Sari Robins - [Andersen Hall Orphanage] (5 page)

Releasing her, Mr. Devane extended his arm as if
they were at a ball or soiree, and not in a deluge in the wood. “If you will allow me?”

Edwina did not miss the symbolism that the arm he offered was not only assistance out of the copse but a means of saving face.

She accepted his arm.

“Very well, it’s settled then.” He nodded. His wet coppery mane was a spiky mess, making him look so dashingly adorable she had to force herself to stop gaping up at him like a puppyish fool. “For four weeks, Lady Ross, I am at your disposal and will do my best to see you through this.”

“At my disposal,” she repeated quietly, still feeling less than sure of herself. “That’s very…good.”

“And you’re right about those shoes, my lady. They are unique.”

She looked up. “You know of them?”

“They’re from Paris, designed by a famous shoemaker named François Millicent. Given the embargo and the war with Napoleon, there won’t be many in Polite Society with such shoes. It’s a distinctive mark to search for.”

A small swell of excitement bubbled inside of her. “I’d thought so…But it’s so good to know for certain.”

Edwina’s spirits began to rise as they trudged through the trees, the pitter-patter of the rain the only conversation. She pushed away all thoughts of that kiss and instead focused on the success of today’s encounter. She’d convinced Mr. Devane to help her! She had a soldier on her side, one with the mettle to trump the vile blackmailer! And already he was being helpful. The shoes
were
a distinctive clue. François Millicent.
Paris. She was gaining ground on this blackmailer, she just knew it!

For the first time in weeks Edwina felt hopeful. For the first time in ages, she felt…not so very much alone.

P
uffing from the thin cigar, Sir Lee stepped into the card room of his club and scanned the half-empty tables. His nose twitched, and he blinked his eyes from the smoke, disappointed by the lack of opportunity for play at Brooks’s that afternoon.

As usual, Lord Wilmington and his crony Mr. Foreman engaged in a quiet game of
vingt-et-un
in the far left corner while Mr. Oglethorpe and Mr. Harris were in heated play of cribbage in the center of the room, egging each other on with one feigned insult or another. As if cribbage could ever be that exciting.

A few younger gents were halfheartedly playing spades at a table near the wall. It was early yet, Sir Lee understood, sighing, wondering if the day could get any longer. Yet having passed his seventieth birthday, he supposed he ought to be thankful for the early hour; he seemed barely able to stay awake past nine o’clock
these days and was usually up before the crack of dawn.

Sir Lee was about to turn and depart, when from the doorway across the room he spied a familiar figure. With his stout belly, white hair, and shiny pink cheeks, the tall man could easily be mistaken for Father Christmas. Ironically, that fatherly exterior cloaked one of the most calculating, coldhearted men Sir Lee had ever met. And he should know, for he’d taught Tristram Wheaton everything he’d known about being a master of spies.

Unbidden, a smile leaped to Sir Lee’s lips and his heart warmed as he remembered his glory days at the Foreign Office, the thrill of the hunt, the mental challenge of outwitting his opponents and struggling to think one step ahead of, well, everyone. Being the man in charge of intelligence on every suspicious foreigner in England had been Sir Lee’s greatest pleasure. It had, actually, been the focus of his entire existence after his daughter’s death. His work had been his only refuge from the grief, effective as much as anything could have been, because he’d been bloody good at it and had loved every Machiavellian moment.

Wheaton’s bushy white brows lifted as he acknowledged Sir Lee across the room. As if by signal, Lord Wilmington and Mr. Foreman quietly rose from their seats and departed, leaving the corner free from any who might overhear.

Wheaton ambled over to the corner table and claimed the now-empty chair, adjusting his coattails and sleeves as he sat.

Hiding his smile, Sir Lee strolled between the tables and joined his former pupil.

A servant quietly placed two snifters of port before them and departed as unobtrusively as he’d come.

“Haven’t seen you here in a while, Wheaton.” Sir Lee leaned back in his chair, the wooden slats feeling good on his achy back.

“Some of us actually have a useful occupation.” Wheaton sniffed, holding the port up to the flame of the candle on the table, as if appraising its quality.

Sir Lee licked his lips, concealing how keen his interest really was. “Oh? Anything exciting?”

“Gnats is what they are. Minor irritations.”

“But in a swarm they can be bloody inconvenient.” Sir Lee had an inkling that Wheaton was fishing for help. The man never made a move without an ulterior motive, even coming to his club at an hour when he’d know he would see his former superior.

