“Shock is not the word,” Henry said, shaken.
“Albright, fetch the brandy,” said Simon. “I think we could all use a drink.”
Albright poured them each a brandy. Henry stared at his glass, but could not drink.
“The information he gathers will be invaluable, Henry,” said Simon.
“Provided he lives to tell it,” said Henry. He downed the brandy in a gulp.
“Mr. Sloan is extremely resourceful, my lord,” said Amelia. “His most urgent need now is a safe way for him to communicate whatever he finds out. He said to tell you he was loath to put anything on paper, even in code.”
“Understandable, considering the dangerous nature of the man with whom he is dealing,” said Simon.
“I have an idea, my lord,” said Amelia. “I can insinuate myself into the household of Prince Tom’s mother, the marchioness, who currently resides in Bheldem. I will propose to the marchioness that I write a series of newspaper articles on her as the mother of the young man who could be Freya’s future king.”
Henry thought this over. “That could work.”
“I think the idea is excellent,” said Simon. “The marchioness is extremely vain. She will delight in talking about herself and her son.”
“Very well,” said Amelia. “If we are all agreed, then I will put the plan into motion. It will take me some time to arrange matters with the marchioness, but that will provide Mr. Sloan with the time he needs to gather information.”
“I understand, Miss Amelia,” said Henry. “Let me know if you require any assistance.”
“Thank you, my lord. Mr. Sloan also said to tell you that Coreg’s servant, Trubgek, has taken over the dragon’s criminal enterprises. This Trubgek is an extremely dangerous man.”
“I would make no attempt to interfere in these enterprises, Henry,” Simon cautioned. “You might draw unwanted attention to Mr. Sloan.”
“I agree,” said Henry.
“Do you have any questions for me, my lord?” Amelia asked.
“How did Mr. Sloan look?” Henry asked. “Was he well?”
“He is in very good health, my lord, and in good spirits. His primary concern was that his absence will be an inconvenience to you.”
Henry was deeply moved, and could not readily respond.
Amelia rose to her feet. “And now, gentlemen, I will take my leave. Good-bye, Mr. Yates. Always a pleasure to see you. Good-bye, my lord.”
“Good-bye, Miss Amelia, and thank you,” said Henry. “Inform me when you hear from the marchioness. And do not worry about expenses for your journey. I will make all the arrangements.”
“Thank you, my lord,” said Amelia, and she went on her way, leaving a trail of bobby pins behind her.
“At least something is going right,” said Henry after she had gone and Mr. Albright had gathered up the bobby pins. “Mr. Sloan will soon acquire the names of the members of the Faithful and we can expose them for the traitors they are. We also have proof that this Prince Tom is in league with assassins and raising armies to plot the overthrow of our government.”
“You know nothing of the sort, Henry,” said Simon. “Prince Tom is an officer in the Estaran army and he rarely visits Bheldem. He may have no knowledge whatsoever of Crawford’s murderous actions.”
Henry snorted in disbelief and was going to add something scathing when Mr. Albright entered, bearing a note. He handed it to Henry.
“This came to my club,” said Henry. He tore open the note and grimaced. “A rotten end to a rotten day.”
“What is it?” Simon asked.
“Hugh wants to speak to me on a matter of the utmost importance. I suppose I had better go see him.”
Simon was grave. “You don’t think Hugh knows about the queen’s health, do you?”
“I hope he does not,” said Henry. “He will be packing his trunk, prepared to move into the palace.”
As he left, Simon called after him.
“Mr. Sloan could be gone for some time. You should employ a bodyguard, Henry!”
He pretended he did not hear.
SIXTEEN
Hugh Fitzroy, bastard son of King Godfrey and Lady Honoria Wesselman, lived on a grand estate near the hamlet of Chadwick, in Freya. The offices for his business were in Haever, however, and he had also a city house, which is where he had instructed Henry to meet him.
King Godfrey’s affair had been widely known. He and his mistress had even appeared in public together. Hugh and his brother, Jeffrey, had grown up with the knowledge that people would smile to their faces and whisper about them behind their backs.
