The strategy meeting took place over a supper of thick fish and vegetable stew and fresh bread prepared by Mrs. Powell. By mutual consent, they concentrated on the meal rather than talking business. Having spent the afternoon in her room, Kiri had an appetite and was finishing her second bowl of stew by the time Kirkland arrived.
He greeted them tersely. “I’m glad you had a chance to eat before I ruined your appetites. This afternoon there was an assassination attempt on the prince regent.”
Kiri gasped. The regent might be self-indulgent and extravagant, but he was still the ruler of England. “Was the prince killed or injured?”
“He escaped unharmed, though he was understandably upset. He’s taking this conspiracy a lot more seriously now.” Kirkland looked bleak. “But one of my men was badly injured protecting the regent.”
“Who?” Carmichael asked sharply. “And how badly?”
“Edmund Stevenson. The surgeon thinks his arm can be saved.”
“Poor devil,” Carmichael muttered. “A good thing he was there.”
Mackenzie asked, “Did you catch the assassin?”
“There were three. Two escaped, the third was shot by Stevenson. He seemed to be a Frenchman.”
“Do you want me to look at the body?” Cassie asked. “I might recognize him.”
“I hope you do.” Kirkland frowned. “I hate to ask this of you, Kiri. Could you come with Cassie and me after supper to see if he might be one of the kidnappers you saw at the club?”
If Cassie could identify dead bodies, so could Kiri. “Of course.”
“If you’ve finished eating, we can go right now,” Kirkland said.
Cassie gave him a gimlet stare. “Sit down and eat, Kirkland. Starvation won’t make your brain work better.”
Kirkland started to protest, then smiled tiredly. “You’re right.” He accepted the bowl of stew that Cassie dished up for him.
As Kirkland dug into the food like a man who’d skipped too many meals, Mackenzie said, “We have other business as well.”
He gave Kiri a warm, private smile. “Remember how Lady Kiri identified the cologne worn by the leader of the kidnappers? This morning we went to the shop that makes it, and she charmed the proprietor into giving her a list of customers who use that scent and fit the general description of our quarry.”
Kirkland looked up from his food with approval. “You’re a born agent, Kiri.”
She laughed. “It’s good to know that my troublemaking qualities have their uses.” She produced tiny bottles containing a couple of drops of Alejandro each. “There’s no guarantee that our man will be wearing this at any given moment, but it’s one more element to the description.”
As the others sniffed at the scent bottles, Kirkland said, “I want to see the names he gave you.”
“I made copies of the list this afternoon.” Kiri passed the sheets to each of the others. “I met several of these men in society, but I can’t say much about them.”
“At least five of them are French, or have strong ties to the émigré community,” Cassie contributed.
Kirkland scanned the list. “Merritt has been in the West Indies since spring, Palmer is in the navy and seldom in England, Lord Wellston is an Irish peer who rarely crosses the Irish Sea.” He pulled out a pencil and made notes by the names.
“Most of these fellows have come to Damian’s often enough for me to recognize them,” Mackenzie said. “I know who I’d suspect first, but that would be guesswork.”
“A man who runs a gambling house is going to be better at guessing than most,” Kirkland said. “Who of these men would you consider most suspicious?”
Mackenzie listed them, and for the next hour, they all talked back and forth, each person contributing what knowledge or insights they had. By the time they finished, the list had been narrowed down to six men who seemed the most likely.
Sir Wilbur Wilks. George Burdett. Jacques Masson. Lord Fendall. Comte Vasseur. Paul Clement. Kiri drew little stars by those names on her list. “Of course, none of them might be guilty,” she murmured.
“This is how investigations are done. Piece by piece, until a pattern begins to form.” Carmichael smiled. “It’s not a job for impatient people.”
Kirkland pushed his chair from the table. “The next piece of the pattern to consider is the late and unlamented assassin. Are you ready, Kiri?”
“Lead on, Lord Kirkland.” Kiri controlled her expression. It was gentlemanly of him to be concerned for her tender sensibilities, but she’d rather be in the same category as Cassie: ready for anything.
The dead assassin lay on a stained table in a cold room by the river. Kiri did her best to turn off her nose so she wouldn’t be overwhelmed by multiple odors in the old building. As they crossed the ill-lit room to look at the corpse, Mackenzie murmured, “Steady, lass.”
She was grateful for his warm hand on her waist, and hoped none of the others were aware of her nervousness. Telling herself she could do this, she moved to one side of the table while Cassie went to the other.
The corpse looked peaceful enough, with a blanket drawn up to his neck. He seemed to be average height or a little below. Thin. Scrawny, even.
Mackenzie lifted a lantern high so light fell on the assassin’s face “Do you recognize him?”
Kiri studied the lined face, trying to imagine it partially covered with a mask. He looked to be about forty, but might appear older than his years if he’d lived a hard life. She frowned as a memory was triggered. “The man at the club had a scar on his left cheek running from here to here.” She indicated with her finger. “I just remembered that.”
“What about you, Cassie?” Kirkland asked.
