Surely she
wasn’t
the informer. Surely.
As he rose and dressed, Ian was mindless that he’d neglected to eat, and that he’d not rung for his new valet, Prentice. He’d served himself many times in his life, servants coming and going each time his family had traveled on, and with his last hired man in India having chosen to remain there instead of following the master he’d served for a relatively long three years. It was only when Ian was tying his cravat, poorly, that it occurred to him to summon his man.
“Prentice,” he said over the hands that strove to correct the harm he’d done to the construction at his throat. “You’re now free to let others of your acquaintance know who’s hired you. Please have Kellogg inform the entire staff.”
“Very good, my lord,” Prentice said with a relieved look on his face. It must have been awkward to not name his new employer, but Ian had wanted to remain unspoken of until the masquerade.
He rode out into the day, to make good on two intentions. The first was thwarted. At the Home Office he’d asked for Sir Terrence, who’d not been in, and he was given a time to return tomorrow.
“So for now I must decide on my own what to do about the French informer,” he murmured to himself.
Time to see to his second task. He rode to Bond Street, hailing the first person he came across, a gentleman in his fifth or sixth decade. “Good sir,” he said, perfectly aware of his presumption. “I am a stranger to London and wondered could you direct me to a watchmaker?” He had no need of a new pocketwatch, but it was as handy a trick as any other to begin to know people.
Despite a scowl at Ian’s temerity, the gentleman came nicely up to snuff by responding, “Certainly. Sir . . . ?”
“Ewald. Viscount Ewald.”
The man’s eyebrows lifted. “You are Aaron Drake’s boy?”
“Even so,” Ian replied, gratified for his father’s sake that his name wasn’t completely forgotten.
The man considered him for a moment, then belatedly offered a bow. “And I am Lord Broderring. I must say, does this mean your father…?”
“Has passed on, yes. Over four months past.”
“Sad news. I knew him, in our salad days. Good with a cricket bat, I recall. My condolences, my lord.”
Ian dismounted to return the bow. “Thank you, Lord Broderring.”
“Wasn’t your family in some foreign place?”
“Lately of India.”
“I see. Well, lad, it is my pleasure to meet you. Your father was a fine man, fine indeed. You have his look. I should be pleased to show you the way to a very fine watchmakers.”
“You are most kind,” Ian said sincerely.
The older man served the purpose to a nicety, performing introductions as they walked, Ian’s horse led by the reins. He was introduced to those persons known to Broderring. Ian nodded and smiled and bowed, cataloging names and faces as was his custom. In short order there were a dozen he could properly call by name.
He was no longer a stranger to London.
After pretending to evince some interest in a timepiece at the watchmaker’s, and after a half hour of even more introductions, he made his sincere excuses to the older man who had done him such a kindness, and rode away toward Hyde Park. He looked for another not-too-blatant opportunity to introduce himself…but he knew he also looked for
her
.
It was ridiculous, of course. The Lady Cat had taken pains to hide her identity, even if she wasn’t his missing informant. She’d meant to remain unknown, and he had no real reason to seek her out. If she was the sort to be invited to parties such as Lord Quinn threw, she was no manner of a good candidate as a wife for him, not to a man who might put a toe into a different kind of governmental pond, that of serving in the Upper House.
Still, there’d been polish in her manners, so surely it was possible she might be found among the members of the
ton
spending their morning strolling and shopping…? But, no, not really. Might she?
It was preposterous to bother to look… But look he did, even as he shook his head at himself.
His name continued to cause a bit of a stir. Many were, just as Lord Broderring had been, surprised to learn Ewald’s heir had returned from climes afar.
“Do you have a house in London?” a pretty brunette, Miss Malcolm, asked him as she slowly spun her parasol over her shoulder.
“I do. I have chosen to reside in the old family home in George Street.”
“And do you intend to remain in England permanently now?” She tilted her head, to look up at him with a slant of her dark eyes.
Dark eyes. This is not my mystery cat.