Hugh had reacted by adopting a brash and bullying attitude, going through life with his chin outthrust and his fists clenched, prepared to openly take on his detractors. Jeffrey had sought a quieter mode of life and had entered the church, where he had risen to become Bishop of Freya.
Hugh owned an iron mine and he had married the daughter of the owner of an iron works, thus gaining control of all aspects of the iron business. Aside from what his father had left him, he had become an extremely wealthy man in his own right. The union had also produced several children.
To Henry’s mind Hugh’s saving grace was that he was past his middle years and might not be expected to live all that long. His eldest son had the personality of a “bag of wool,” as Henry had said to his wife, but he would make a safe, if not inspired, king.
Henry disliked Hugh, but he disliked him far less than he disliked the queen’s sister, Elinor. Henry had never developed a close relationship with Hugh, knowing that Queen Mary would have been furious with him. Hugh detested Mary almost as much as she hated him. Henry had long ago given up trying to effect a reconciliation.
He had better luck with Jeffrey. As a man of God, Jeffrey was pleased to make peace with his half sister and was willing to overlook Mary’s cutting, caustic remarks. The queen had rewarded him by bringing his eldest daughter, Ann, to court. Mary had given her in marriage to Henry, along with a title and a sizable estate.
Henry considered Hugh cunning and shrewd, but malleable. On those occasions when they had met, Henry had been able to talk Hugh around to his way of thinking. Henry saw no reason this should change. As he had told his wife, “I can manage Hugh. I cannot manage Elinor.”
The house in town had been chosen by Hugh’s wife, who spent the social season in the city. Hugh preferred to stay at his club, which was closer to his business, and thus Henry was surprised that Hugh had asked to meet at the house. It was a large and ostentatious edifice surrounded by a tall wrought-iron fence with elaborate iron gates that were an effective advertisement for the family business.
On his arrival, Henry was surprised to see that the house appeared deserted. The curtains were drawn, and no smoke rose from the chimneys. The social season was over, and Hugh’s wife would have returned to the estate. Henry asked the driver to wait.
He knocked at the door and was met by Hugh’s valet, who invited him to be seated while he went in search of the master.
The house was silent, the furniture covered by cloths. No fire had been laid in the marble fireplace, and no footman come to take his cloak.
The house was opened solely for my benefit, Henry thought to himself. Whatever is going on, Hugh does not want anyone to know about it.
When the valet returned, he took Henry’s coat and tricorn and told him the earl was expecting him in the Trophy Room.
Hugh was an avid hunter. The room was filled with dead animals and birds that bleakly stared at Henry from the walls or regarded him without interest from their perches on tables. He regarded the trophies with disgust, but approved the exceptionally fine display of antique weapons.
No fire had been laid, but the covers had been removed from the furniture. Hugh stood, frowning, before a painting depicting a stag battling a pack of hunting dogs. He grunted at Henry and dismissed the valet, who shut the door behind him.
Hugh walked over to jiggle the door handle and give the door a shove
. Apparently assured that it was closed to his satisfaction, he came back to where Henry was standing.
“Sit down, Henry, sit down,” said Hugh, waving to a chair near the fireplace.
Henry stiffened at the familiar use of his first name. He barely knew Hugh. The two were not on intimate or even friendly terms. Hugh had been educated as a gentleman and on occasion he could even act like one. Other times, he behaved in a crude and boorish manner that would have made a street urchin blush.
Henry guessed Hugh was being deliberately offensive to gain some sort of advantage over him and he took care not to give him the satisfaction of seeing that he had annoyed him. He also knew better than to sit down. Hugh was a tall, heavyset, florid-faced man, an old hand at using his size to intimidate. Henry was not about to put himself at a disadvantage by allowing Hugh to loom over him while he cowered in a chair.
“Thank you, my lord. I prefer to remain standing.”
Henry walked to the fireplace and turned his back to it, facing Hugh, who began to ramble on about the sad state of the country’s finances and how this was affecting the sale of iron.
“If it were not for the nation of Guundar and their pressing need for steel, my business would be in a sad predicament,” said Hugh. “I can do business with a man like King Ullr.”
