know anything at all. He was afraid to consider anything.

  It was the only reason he could be composed during banter about his wife, something that really should have angered him, and might have done on a different day or in a month or in ten years. But right now, he couldn’t even comprehend that Beth was his wife. She was simply the woman he had married. And in his heart, he still felt bound to Caroline, so most of the time, he couldn’t even admit that he was married to Beth.

  But he couldn’t tell them that.

  “Report in or go away,” he barked at the others with a severe look. “Now.”

  One by one they gave him their reports, which were as he expected. Rogue was having someone tail him to make sure he wasn’t being tailed. This added a measure of additional security, which was wise, considering the fear that he might be compromised. Things were only getting worse there, what with Mr. Herschel appearing to be everywhere Rogue was. Then finding ties between his personal assets and those of a known French sympathizer complicated things even more. Rogue was getting edgy, and Malcolm couldn’t blame him, given what had happened to Trace.

  Malcolm himself wasn’t particularly comfortable with it.

  They’d investigated all avenues related to Trace, every one they could possibly think of, and Malcolm was still personally investigating most of them again. He refused to accept that one of their operatives could have missed something significant enough to lead to his death, that they as a group could have been so ignorant where they ought to have been flawless. He’d never lost the weight of that guilt, and even Caroline, before she died, had not been able to talk him out of it or remove the burden.

  They would need to keep a close watch on this before things got out of hand.

  The smugglers he’d spent so much time with, on the other hand, were behaving just as they usually did; giving no information and acting as slippery as usual. Naturally, they denied all wrongdoing while hiding from anything resembling legitimacy. But the guns were still moving, and it was not clear where they were going, which was what Malcolm was looking into.

  Gent’s traitors were starting to act out again; more meetings in diverse places, and they were back to tracking finances, which made Gent irritable. But since no one was scheming to take his beloved wife for her money, he was manageable. There was no clear leader, but Gent was working on it, as well as looking into a way to get a clearer insight into their plans, which was proving complicated.

  Rook flitted around London collecting details, then took up more time interacting with some tradesmen, and even he had some details to report. There had been whisperings about the current French state in the upper circles. The tradesmen, who had been oddly quick to take to Rook, had nothing suspicious to report, but Rook had a feeling all the same. Being a believer in instinct, Malcolm let him go with it.

  Their reports finished, they left him in peace, and he worked through his information for several hours, including the reports from his informants on the groups involved and details surrounding the night Trace was killed. Then he read the most recent reports on a certain young woman in Cheshire, who had no idea that the London League kept a close watch on her and ensured she was well cared for.

  If he didn’t get all this straightened out, he would be taking on covert operations within the week, as well. He hadn’t done that in years. Not since he became a father, come to think of it.

  “You’re worrying the ‘children’, Cap.”

  Malcolm jerked up at the words, panic taking hold of his heart. “I’m what?”

  Fritz lifted a brow as he leaned against the wall inside Malcolm’s office, somehow having entered without him knowing. “Do you normally react that way when I talk about your operatives?”

  “My operatives?” he repeated, his heart still skipping in panic.

  His friend looked confused for a second, then smiled as understanding dawned. “Yes, your operatives. That was a terrible reference. The actual children are fine.”

  Malcolm’s heart settled, and he glared at Fritz. “You can’t know that.”

  “Perhaps your children write to me. I am Archer’s godfather, after all.”

&
nbsp; Malcolm snorted, shaking his head. “Archer would never write you without someone prodding him.”

  “Do you think it’s possible that perhaps someone did?”

  Malcolm paused, his incredulity fading into complete bafflement. “You… you did receive a letter?”

  Fritz nodded, smiling a little. “I did. With a very kind postscript from your wife inviting Emily and me to Knightsgate, at our convenience, to better make our acquaintance.”

  Malcolm sat back hard in his chair, completely at a loss. “Archer would never do that willingly. He hates writing anybody, even me. But he also wouldn’t do it unless someone he respected asked him.” He looked up at his friend, his mind whirling rapidly. “Beth could get him to do this?”

  “Beth did,” Fritz pointed out. “Have you received letters?”