“I recognize him.” Cassie stood on the other side of the table, her gaze intent. “I’ve seen him at some of the French taverns. His name is Hervé. He’s one of those disreputable sorts who lurks around the émigré community in London. I’ve heard that he was in Napoleon’s army until he deserted.”
“In other words, Hervé was the sort who could be hired for criminal activities like assassination.” Kirkland said.
“Exactly. I will make some inquiries.” Cassie gave a very French shrug. “That might give us an idea who hired him.”
“If no one has any other comments . . .” Kirkland drew the blanket over Hervé’s head. “Then now, ladies and gentlemen, it’s time for us to hunt.”
Chapter 21
Thinking herself into the role of a dim doxy, Kiri floated down the steps to join Mackenzie for their first foray into London’s shadier night places. One hand glided down the railing while the other caught up the skirt of the scandalous green silk gown. She wore a quantity of cheap jewelry to mitigate the lowness of her neckline—and one of her own personal perfume blends. Not lilacs. Tonight she wore a less innocent scent.
She also carried a folding fan. Cassie had shown her the places to jab a folded fan into impertinent males if she needed to defend herself.
Mackenzie waited at the foot of the stairs, his gaze riveted on Kiri. She saw him swallow hard before asking in a Lancashire accent, “Are you ready for your first den of iniquity, Carrie, my lass?”
“Indeed I am, Danny Boy,” she said with an Irish lilt as she studied Mackenzie. He was dressed with foppish vulgarity, his skin tanned like a man who spent too much time in the sun. The eye patch covered his blue eye, leaving the brown one to match his coloring. He had gray in his hair and padding around his middle to make him look heavier. Even a close acquaintance would have trouble recognizing him.
They had worked out their roles earlier. He was Daniel Mackey, a prosperous mill owner from near Manchester, in London for business and pleasure. She was Carrie Ford, his mistress. He was a provincial, but a shrewd one. Kiri would be a giggling doxy with a short attention span. She could do that very well.
She tapped his arm coquettishly with her folded fan. “This is my first time in London and you’re a man of the world, so I expect you to show a lass a good time.”
“I’ll do my best.” He helped her into her cloak, since the fog had risen after they’d viewed the dead Frenchman. “I hope you’re a night owl, because the places we’ll be visiting don’t get lively until midnight or after.”
“I’m more an owl than a lark.” She took his arm and they left the house. Outside a shabby hackney waited, mist swirling around it. She glanced toward the driver’s box as Mackenzie handed her in.
“One of Kirkland’s men,” he explained. “Absolutely trustworthy, and good assistance if there’s trouble.”
After he settled beside her and the vehicle started moving, Kiri said, “Now that the time has come, I feel like I’m looking for a needle in three haystacks. And the needle might not be in any of them. What if our man isn’t in a gambling mood, or is too busy for amusement, or patronizes different hells? Or he ran out of Alejandro and doesn’t want to pay a small fortune for another bottle?”
“All our efforts could be wasted,” Mackenzie said, his voice uncharacteristically sober. “In this kind of work, a great deal of effort is expended in eliminating possibilities. But if the haystacks aren’t sifted, there’s no chance at all of success.” He took hold of her hand. “And if we aren’t lucky . . . there are still compensations.”
She laughed softly, lacing her fingers through his. “There are indeed.”
As the hackney turned into the Strand, he said, “There’s another haystack I’ve been thinking about. Could you identify the smuggler you took the knife from?”
Kiri thought back to the skirmish in the pitch-black cave. An impression of size, a rank, fishy scent, a rasp of voice. “I’m not sure. It happened so fast, and there wasn’t anything that defined him, since his cologne was Eau de Fish. Would it be safe to go back? We left under something of a cloud.”
He laughed. “Delicately put. The day after I returned to London, I wrote Hawk to see if I and my business were still welcome. Loosely translated, his reply said that most of the smugglers thought the dustup was quite jolly, they liked the bonus payment for the wench, and I was a valued customer. As long as I could deliver on my promise to keep Miss Ford from leading troops to the hideout, all was forgiven.”
“I doubt Howard would agree with that last part,” she said dryly.
“Probably not, but he’s only one man. We’d be safe if we visited the hideout under Hawk’s protection.” The carriage stopped in front of a nondescript building on Jermyn Street. A small brass plate by the door read JOHNSON’S.
Mackenzie climbed out and flipped down the steps. “If we need to travel down to Kent, would you be willing, or have you had your fill of smugglers?”
She suppressed a shiver at her memory of being captured and chained to the wall. “How would they react to seeing me again? My presence might set them off.”
“Cassie could disguise you so you won’t be recognized. You could go as a young male.” He grinned. “Though your figure would need a lot of binding. I’ll understand if you’d rather not go after another needle in a fish-scented haystack.”
Kiri was ruefully aware that all anyone need do was suggest she was too weak or fearful to do something, and she immediately became determined to do it. “I’ll go.”
“Good lass.” His large hand at the back of her waist, he guided her past a pair of beefy, sharp-eyed guards and into the building. She much preferred having him as her escort rather than her servant.
Inside was a foyer that opened to a large gambling room with a variety of card games and a roulette wheel. The setting and clientele were less fashionable than Damian’s, with patrons of the middling sort. There were a few women, some playing cards, the younger and flashier ones companions like Kiri.