“I am glad to hear that, my lord,” said Henry, wondering when Hugh was going to come to the real reason he had invited Henry to meet him in a cold and deserted house.
“And this is all Mary’s fault,” Hugh exclaimed angrily, slamming his fist on the mantelpiece. “She’s been a rotten queen. She lets those imbeciles in the House of Nobles lead her around by the nose! The country is going to rack and to ruin. I’ll wager you are sorry you backed her over me, eh, Henry?”
Hugh chuckled, as though his words were meant to be lighthearted and jesting. Henry saw no corresponding laughter in the man’s cunning eyes.
Henry had to tread carefully. Hugh would be suspicious if he turned on the queen he had served for so many years. He could appear open to suggestion, however. He needed to find out what was going on. He wondered with growing unease if Hugh had found out the queen was dying.
“My loyalty is to Her Majesty, my lord,” said Henry blandly.
“I know all about your loyalty,” said Hugh with another chuckle.
He gave Henry a wink. Henry replied with a cool smile, all the while thinking how satisfying it would be to punch the man in his puffy jaw.
Hugh fidgeted. Going to the door, he thrust it open and glared out. He shut it again and crossed back over to the fireplace.
He’s working himself up to it, Henry thought.
“The crux of the matter is this, Henry,” said Hugh. “Something needs to be done about Elinor, and you are the man to do it.”
Henry was startled.
“Elinor, my lord?” he asked, feigning confusion.
“Don’t play coy with me, Henry,” said Hugh. “You know damn well I mean Mary’s bloody Rosian dog of a sister. Mary is going to name Elinor her heir unless something happens to stop her. From what I hear, you are the man to handle the job.”
Henry knew perfectly well what Hugh was asking. The empty house, the lack of servants, all now made sense.
“I have spoken to Her Majesty about why her sister would be a poor choice, my lord. I fear I can do no more,” Henry said coldly.
Hugh’s face flushed an ugly red. He thrust out his jaw and loomed over Henry. “You can do a damn sight more! Elinor needs to take a tumble down the stairs and break her bloody neck. You’ve done this sort of thing before, or so I hear. Do it again.”
Henry could not believe the effrontery of the man. Never mind that what Hugh said was true. Henry could have arranged for Elinor to break her neck. He had arranged such incidents in the past. As Admiral Baker sent men to their deaths in war, Henry was the general in a secret war waged by his counterparts around the world. His enemies were as ruthless as he was and for the same reason.
They were patriots, standing guard over their nations as he stood guard over his. They fought their desperate battles in the shadows, using garrotes and poison instead of bullets and cannonballs. Henry knew his counterparts and respected each one: the Countess de Marjolaine of Rosia, Monsieur Dubois of the Church of the Breath, Don Juan Amileo of Estara, Baron Rupert Grimm of Guundar, and Alderson Gouldsby, who worked for the Travian cartels.
But Hugh apparently considered Henry some sort of assassin-for-hire, obviously expecting him to make a servile bow and rush off to kill the queen’s sister.
Henry Wallace was in his forties, tall and thin with a long face and a narrow, aristocratic nose. When he was angry, he possessed a soul-piercing look that could make a man feel as though a blade of cold steel had pierced his vitals.
He fixed Hugh with that look. “I fail to understand Your Lordship’s meaning.”
Henry thought for a moment Hugh was going to be stupid enough to repeat his demand.
Hugh thought so, too, for he opened his mouth. But then he must have realized he had placed himself in a dangerous and untenable position. He averted his gaze and made a clumsy try at repairing the damage with a blustering laugh.
“Come now, Henry, you know I was jesting,” he said. “Don’t be so damn sensitive!”
Henry made a stiff bow. “In that case, I believe we have said all we have to say to each other. I will take my leave.”
He picked up his hat and coat, which the valet had draped over a chair, and walked to the door. Hugh remained standing by the fireplace, his puffy face creased in a scowl.
“You don’t dare accuse me of anything, Henry,” he snarled. “It’s your word against mine.”