  “I don’t know,” he admitted. “I didn’t tell Clifton I was home, I’ve been staying at St. James. He usually holds correspondence for me.”

  “I think you’d better check.” Fritz pushed into the room and sat down in the chair across from the desk. “So yes, I know the children are fine. But let’s talk about your operatives.”

  Malcolm made a soft noise of amusement. “Yes, my operatives. Which one sent you a report of concern?” he asked, folding his hands and regarding his friend with steely eyes.

  Fritz chuckled softly and tilted his head a little. “All of them.”

  Malcolm scowled and went back to his reports, though he had done all that he could there. “I knew I should have stayed away from here.”

  “I’ve avoided asking you all week,” Fritz began slowly, “but really, Monty, what are you doing here? Nothing is happening that cannot be dealt with from Knightsgate. I would be happy to step in here.”

  “You can’t do that,” Malcolm told him in a low voice. “You’re already exposed as a former operative, and you’re a diplomat now. It’s too much of a risk for you.”

  Fritz’s features hardened and grew serious. “I’ve been a covert operative in more dangerous situations than even you know about, Monty, and in circumstances where I was also a very visible diplomat, and I am still standing here. I am the second-in-command to the spymaster of all England while still being a visible diplomat to several countries, including the one with rogue factions that concern us. I can handle your London band of merry men.”

  That was all true, and Malcolm felt like a heel for thinking that Fritz could not do the things that he had been trained to do, and had done, with such success. It was easy to assume that because Fritz was visible, he was somehow unfit for the covert world.

  Nothing could have been further from the truth.

  “Would you rather be here?” Fritz prodded without much care. “Is that it?”

  Malcolm chewed on his lip for a second, weighing his options. Then he sighed. “Honestly, yes.”

  Fritz barked a surprised laugh. “Why? Beth is lovely, and you chose to marry her…”

  “I married her for the children, not for me,” Malcolm admitted, looking up at the ceiling. “If it had been up to me, I wouldn’t have married for a number of years, if ever.”

  “Ah ha…” Fritz hummed a little, then exhaled noisily. “I can’t say anything against your thoughts on that score. I imagine moving on from Caroline must be nigh impossible.”

  “There is no moving on.” Malcolm shook his head firmly. “There is no moving on, there is no replacing her, and there is no way I can do this without feeling like I have betrayed the vows I took.”

  “To Caroline or to Beth?” Fritz softly asked.

  Malcolm looked at him with a humorless smile. “You see my dilemma.” He sighed and rubbed at his brow. “Two wives, two vows, and I am two very different men. I engage in my second marriage; do I betray the first? I live in and mourn my first marriage; do I harm the second?” He shook his head and looked back up. “Beth is good for the children, Fritz. But not for me.”

  Fritz watched him for a long time, then nodded slowly. “Very well. Tailor wants to meet with you tonight.”

  Malcolm snapped to attention instantly, his whole body on alert. “Where?”

  “Covent Garden. Go as Lord Montgomery. You’re going to love it.”

  Malcolm groaned, wishing he were brave enough to argue with his superiors. He hated the theater, always had, and the only time he ever went to the theater was when he had to meet with his superiors in a public setting, or when Caroline had exerted her will in the matter. She’d done that quite frequently.

  He prayed Beth wouldn’t do the same.

  “What farce must I endure this time?” he asked Fritz, not bothering to hide his displeasure.

  Fritz considered the question and made a face, tugging at his simple cravat. “A bit of humiliation, too much introspection, awkward commentaries, and things that will make you want to pull your hair out.”

  Malcolm gave him a baleful look. “I meant the play.”

  Fritz grinned and repeated, “A bit of humiliation, too much introspection, awkward commentaries, and things that will make you want to pull your hair out.”

  Malcolm rolled his eyes but smiled a little. “What am I seeing?”

  “I have no idea.”

  Malcolm nodded. “Of course, you don’t. Thank you very much, Fritz.”

  “Happy to help.”

