Tristan smiled vaguely, distantly, indeed
through
a gentleman who glanced their way; the man decided against intruding. “I saw Deverell at the table—he was seated not far from me. He mentioned that Warnefleet and St. Austell were here, too.”
“You can add Tregarth and Blake—I saw them as I was arriving—” Christian broke off. “Ah, I see. Dalziel has only allowed those of us who have sold out to appear?”
Tristan caught his eye; the smile that was never far from his mobile lips deepened. “Can you imagine Dalziel allowing even Prinny to identify his most secret of secret operatives?”
Christian hid a smile, raised his glass to his lips, and sipped. Dalziel—he went by no other name or honorific—was the Foreign Office taskmaster who, from his office buried in the depths of Whitehall, managed His British Majesty’s foreign spy network, a network that had been deeply involved in handing victory to England and her allies, both in the Peninsula campaign and more recently at Waterloo. Together with a certain Lord Whitley, his opposite number in the Home Office, Dalziel was responsible for all covert operations both within England and beyond its borders. “I didn’t realize Tregarth or Blake were in the same boat as we two, and I know of the others only by repute.” He glanced at Tristan. “Are you sure the others are leaving?”
“I know Warnefleet and Blake are, for much the same reasons as we. As for the others, it’s purely conjecture, but I can’t see Dalziel compromising an operative of St. Austell’s caliber, or Tregarth’s or Deverell’s for that matter, just to pander to Prinny’s latest whim.”
“True.” Christian again looked out over the sea of heads.
Both he and Tristan were tall, broad-shouldered, and lean, with the honed strength of men used to action, a strength imperfectly concealed by the elegant cut of their evening clothes. Beneath those clothes, both bore the scars of years of active service; although their nails were perfectly manicured, it would be some months yet before the telltale signs of their unusual, often ungentlemanly erstwhile occupation faded from their hands—the calluses, the roughness, the leatherlike palms.
They and their five colleagues known to be present had all served Dalziel and their country for at least a decade, Christian for nearly fifteen years. They’d served in whatever guise had been required, from nobleman to streetsweeper, from clerk to navvy. There had, for them, been only one measure of success—discovering the information they’d been sent behind enemy lines to acquire and surviving long enough to get it back to Dalziel.
Christian sighed, drained his glass. “I’m going to miss it.”
Tristan’s laugh was short. “Aren’t we all?”
“Be that as it may, given that we’re no longer on His Majesty’s payroll”—Christian set his empty glass down on a nearby sideboard—“I fail to see why we need stand here talking, when we could be much more comfortable doing the same elsewhere . . .” His grey gaze met the eyes of a gentleman clearly considering approaching; the gentleman considered again and turned away. “And without running the risk of having to do the pretty for whichever toady captures us and demands to hear our story.”
Glancing at Tristan, Christian raised a brow. “What say you—shall we adjourn to pleasanter surrounds?”
“By all means.” Tristan handed his empty glass to a passing footman. “Do you have any particular venue in mind?”
“I’ve always been partial to the Ship and Anchor. It has a very cosy snug.”
Tristan inclined his head. “The Ship and Anchor, then. Dare we leave together, do you think?”
Christian’s lips curved. “Heads together, talking earnestly in hushed and urgent tones—if we make for the door unobtrusively but determinedly, I can see no reason we shouldn’t walk straight through.”
They did. Everyone who saw them assumed one had been sent to summon the other for some secret but highly significant purpose; the footmen rushed to get their coats, and then they strode out, into the crisp night.
Both paused, drew in a deep breath, clearing the stultifying stuffiness of the overheated Pavilion from their lungs, then, exchanging faint smiles, they stepped out.
Leaving the Pavilion’s brightly lit entrance, they emerged onto North Street. Turning right, they walked with the relaxed gait of men who knew where they were going, toward Brighton Square and the Lanes beyond. Reaching the narrow, cobbled ways lined with fishermen’s cottages, they dropped into single file, at every crossroads changing place, eyes always watching, searching the shadows . . . if either realized, realized they were now at home, at peace, no longer fugitives, no longer at war, neither commented nor tried to suppress the behavior that had over the years become second nature to them both.