“My lord,” said Henry, pausing at the door. “I would never stoop so low.”
He opened the door and walked out into the hall. He did not see the valet and he made his way through the house without escort. Once outside the gate, he gave the driver orders to take him to the Foreign Office. He then sank back into the seat and wearily closed his eyes.
“And to think,” Henry remarked bitterly to the empty carriage, “this is the wretched oaf I am proposing to make a king.”
BOOK 2
SEVENTEEN
Kate had taken to heart Phillip’s advice that she should find suitable clothes for her trip to the Dragon Duchies. She was glad he had said something. Left to her own devices, she might not have given clothes a thought. She flew by griffin to Wellinsport to meet with his contact. She had to be on her guard in the city, for although Wellinsport was a Freyan stronghold, Rosian agents could be searching for her.
Phillip’s contact turned out to be another of Henry’s agents. Kate had met one of his agents before—a Mrs. Lavender, who ran a hat shop, and gleaned all manner of valuable information from the gossip of women as they tried on hats.
This agent was just as unlikely: a seamstress named Mrs. Brown, who traveled to the homes of the wealthy, oftentimes spending weeks as the guest of one of her clients while she worked on wedding trousseaus, gowns for young ladies who were “coming out,” or new dresses for next year’s social season. Mrs. Brown was a crafter, gifted in the art of sewing and removing magical seals from letters and replacing them so that no one ever noticed.
She was also something of a snob who was inclined to turn up her nose at the sight of Kate in her slops. Mrs. Brown studied Kate from head to toe, spent an hour taking measurements while Kate fidgeted, and finally nodded. “I don’t have time to sew anything. My clients have more clothes than they would wear in several lifetimes. They won’t miss a few. Come back in two days.”
Kate returned to find her wardrobe laid out on a bed. The seamstress had provided a warm, luxurious fur coat with a hood and a set of traveling clothes, consisting of a tailored wool jacket, vests and shirts, and two long split skirts made for riding horses, and which also were suitable for riding on griffinback. Finally she brought forth a pair of elegant shoes and tall leather riding boots.
“Master Phillip o
rdered the shoes and boots from the finest cobbler in Wellinsport,” said Mrs. Brown. “He had them specially made for you. See if they fit.”
The shoes and boots fit perfectly. Mrs. Brown gave Kate an arch look. “It seems Master Phillip knows you well.”
Kate flushed and mumbled something about her and Master Phillip being good friends, all the while remembering that it was Thomas who had pried the piece of broken glass from her foot and teased her about dancing with him.
The shoes were sensible, as Amelia would have said, extending above the ankle with a small heel and a buckle for decoration. The leather boots came to below the knee and were warm, and soft as butter. Kate held them in her hands, admiring them until she saw the seamstress slyly smiling. Hurriedly, Kate dropped the boots to the floor.
“Will you need dresses and petticoats for evening wear?” Mrs. Brown asked. “If so, you must give me another day.”
Kate politely declined, saying with complete honesty that she did not have room to pack them.
“I do need gloves,” she added, remembering the advice given to her by Mrs. Lavender, who had warned Kate that if she was planning to act the part of a pampered gentlewoman, she should wear gloves to conceal her “working hands” with their calluses and sun-browned skin.
“I have two pair of gloves for you,” said Mrs. Brown. “I also brought along a wig and silk scarves to replace that thing you are currently wearing around your head.”
The “thing” happened to be Kate’s red kerchief. She snatched it off and sat down in front of a mirror as the seamstress drew the wig over her head and primped and fussed with the curls and puffs.
“You can always say you lost your hair in the plague,” said Mrs. Brown.
“It itches,” Kate complained, regarding the wig with disfavor. “And I look ridiculous.”
She declined the wig, then thanked Mrs. Brown and went back to her lodgings encumbered with boxes and bundles. She changed into the jacket and riding skirt and pulled on the boots. She could not part with the red kerchief, and tucked it away in the valise. She regarded herself in her stolen plumage and thought about the one fine dress she had owned, the green dress Morgan had given to her on her birthday.
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