Sinless (The Shaws)

by Lynne Connolly

  “I wondered.” Morgan glanced at the offending bee on his sleeve. “You are always so discreet, my lord, that to see something as blatant as that print came as a surprise, to say the least. Business, you say?”

  Darius thought rapidly. “Yes, but I am not yet prepared to say what. I found the man astute and talented. He could prove very useful to the little venture I am running along with my brother and cousin. Rarely does one discover a truly underused talent.” That sounded damned plausible. He tucked the thought away, to be considered another time. He leaned closer. “Since my family discovered him, I needed to move fast. He has considerable talent and some truly innovative ideas.”

  “He’s that good?”

  “I believe so.”

  “Tell me more.”

  Putting the lie to his preferred appearance of extravagant wastrel, Morgan was astute and perceptive. Since the man could bring Andrew much business if he had a mind to it, Darius was only too glad to discuss his merits as a lawyer. If Andrew lost business from the narrow-minded people who currently employed him, Darius was determined he would find better prospects elsewhere.

  Moving smoothly on, Darius wasted time discussing topics he had little interest in but made a point of talking about, like that damned soprano they were discussing at dinner. After a completely fruitless discussion about who she would take as her new lover, in which he could drop so many names Morgan would probably forget they’d even mentioned General Court, he passed on to the next person at the ball. He dropped his thoughts into their ears, discovering a few snippets that disturbed him in the process.

  He went home shortly after midnight, enlightened, but committed to pursue what he had discovered.

  * * * *

  “Of course I cannot discuss any particulars about a client the bank may or may not have,” Miss Childers said.

  The Miss Childers, bank owner, presented an entirely different picture to the one in full dress, the society hostess. Darius preferred this one. She wore a simple gown of dark green cloth, a shawl wrapped around her shoulders against the chill of the late October day. Her golden hair was drawn neatly back and fastened into a knot at the back of her head, and she wore no paint or powder. A linen protector covered the lace ruffles at her elbow, holding them clear of the ink and paper on her desk. The desk itself bore the signs of hard use, ink stains, scratches, and grooves marring the surface of the old, well-loved piece.

  “I understand that,” he said softly, “but a mutual acquaintance of ours could be in danger.”

  She leaned back, putting her pen in the stand and giving him her full attention. “Let us have a hypothetical case.”

  “I suspect one of your clients may be a traitor to this country.”

  “Do you have proof?”

  Reluctantly, Darius shook his head. The woman had a very straight, almost uncomfortable stare. “Suspicions. Strong suspicions.”

  She sucked in a breath and let it out in a sigh, making her linen-covered bosom heave in a way most men would find intriguing. Darius was not one of them. “Then I cannot tell you of any specific clients. However, I can tell you a young man with a strict allowance and no other means of support can sail close to the wind. A London life is expensive, especially if someone wishes to belong to the best clubs and appear creditably in society. They may run on tick with their tailors, but I understand debts of honor can prove more pressing.”

  Darius sharpened his attention. Why hadn’t he thought of it before? He needed to know one more thing before he left. “The matter we discussed on Saturday. Has that been resolved?”

  “Sadly, yes,” she said. “The account was closed yesterday. The person came to collect it.”

  Bartolini had taken his money, or rather, his master’s money. French money that he was to use to bribe officials and buy information. He was not planning to return to town. From his destination, Dover, Darius had assumed so. So that was their last chance to intercept him and discover his connection. Who had given him the precious list.

  Darius had more than a suspicion now. He would visit the clubs. Starting with the largest and most prestigious: White’s.

  * * * *

  Darius belonged to a small, cozy club establishment in Pall Mall set above a coffeehouse. Tonight he walked past it and around the corner to the more imposing doorway of White’s.

  White’s Club had recently moved into a new property in St. James, opposite the royal palace. The red-brick exterior of St. James’s Palace reared over the nearby neat modern edifices, seeming to frown with disapproval on the center of fashionable dissipation.