  Briefly stopping at his family residence to don formal evening wear, Malcolm officially established that Lord Montgomery was, in fact, in London, despite his recent marriage. In order to create a legitimate reason for him to be in London instead of in Hampshire with his new bride and children, there were several things he could do. He’d settled on setting up a meeting with his solicitor, which would occur in the morning. None of it had taken long, as the details never did for him. Arrangements completed, Malcolm headed off to Covent Garden for his meeting.

  Now, it was time for the theater. Unfortunately.

  The theater was crowded when he arrived, but finding Lord Cartwright wouldn’t be hard. His wife was always quite a toast, though not as popular as Lady Raeburn or any of the Rivertons. Wherever she was, he was, lurking and smirking. He never let her too far out of his sight. The residue of a life in covert operations, according to him, and he wasn’t inclined to set aside so many years of surviving by his instincts.

  A note had been sent to Malcolm an hour ago to come to the Cartwrights’ box during the intermission, which unfortunately meant he could not leave before then. He braced himself to endure an entire first half of the accursed production.

  What sort of man came to the theater alone? Particularly when those who knew him would already be wondering why he wasn’t with his new wife?

  No matter. Malcolm could spin any story he wanted and make it work. Perhaps he had business with his solicitor, and his wife wanted him to see this show and tell her about it. Perhaps his marriage was one of convenience only. Perhaps his business was unpleasant, and a night at the theater would relieve him of that burden for a time.

  He couldn’t imagine any night at any theater helping with that in any way, but the world didn’t need to know that.

  Malcolm settled himself in his solitary seat, taking a private box. He wouldn’t have objected if any of his friends had asked to join, but he doubted any of his friends were in attendance tonight. Most of them agreed with him, but that was beside the point.

  Thirty seconds later, a footman appeared beside him. “I beg your pardon, my lord,” the young man said softly. The orchestra had thankfully ceased its infernal cacophony, signaling the start of the show. “A couple is asking if you will permit them to join you in the box.”

  He fought the urge to sigh. “Who is it?”

  “Mr. Richard and Lady Lavinia Herschel, my lord.”

  Malcolm closed his eyes and exhaled slowly. He could not risk offending Mr. Herschel, for he was too powerful in Parliament. It would behoove him to keep the man close, given his recent suspicious activity. He would have to endure Lady Lavinia for the sake of her husband.

&nb
sp; “Very well,” he said with a curt nod.

  The footman bowed and left quickly.

  “Lord help me,” Malcolm muttered, rising to his feet.

  Lady Lavinia preceded her husband, her gown a brilliant red with a daring cut in the neckline that left very little to the imagination, and her dark hair provocatively styled with long, curling tendrils hanging over her bare shoulders.

  “Monty,” she purred, coming directly to him and sliding her hands along the lapels of his evening jacket, fluttering her kohl-lined eyelashes. “You are too gracious.”

  He stepped back and took one hand, bowing over it. “My lady.” He stepped aside as Mr. Herschel entered and bowed to him. “Mr. Herschel.”

  “Montgomery,” Mr. Herschel puffed, nodding repeatedly. “Rather sporting of you. My wife does so love the theater, and this box does have a better view than the one I reserved. I care nothing for the theater myself, far too much dramatics, but…” He tried to wink at his wife with a guffawing laugh. “Anything for the missus, am I right?”

  Malcolm nodded in polite acknowledgement and gestured to the seats.

  He waited until they were seated and then deliberately sat in the row behind them. He wouldn’t mind sharing the box, so long as he could be separated from them.

  The performances began, and he pretended at interest, nodding when the others did, smiling when others laughed, that sort of thing. It was mindless and boring, but he only had to get to the intermission.

  Lady Lavinia rose a few minutes into the show and excused herself, making sure to brush against Malcolm as she exited, the heavy scent of her perfume nearly choking him with its potency. She must have heard he was in London, as he’d been told she only wore it when she was going to see him. He had known that sharing his box had been no coincidence, but he could hardly have expected her to maneuver so specifically for him.

  When he felt her sit down next to him upon her return, he corrected himself. She would maneuver exactly that specifically for him.

  “Why didn’t you tell me you were in London, Monty?” she whispered with a pout. “I would have come to you.”

  Malcolm kept his gaze firmly fixed on the stage. “I am in town but a short time, my lady. I told no one I was coming.”