“You’re damn right about that.” Wheaton’s lips drooped into a frown as he leaned back in his chair. “It certainly doesn’t help when one inherits someone else’s mistakes.”

Sir Lee shook his head. “Par for the course, I’m afraid, no matter how astonishingly talented your predecessor.”

“Astonishingly talented?” Wheaton scoffed. “Your memory is fading in your old age.”

“My memory fades the day Hades freezes over, old friend, and you well know it.”

Silence stretched long between them, as each man took the other’s measure.

Wheaton broke first. As he sipped his port, his eyes skated away. “Well, if your memory is so good, perhaps you’d recall the man you placed in Gérardin Valmont’s service.”

“I didn’t place him. Hendricks did. And his name was…” Scratching his head, Sir Lee stared up at the carved ceiling. “Quinn or Quick, no, it was Quince. Yes, Quince.”

“You’re sure?”

“Of course, I’m certain. Alexander Quince.”

“Have you ever met him?”

Sir Lee frowned, irritated that Wheaton felt the need to ask questions he already knew the answer to. “You know very well that I did.”

“But he didn’t know who you were or even that you were assessing him at that meeting?”

“Of course not. Standard procedure. Stop all the shim shamming and tell me what this is all about.”

Wheaton lifted a shoulder in a faint shrug. “Well, I suppose given that this mess was started under your watch, you might be able to scratch up something of use to me.”

Sir Lee suddenly wondered how Wheaton’s callous manner was taken by his underlings. Intelligence officers were a hard-hearted lot for the most part, yet they had to be handled deftly. They lived excruciatingly complicated lives in service to King and Country and a good master spy needed to respect each and every agent’s particular sensitivities. How did Wheaton fare in that regard?

Sir Lee forced himself to dismiss the critical thought, realizing that he was probably just being envious. He’d give his right arm for a chance to change places with the man sitting across from him.

“I’d heard Gérardin Valmont was dead. His heart gave out in a Paris bordello.”

Wheaton’s blue eyes twinkled. “I knew you still kept
your oar in the water.”

“I’m old, Wheaton, not dead.” Glancing about the room Sir Lee lowered his voice. “So why the sudden interest in Quince, an intelligence officer who’s hardly been worth his salt these last few years?”

Wheaton sipped his port, stringing him along.

Sir Lee sighed. “You know if you ever want my help you’re welcome to it, Wheaton.” He knew that his former pupil was always loath to ask for a favor. “It doesn’t mean you will owe me anything.” He smiled. “Well, not necessarily.”

“Gérardin Valmont was the king of secrets. Hell, his forte for holding nasty tidbits over the heads of those in influence was the only thing that kept the firebrand in England for as long as it did.”

“Nothing could save him after he published that idiotic pamphlet mocking the King, though,” Sir Lee shook his head. “I don’t know what the fool was thinking.”

“Who knows, and at this point who cares? It was one less problem to deal with, was what you’d said at the time. Now that problem seems to be making a nuisance of itself once more, but in the form of our very own Alexander Quince.”

“What’d he do?”

“A certain man of influence who assists me now and again suddenly took off for the country and refused my messages requesting his return. When I went to see him, a bloody two days’ ride in the middle of nowhere, I was shocked to find him a complete wreck. After much coaxing, he finally confessed that he was hiding out in the country, hoping that his troubles might not chase him down. Those troubles, it seems, are in the form of a blackmailer. One with some very nasty se
crets he’s ready to exploit.”

“You suspect Quince is picking up where his former employer left off?”

“Yes. Valmont is dead and suddenly a few of the older set in Society are fielding blackmail demands.”

“A few?”

“I know of at least one more and suspect there are others. These blackmailing buggers dig until they find as many worms as possible and make them squirm. Until the field dries up, of course, or someone stops them.”

“So arrange a payment and nab him. There’s not much to it.”

“Actually, it’s not that simple. The man’s crafty. He has the payments exchanged for bits of damaging evidence, at fashionable affairs, if you can believe it. Balls, soirees and the like. He doesn’t set the terms of the delivery until the affair is in full swing. Usually by slipping a note to the target when he’s least expecting it. It’s a damned nuisance, I tell you.”

Wheaton sniffed. “Then there’s the damaging stuff he leaves behind. He tends to leave little tidbits of the secrets, as if to tease his victims. Letters and the like, exposing some very sensitive surprises.” Exhaling noisily, he looked up. “All in all, this isn’t exactly a major threat to King and Country.” His lip curled. “And the victims are, well, Society.”

“You were never particularly good at dealing with the aristocracy.”