  Every man of fashion had membership. Darius paused to sign the book and hand his sword, hat, and gloves to the porter behind the counter. Lingering, he noted the recent signatures, and discovered his quarry had signed in last night. He handed a guinea to the porter when he returned and tapped the tip of the pen on the name in question. “Have you seen Mr. Court today? I would like a word with him on a business matter.”

  “No, sir, nor likely to, from what I heard.” While the porter didn’t actually bite the guinea, he took his time putting the coin away.

  Darius took the hint and handed him another, adding a confiding smile. “Do tell. I have a positive hunger for gossip.”

  “Well, my lord, I daresay you can hear it from anybody who was here last night, so it’s not like I’m giving away confidences.” The twang of London echoed around the small outer hall, the arched doorway leading to a far more impressive area beyond. But guests did not generally linger here. Unless they wanted to hear gossip.

  The porter tucked his finger under his snowy white wig and scratched his scalp. “Mr. Court was here last night, but if you look back in the book, you’ll see he came here most nights recently. He was a bit, shall we say, merry.”

  “Drunk,” said Darius, who had no mind for euphemisms.

  “I dare say, my lord. And loud. I wasn’t on duty, mind you, but everybody’s talking about it this morning. Made a scene, he did. Lost a game of piquet with Lord Morningside and then rolled dice with the gentlemen and lost there, too. When they refused to take his notes of hand, he was asked to leave. He preferred not to, so we were forced to put him out. Shouting and yelling, he was.”

  “What did he say?”

  “Oh, general threats, nothing we’ve not heard before. Like he’d make us pay, and wait until his father got to hear of this. That kind of thing. And he threatened to come back. Friday, he said he was coming, and he’d win it all back and more besides.”

  But Court had already sold the list to Bartolini. Did he have more information he’d stolen from his careless father? Probably not, since the general’s staff had started tidying up after him, ensuring nothing sensitive was left in the open. He could only sell the list once.

  Darius halted, struck by a sudden thought. Unless he planned to take it back and resell it. Surely he would not be so foolish. He would know Bartolini had a sum of money, and from what Darius had learned, he was desperate enough to try it. But Bartolini would only release the money if Court had more information.

  Or if he was dead.

  Andrew expected to take the list and the spy and return to London. He wouldn’t know a desperate man was on his way, an unstable character who would do anything to save his reputation. Court’s gambling was out of hand. That was clear. Probably his drinking, too.

  Andrew was in danger, and Darius had sent him there.

  Chapter 13

  Dover was seventy miles from London, two days on the road. A public coach would grind its way down and take three. However, in this private well-sprung vehicle, they need not concern themselves with other people’s timetables.

  After a night at an inn where he was treated like a god, Andrew had a taste of true luxury. Sitting in the gently rocking vehicle with a basket of fresh provisions sitting next to him and a hot brick under the metal holder at his feet, he decided this was very much the way he wanted to travel forever.

  If it weren’t for the anxiety gnaw
ing at his stomach, he could be perfectly happy.

  The carriage swept around a bend and passed a few houses straggled along the road, the beginning of the great port of Dover. Andrew had not visited before, never having found the need to, so he watched with interest. Outlying villas like the ones on the outskirts of London came next, and then the buildings became more closely packed.

  The carriage bowled into the town and along the road before the sea. A forest of masts greeted Andrew, their sails furled, pennants flying. The Port of London could not have offered a more varied throng. While a few passersby paused to glance at the vehicle, most ignored it. They could see no crest on the doors, and the footmen were not arrayed in colorful livery. He was nobody of note, and he liked it that way.

  The horses took the steep climb into the town easily, better than Andrew would have, he had to admit. A room had been bespoken for him at an inn situated in the High Street. That turned out to be a broad, modern thoroughfare containing a goodly collection of stone houses and shops.