They headed steadily south, toward the sound of the sea, soughing in the darkness beyond the shore. Finally, they turned into Black Lion Street. At the other end of the street lay the Channel, the border beyond which they’d lived most of the past decade. Halting beneath the swinging sign of the Ship and Anchor, they both paused, eyes on the darkness framed by the houses at the end of the street. The smell of the sea, the brine on the wind, the familiar tang of seaweed, reached them.
For an instant, memory held them both, then, as one, they turned. Christian pushed open the door, and they went inside.
Warmth enveloped them, the sounds of English voices, the hop-infused scent of good English ale. Both relaxed, an all but indefinable tension falling from them. Christian walked up to the bar. “Two pots of your best.”
The landlord nodded a greeting and quickly pulled the pints.
Christian glanced at the half-closed door behind the bar. “We’ll sit in your snug.”
The landlord glanced at him, then set the frothing tankards on the bar, shooting a quick glance at the snug door as he did. “As to the snug, sir, you’re welcome, I’m sure, but there’s a group o’ gen’lemen in there already, and they might not welcome strangers, like.”
Christian raised his brows. He reached for the flap in the counter and lifted it, stepping past as he picked up one tankard. “We’ll risk it.”
Tristan hid a grin, tossed coins on the counter for the ale, hoisted the second tankard, and followed on Christian’s heels.
He was standing at Christian’s shoulder when Christian sent the snug door swinging wide.
The group gathered around two tables pushed together looked around; five pairs of eyes locked on them.
Five grins dawned.
Charles St. Austell sat back in the chair at the far end of the table and magnanimously waved them in. “You are better men than we. We were about to take bets on how long you’d stand it.”
The others stood so the tables and chairs could be rearranged. Tristan shut the door, set down his tankard, then joined in the round of introductions.
Although they’d all served under Dalziel, they’d never met all seven together. Each knew some of the others; none of them had previously met all.
Christian Allardyce, the eldest and longest serving, had operated in the east of France, often in Switzerland, Germany, and the other smaller states and principalities; with his fairish coloring and facility for languages, he’d been a natural in that sphere.
Tristan himself had served more generally, often in the heart of things, in Paris and the major industrial cities; his fluency in French as well as German and Italian, his brown hair, brown eyes, and easy charm, had served him and his country well.
He’d never crossed paths with Charles St. Austell, the most outwardly flamboyant of the group. With his tumbling black locks and flashing dark blue eyes, Charles was a magnet for ladies young and old. Half-French, he possessed both the tongue and the wit to make the most of his physical attributes; he’d been Dalziel’s principal operative in the south of France, in Carcasonne and Toulouse.
Gervase Tregarth, a Cornishman with curling brown hair and sharp hazel eyes, had, so Tristan learned, spent much of the last decade in Britanny and Normandy. He knew St. Austell from the past, but in the field they’d never met.
Tony Blake was another scion of an English house who was also half-French. Black-haired, black-eyed, he was the most elegant of the group, yet there was an underlying sharpness beneath the smooth veneer; he was the operative Dalziel had most often used to intercept and interfere with the French spymasters’ networks, a hideously dangerous undertaking centered on the northern French ports. That Tony was alive was a testament to his mettle.
Jack Warnefleet was outwardly a conundrum; he appeared so overtly English, startlingly handsome, with fairish brown hair and hazel eyes, that it was hard to imagine he’d been consistently successful in infiltrating all levels of French shipping and many business deals as well. He was a chameleon even more than the rest of them, with a cheery, hail-fellow-well-met geniality few saw beyond.
Deverell was the last man Tristan shook hands with, a personable man with an easy smile, dark brown hair, and greenish eyes. Despite being uncommonly handsome, he possessed the knack of blending in with any group. He had served almost exclusively in Paris, and had never been detected.
The introductions complete, they sat. The snug was now comfortably full; a fire burned cheerily in one corner as in the flickering light they settled about the table, almost shoulder to shoulder.
They were all large men; they had all at some point been guardsmen in one regiment or another, until Dalziel had found them and lured them into serving through his office.
Not that he’d had to persuade all that hard.