“I do so intend, my lady.” He would’ve had to be blind not to see the flicker of interest this claim created in the lady’s gaze. He gave the young woman a second glance, idly wondering if she might prove to be the future Lady Ewald.
As his wanderings continued, Ian had to admit to himself there were other ladies who showed interest in his prospects, from misses to mamas--but none of them had the form or coloring of last night’s lady.
He frowned to himself. He couldn’t like that the lady--in his own mind, he’d begun to simply call her Cat--had caught his fancy so firmly. It was useless to ponder who she was; irrelevant. He was setting his sails toward a domestic harbor: he wanted a home, and a home wanted a wife. A man wished to take to wife a beauty who was sweet, and clever, and unique, and…
And who knew if Cat was any of those things?
A call interrupted his thoughts. It only took him a few seconds to realize here was a Charley, one of England’s night watchmen, calling out the hour and naming the waning day as being All Saints. The early dusk of a cool November 1
st
night was chasing the last of the few intrepid park riders back to their homes. Though, he thought with a nod toward superstition, perhaps their defection was caused by the watchman crying out his warning that the ghosts of All Souls’ were on their way. Ian smiled to himself, used to all manner of superstitions; there had been plenty in Turkey, India, and any of the other countries where he’d lived. For himself, he decided, he liked the watchman and his portents, and he smiled again as he thought if he was introducing himself to his homeland, it was introducing itself right back.
As he mounted and turned his horse, it was not toward home. Instead he rode into an obviously poorer part of town, one of those avenues of twisted alleys that every city hosts, and wandered into a smoky and thickly populated tavern.
“Good Publican, a round for the house!” he cried as he entered first the one, and in time several more. When asked who was paying, he always answered in a voice intended to reach multiple ears, “Why, it is the new Viscount Ewald, come to celebrate his homecoming!”
He stayed long enough to be seen sipping his ale, and to let it be known he was a convivial type. His purse was sadly depleted by the time he waved farewell to the day. Still, he was satisfied as he rode toward his home, knowing there would soon be no place in London, high or low, that would not know of his presence.
It was entirely possible he’d made the wrong decision by making himself so public, by not staying home and trying to remain nigh invisible--but, male or female, the informer knew where he lived. The plan had changed; there were no instructions; there was no point to his anonymity any longer. Either tonight or tomorrow, he’d find another message or else would be visited again, he was sure.
As he handed his horse to his groom, he was aware enough to acknowledge to himself that he hoped he’d have a visitor, and that she’d be a woman of light eyes and hair.
***
Georges shivered from cold, and hunger, and a need to relieve himself. He’d been waiting in the shared mews behind Ewald’s home for
hours
. By God, where was the man? The loaf of bread Georges had stolen from a costermonger’s cart was long gone. Twice he’d had to hide inside a large barrel and pull on its lid awkwardly, when others had brought horses to be groomed.
Ought he to dare the house again? Surely the butler would take another message? Yes, and Georges could leave his direction. Ewald could come to
him
, why not?
But then he flinched from the idea. What if Ewald’s people were not trustworthy?
The butler, he must have heard my pronunciation, and the English, they do not love the French
. The man might be entirely willing to earn some coins by delivering a Frenchman to the
gendarmes
…
Non
. His first plan was best: talk directly to
le vicomte
. The man could be caught alone between the mews and his home,
sûrement?
Was there any other way? Anyone else to contact? There was a Sir Terrence in the Home Office… But where was that? What did Sir Terrence look like? Would he rebuff or even denounce a man who struggled to speak the English?
Grinding his teeth, Georges slinked away, knowing he must come back again tomorrow, under the cover of night, to see if Ewald was at home or could be approached when he returned from whatever evening outing.
***
Sophie poked her head into her mistress’s bedchamber, and murmured, “Mademoiselle?”
Lisette Lyons came awake, immediately reaching for her wrapper. “Show him in,” she ordered; at this hour it would be one of the operatives with which she worked.
He was ushered into her back parlor, his coat making a soft rustle in the quiet of the night. The man smelled of cigar smoke and ale. Lisette moved to a chair before the fire, shivering slightly in the night air. “Well?” she demanded as she sat.