  Anticipation of the coming adventure giving him an added impetus, Andrew climbed down the steps when the footman let them down for him and strode into the inn. The same footman, the aptly named Bull, followed hard on his heels. He made no comment, although having a man follow his footsteps would become irksome, if he had to put up with it for more than a few days.

  The landlord greeted him, all clean apron and clasped hands. “Sir, we have a room ready for you.”

  “Good.” Expecting a small, cramped, worn room, Andrew followed him upstairs to a spacious chamber filled with well-cared for antiques. The four-poster bed was unlike anything he had ever slept in, and he had more room here than in his own bedroom at home.

  As soon as the innkeeper had gone, Andrew rounded on Bull. “Whose idea was this?”

  The man’s thick eyebrows rose, and he took a heavy step back. “What? I’m sorry, sir, I’m not sure what you mean.”

  “If I’m not mistaken, this is the best bedroom. Weren’t we supposed to be traveling quietly? Why not travel with six liveried servants and crests displayed?” If he asked for a modest room now, he’d draw even more attention to himself. “I can only pray nobody makes inquiries about visitors in the town. We are hunting spies!” He slapped his clenched fist down on his open palm. “What do you think spies do?” He took care not to raise his voice, but he longed to let rip, roar his anger. He’d traveled two days for this?

  “Sir, there are plenty of inns in town, some grander than this.” Although red in the face, Bull only bowed his head. He must have been accustomed to petulant aristocrats.

  “I see.” Andrew glanced out of the window at the glorious view of the harbor. “Who was sent to bespeak a room?”

  “Smith, sir.”

  The other burly footman had ridden ahead. They were serving their masters the best way they knew. It had probably not occurred to him to ask for a smaller, less notable chamber.

  “Never mind.”

  They had ordered the best room in the house because that was what they always did. He would never have done so. Yet another difference between his life and Darius’s and another reason for them to remain apart, if he needed one.

  Sadly, he did need another reason. He had enough to build a wall strong enough to prevent him climbing it.

  “Very well.” He had been told to take the two footmen into his confidence, so he would. “I am to meet Bartolini later this evening. You will guide me to the place and keep me safe, or so I understand.”

  Smith nodded. “We are here to take your orders, sir.”

  “You’ve been told this is a matter of national importance. If necessary, we will let Bartolini go, as long as we have the list. But we must secure that and ensure he hasn’t done something as foolish as memorizing it.”

  “Lord Darius told us to capture the man, sir.”

  “If we can do it without imperiling the list. Let me hand him the money and secure the list before we move to take him. Got that?”

  Smith bowed his head. “Yes, sir. Lord Darius did tell me you’re in charge of this, and we are to take our orders from you.”

  Skilled though he was, Andrew couldn’t interpret Smith’s expression. He had no idea if the man approved of the orders, but he did not care. As long as they did what they came here for, he would never have to see this man or his counterpart again.

  “We are to meet Bartolini in a courtyard. I dislike that. I would rather meet him somewhere more public.”

  Smith nodded. “I agree, sir, but we do not have any contact with the man before the meeting. Bull has gone to find the place and will report back.”

  Sighing, Andrew moved away to find his nightshirt and shaving gear and to shake out his spare shirt. “We may as well eat. We’ll need sustenance.”

  * * * *

  Night fell early at this time of year. Sitting by the wide window in his bedroom, Andrew watched the sun sinking over the horizon. This was a larger and better appointed room than at his home. Perhaps he should spend more time looking for a larger house after all. He could afford it.

  That was, if the hemorrhage of clients halted soon. When he got back, he would discover how much damage the caricature had done to him. Who would have thought a mere drawing could cause so much damage?

  Would he take it back? Yes, and he had done so, but he had to face the truth. The caricature would not have happened if there was not some truth in the story. He cared for Darius, and while he thought he’d done a good job of concealing it, someone had noticed. Several “someones,” most likely at the ball. Should he turn his back and deny everything?

  He still had no answer to that. For his daughter’s sake and for his livelihood, he should. Do the right thing, face reality, all the spine-stiffening words he’d told himself since he’d discovered his partiality.