Savoring his first sip of ale, Tristan ran his eye around the table. Outwardly, they were all different, yet they were, very definitely, brothers beneath the skin. Each was a gentleman born of some aristocratic lineage, each possessed similar attributes, abilities, and talents, although the relative balance differed. Most important, however, each was a man capable of dicing with danger, one who could and would accept the challenge of a life-and-death engagement without a flicker—more, with an inbred confidence and a certain devil-may-care arrogance.
There was more than a touch of the wild adventurer in each of them. And they were loyal to the bone.
Deverell set down his tankard. “Is it true we’ve all sold out?” There were nods and glances all around; Deverell grinned. “Is it polite to inquire why?” He looked at Christian. “In your case, I assume Allardyce must now become Dearne?”
Wryly, Christian inclined his head. “Indeed. Once my father died and I came into the title, any choice evaporated. If it hadn’t been for Waterloo, I would already be deeply mired in issues pertaining to sheep and cattle, and no doubt leg-shackled to boot.”
His tone, faintly disgusted, brought commiserating smiles to the others’ faces.
“That sounds all too familiar.” Charles St. Austell looked down the table. “I hadn’t expected to inherit, but while I was away, both my elder brothers failed me.” He grimaced. “So now I’m the Earl of Lostwithiel and, so my sisters, sisters-in-law, and dear mother constantly remind me, long overdue at the altar.”
Jack Warnefleet laughed, not entirely humorously. “Entirely unexpectedly, I’ve joined the club, too. The title was expected—it was the pater’s—but the houses and the blunt came via a great-aunt I barely knew existed, so now, I’ve been told, I rank high on the list of eligibles and can expect to be hunted until I succumb and take a wife.”
“Moi, aussi.”
Gervase Tregarth nodded to Jack. “In my case it was a cousin who succumbed to consumption and died ridiculously young, so now I’m the Earl of Crowhurst, with a house in London I haven’t even seen and a need, so I’ve been informed, to get myself a wife and heir, given I’m now the last of the line.”
Tony Blake made a dismissive sound. “At least you don’t have a French mother—believe me, when it comes to hounding one to the altar, they take the cake.”
“I’ll drink to that.” Charles raised his tankard to Tony. “But does that mean you, too, have returned to these shores to discover yourself encumbered?”
Tony wrinkled his nose. “Courtesy of my father, I’ve become Viscount Torrington—I’d hoped it would be years yet, but . . .” He shrugged. “What I didn’t know was that over the past decade the pater had taken an interest in various investments. I’d expected to inherit a decent livelihood—I hadn’t expected to succeed to great wealth. And then discover the entire ton knows it. I stopped briefly in town on my way down here to call on my godmother.” He shuddered. “I was nearly mobbed. It was horrendous.”
“It’s because we lost so many at Waterloo.” Deverell gazed into his tankard; they were all silent for a moment, remembering lost comrades, then all lifted their mugs and drank.
“I have to confess I’m in much the same straits.” Deverell set down his tankard. “I’d no expectations when I left England, only to discover on my return that some distant cousin twice removed had turned up his toes, and I’m now Viscount Paignton, with the houses, the income—and just like you all, the dire need of a wife. I can manage the land and funds, but the houses, let alone the social obligations—they’re a web far worse than any French plot.”
“And the consequences of failing could drive you to your grave,” St. Austell put in.
There were dark murmurs of assent all around. All eyes turned to Tristan.
He smiled. “That’s quite a litany, but I fear I can trump all your tales.” He looked down, turning his tankard between his hands. “I, too, returned to find myself encumbered—with a title, two houses and a hunting box, and considerable wealth. However, both houses are home to an assortment of females, various great-aunts, cousins, and other more distant connections. I inherited from my great-uncle, the recently departed third Earl of Trentham, who positively loathed his brother—my grandfather—and also my late father, and me.
“His argument was we were wastrel ne’er-do-wells who came and went as we pleased, traveled the world, and so on. In all fairness, I must say that now I’ve met my great-aunts and their female army, I can see the old boy’s point. He must have felt trapped by his position, sentenced to live his life surrounded by doting, meddling females.”
A frisson ran around the table.