“Not my forte,” Wheaton agreed.

“And you always tended to blame the victims of blackmail if I recall correctly.”

“Who else is there to blame?”

Sir Lee frowned. “Everyone has skeletons in the cupboard, Wheaton. A little compassion wouldn’t kill you, you know.”

“In my line of work, I must hasten to disagree. Skeletons are enormously helpful…if properly aired.” Lifting his port he sipped and watched Sir Lee over the rim of his snifter. “But back to the matter at hand, the more vexing thing is that no one knows what Quince looks like.” His gaze sharpened. “Except you.”

“I met him eighteen years ago, Wheaton. Once, and only for a moment at that. He couldn’t have been more than twenty. It’s not like he’d look the same in his late thirties. Moreover, what makes you think that it’s not someone else? Another servant perhaps or a friend of Valmont’s?”

“Poppet’s gone missing. And Wiggins, too.”

Sir Lee’s heart skipped a beat, a very frightening thing for a man over seventy. “Neither one of them has worked for us in years.”

Wheaton smiled, clearly not missing Sir Lee’s reference indicating that he still considered himself part of the Foreign Office. Wheaton tossed some grease into the fire. “Poppet and Wiggins were the only two of our men yet alive who’d met Quince in his time in London. Except you.” He raised a snowy brow. “Do you think you ought to be worried?”

“Nay. Quince didn’t know I was observing him.” Sir Lee shook his head, disturbed. His heart was heavy as he recalled Fred Poppet, a father of two with a flair for passing messages in crowded places. And Timothy Wiggins, a man with enough jokes in his repertoire to
keep even the most skittish informants at ease. Sir Lee’s hopes for them were slim. Pushing away the grief and homing in only on the strategy, he asked, “What are you proposing, Wheaton?”

“Track him down and bring him in.”

Sir Lee sat quietly a long moment. He’d been wishing for something very much like this for a long time now. Ever since his retirement years earlier. He’d imagined being called upon once again, as a hero, the only man to handle a dangerous situation that required his very special talents. But not at the cost of two men who’d served under him faithfully for years. Never would he have wanted it at his men’s expense.

“How many men can you give me?” Sir Lee asked.

“None. We can’t have any connection to this matter, I’m afraid. Too messy with the
haut ton
involved. But I have asked a couple of Bow Street Runners I know to back you.”

“That’s pathetic,” Sir Lee growled. “Bow Street Runners are not professional intelligence officers. If two of your men had gone missing, you’d certainly find a way to supply more resources.”

“Of course I would. But they’re not my men.” The ice in his gaze was only matched by the coolness of his tone. “I’m giving you all I have to give. But more to the point, this situation requires a delicate touch. We’re dealing with Society. Muckety-mucks with nasty secrets. Less is more.”

Reaching into his pocket, Wheaton pulled out two folded sheets of foolscap. “Here’s the name of my informant who’s being blackmailed. I want him back in town and free from this nuisance. You must protect his
reputation at all costs.” He held out the paper. “Are you in?”

Sir Lee inhaled a deep breath and then reached for the foolscap. Unfolding it, he noticed that Wheaton had been thoughtful enough to print clearly and in bold letters for a change. He didn’t even need his spectacles. Noting the name listed, Sir Lee raised his brow, impressed.

Wheaton shrugged. “He has his uses. May I?”

Sir Lee nodded and handed over the foolscap.

Holding it over the candle’s flame, Wheaton watched it burn to ash. Then he held out the second piece of foolscap. “Here’s a list of those I believe or suspect are being blackmailed. For all I know some may be accomplices helping Quince get back into Society. I don’t give a rat’s ass if they burn for their sins, especially if they’re in league with the bugger.” Wheaton sniffed. “Investigate them and their associates. Use them to lead you to Quince. Do whatever you have to do. Just free up my man. As soon as I can get him back in town, he’ll be useful to me once more.”

Sir Lee’s eyes scanned the list.

“You can keep that one,” Wheaton offered.

Sir Lee pocketed it for later perusal. “And once I have Quince?”

“Use your imagination. Just ensure he doesn’t bother me again.” Wheaton lifted his glass. “To serving just deserts.”

Nodding, Sir Lee joined in the familiar toast. “To just deserts.”

The men sipped in silence, then Wheaton lifted his bulky form from the chair and stood. “I want it done,
Sir Lee. The mess cleaned up and my man back in business.” Wheaton sniffed. “Whatever it takes, I want it done.”

Knowing that tone, Sir Lee nodded. “It will be. Whatever it takes.”