“ ’Is name is Ewald,” he said in a round cockney. “The second Viscount Ewald. Proper name o’ Ian Drake.”
“You do not need that silly accent here,” she said very quietly in French.
He obliged at once, his voice shifting to their mutual first language. “He has been around to the pubs, telling everyone who he is.”
“Curious.” She thought about that for a moment. “Did he meet with or speak of Lady Stratton?”
“No, mademoiselle. Although he did make a close study of everyone he met.”
Lisette tapped a finger against her lips. “Why did they meet at the masquerade? Why did she go to the garden with him? I thought I knew what was happening--” She looked up at the dusty man again, and demanded, “Is that all?”
“That is all, mademoiselle.”
“Then go.” She reached into her bureau and extracted a silver coin, which she tossed to the man, to reinforce his nationalism with cold cash. He left with a bow.
Who was this Viscount Ewald? He was an English aristocrat; he could not possibly be the escaped Frenchman. Why had he gone to the tool shed with the disguised Lady Stratton? Why had the two of them left in separate directions?
And why had Quinn invited Lady Stratton, who had faked a French accent, not only to his masquerade, but now his Guy Fawkes soiree? Lisette had lost him as her lover, but Quinn still provided a great deal of protection to her. As his hostess, she was accepted, even admired.
She was not ready to give him up, not even if she were mistaken and there was nothing untoward going on. Certainly she did not wish another woman to take away any of his consideration. A man only needed one hostess, after all.
She turned to the bureau and extracted a piece of paper, a quill, and a jar of India ink. It was simple to write a love note, one calculated to inspire even the most timid of men. She did not even have to give it much thought, thinking instead of how soon she would find herself in Alexander, Lord Hargood’s company, and consequently swept into his sister’s company.
Chapter 7
Ian was dressed the next morning by an attentive, talkative Prentice. He idly wondered how many facts he’d learned over the years from loose-tongued servants. How many of his own secrets had been innocently--or otherwise--given away because of servants’s chatter?
Ian knew he was good at conversing without revealing… But all that was irrelevant now. He was a spy for only one more small thing, and that thing was hardly the greatest State secret. He scarce needed to trust his new servants, not under the obligation of duty anymore anyway.
He called upon Sir Terrence when he first rode out, and reported the target had yet to be secured. The older man was flustered, but Ian explained contact had been indirectly established. “I shall have him in hand by tonight, no doubt.”
“Bad business,” Sir Terrence growled. “I can’t imagine how the fellow is getting on.”
Ian had puzzled out that the informer was a man--but having the matter clearly affirmed somehow left him feeling flat. “Tell me, sir, are there other French persons in need of our assistant, in London at present?”
“What?” Sir Terrence asked, leaning forward. “None of which I know. Have you heard something?”
Ian waved the comment away. “Not at all. I have no contacts here but you. I was merely curious. As to curiosity, can you tell me anything of this informant, why he need flee England?”
“Very little. State secrets and all, you know. But I can tell you he is no supporter of Bonaparte. And in the past half year he has provided the location of important troops and their ordnance. His last report…well, let us merely say France is inflamed and a significant bounty is now attached to Douzain.”
“That’s his name? Douzain?”
“Georges Douzain. I risk telling you, that it might aid you, since the first contact point failed.” Sir Terrence gave Ian a pointed look. “We owe Douzain a debt. We will take him far from the Corsican’s reach. We need to have it known in the proper circles that our assets are protected. You must make contact with the man as soon as may be.”
Sir Terrence instructed Ian to send a note to him at home once the informer was acquired, only then sitting back and inquiring how Ian was settling into his homeland. “And the home farm? Have you been there yet?”
“No, sir. But I will go soon. My father’s steward has things well in hand, but he writes that he does wish me to come and see for myself.”
“’Tis a good thing to go and meet the tenants, of course. Get yourself a wife, and they’ll be glad for seeing her, too.”