  Yet he was tired, so tired of hiding what he was, of denying his desires. Darius was not the only man he had felt a tendre for over the years, but he was the least resistible.

  A knock at the door alerted him to the time. He rose and dragged his greatcoat off the chair, taking care to button it. Hefting the loaded pistols from the bedside table, he tested their weight and then tucked them in his pockets, one in each to keep his balance steady. His skill lay in words, not violence, but he needed to appear fully armed and dangerous for this encounter. He didn’t feel dangerous at all, but he could put on a good show. That was, after all, his job.

  After pulling on his gloves and finding his hat, he was ready. As ready as he would get, anyway.

  When he opened the door to his room, he found two ruffians waiting for him, their clothes dark, shabby, and nondescript. Totally unlike their neat footman attire. They left the inn, passing by the tap room raucous with laughter and shouting, the gust of beer and tobacco overwhelming in its intensity.

  Outside, the smell changed to that of the sea. Salt-laden fresh air blended with aromas of tar, rotting fish, and other scents Andrew could not identify. Andrew huddled inside his greatcoat as the wind cut through him. London, set in a valley, crammed with humanity, all burning coal and timber fires never grew this chilly. He liked it. It helped to brace him against the ordeal to come. He set his jaw, but his throat and stomach tensed, making him wish he had not eaten so heartily earlier.

  Darius and the two footmen would take this in their stride, he was sure.

  “Thought I’d pop ’im,” Smith muttered. “Got my nightstick in my pocket.”

  After he had dismissed the possibility of innuendo, Andrew inferred the man was talking about a cudgel. “Only if we have to. Last resort,” he said.

  Smith growled, but his “Yes, sir,” signaled obedience.

  “Don’t like this yard,” Bull put in. “Dark, lonely, not near anywhere. Our orders are to look after you, sir. Get the list, pay the man, and then we’ll take ’im if we can. Then we go. I’ve got a watchman looking the other way while we use his lockup.”

  “Good. That will be useful.” Andrew had vaguely considered ty
ing their prisoner up and making him spend the night in the carriage, guarded by Smith or Bull. A lockup would serve the purpose much better. “How much did you have to pay him?”

  “Not a lot. Master gave me some guineas for expenses.”

  Darius had thought of everything.

  If they took Bartolini, it would be a straightforward, clean arrest. Andrew would have to endure the man in the carriage with him, but if he wanted, he could travel on the box with the coachman. He might do that, despite the cold. He stamped his feet against the growing chill. At least it wasn’t raining.

  Recalling what he’d done before appearing at Bow Street, Andrew took a few deep breaths and clenched his fists, relaxing them deliberately to dissipate some of his tension. A little was good. It kept him on edge, alert, but too much blunted his resolve and his reactions.

  All this for a simple exchange, but he couldn’t help it. The purse of gold coins weighed down his breeches pocket, much as the pistols in his greatcoat dragged him down. He was not used to this town or this situation. He had faced murderers before but not like this.

  After passing a couple of taverns, their doors open, filled with laughing, shouting clientele, Smith stopped before a narrow alleyway between two houses. They were no longer in a well-lit, comfortable part of town. Instead, the houses were smaller, their facades streaked with soot, gaps in the plaster work revealing the crumbling bricks beneath. Not quite a rookery, though. The shops had shutters closing their frontages, not iron bars. The horse dung was swept into the middle of the road, ready for the night soil men.

  Smith simply jerked his head. “It’s not that bad,” he murmured, and led the way.

  The alley barely took Andrew’s breadth, and his two companions had to shuffle their way in. Andrew didn’t like this one bit, but he clamped his jaws together and carried on. Ten paces from the road took them into a small courtyard, lit only by the half moon and starlight. The clear night proved fortunate in that case.

  The courtyard was a smallish space formed from the backs of four houses. No larger than fifteen feet square, with another alley opposite them offering another way out.