A sharp-eyed gentleman approached and bowed. “Good evening. I’m Mr. Johnson. Have I had the pleasure of entertaining you before?”
“Nay, I’m just down from the North for a bit. Mackey’s my name.” Mackenzie laid on the Manchester accent and didn’t introduce Kiri.
Having looked Mackenzie over and decided he was respectable, Mr. Johnson welcomed them to the establishment. He invited them to enjoy a glass of wine, then moved away to greet another guest.
Kiri unfastened her cloak and let Mackenzie take it from her shoulders, his fingers trailing tantalizingly over her nape. She gave a shiver of pleasure as heads swiveled in her direction. “You were right that this gown would attract notice.”
She heard a growling sound come from her escort. “I have a strong desire to flatten every man who is staring at you,” he muttered.
She settled into her role with a throaty chuckle. “Just remember who’s taking me home.” She fluttered her lashes and saw answering humor—and desire—in his eyes. Good. She would use that later.
For the next couple of hours, Mackenzie played at different tables, not spending long at any. His play was unremarkable, with bets neither large nor small. Kiri noticed that his winnings were also unremarkable, with him gaining a bit, losing some, winning a bit more. She guessed he was using his skills to avoid standing out.
Kiri spent her time wandering about, sipping wine very slowly. As Mackenzie played at the different tables, she was able to study his opponents. After that, she flirted with gentlemen who were taking breaks from the play.
The flirtation netted her a hissed threat from another female who thought Kiri was poaching on her man. Kiri purred back, “Don’t worry, duck, I’ve got me a good man of my own. No need to steal another.”
She moved away, her hips swaying provocatively. After a spell watching dice being cast at the hazard table, she joined Mackenzie, who was now playing whist. The club was getting busier, but she hadn’t smelled even a trace of Alejandro. Hungary water was widely used, but not by any men who might be kidnappers.
She was returning from a visit to the ladies’ retiring room when a drunken gamester cornered her in the corridor. “You’re the prettiest thing here, sweeting,” he said with sloppy admiration. “Give me a kiss?”
She laughed and tried to sidle away. “I don’t give away my kisses, sir.”
“Then call it a sample, because I might be willing to pay your price after I taste the goods.” He moved in quickly, pinning her against the wall as he tried to find her lips.
Gagging from his whiskey-tainted breath, Kiri gave him a hard jab in the ribs with her fan, but he was so drunk he barely noticed. When one meaty paw clamped onto her breast, her temper flared and she almost smashed her knee into his groin.
Before she could emasculate the drunk, he flew backward with a squawk. Mackenzie had the back of the drunk’s collar. In a voice that would have frozen a more sober man solid, he snapped, “Keep your hands off the lady.”
The drunk just blinked at him. “She ain’t no lady,” he said reproachfully. “As sweet a piece of mutton as I’ve ever seen. Jus’ wanted to get to know her better.”
Mackenzie made a disgusted sound and tossed the drunk into the opposite wall. The fellow slid to the floor with an “Oof!”
Mackenzie kicked the drunk in the ribs, not with bone-shattering force, but hard enough to leave bruises. “The lady is mine. Be grateful I didn’t let her destroy your chance of future children.”
“Jus’ telling her how pretty she was,” the drunk said petulantly.
Mackenzie kicked the drunk’s ribs harder. “Mine!” He turned to Kiri and offered his arm. “Time to leave, lass?”
A little shaken, she nodded. “After we collect my cloak.” She gave the drunk a contemptuous glance. “I can use some fresh air.”
They returned to the main room. If anyone had noticed the altercation, it wasn’t considered significant enough to react. Mackenzie reclaimed her cloak, setting it around her shoulders as if she were a glass princess.
She pulled the garment tight when they stepped outdoors. The night air had become even colder and the sky was spitting rain.
As they waited for their carriage, he asked, “Had enough for one night?”
She took a deep breath. “I’m ready for anoth
er establishment. I knew there would be men like that drunk. The hard part was remembering not to hurt him too badly.”
“You’re a stalwart lass.” The carriage arrived and he handed her in. After giving an address to the driver, Mackenzie joined her inside and wrapped an arm around her shoulders. “Did you spot anyone suspicious?”
She nestled close to his warm body. “There were several who used Hungary water, but none that looked like the kidnappers. Did you learn anything interesting?”
He shook his head. “It would be the sheerest luck to learn anything so soon. We could spend weeks or even months visiting such places and discover nothing. Or we could find our villain at the next stop.”
“I haven’t the temperament for spying,” she decided. “Patience is so singularly absent from my nature.”
“I’m much the same,” Mackenzie admitted. “But I’ll help Kirkland when needed. It isn’t always clear if spying is useful, but stopping an assassination matters.”
“What’s the name of this next place?”
“The Captain’s Club. It’s a hell, not a proper club, but it draws a number of past and present military men. There will be fewer women.”
“So I’ll have less chance of getting my eyes scratched out.”
“I have the utmost faith that you will win any catfights,” he said with warm confidence. “Unless you take on Cassie. That would be even odds.”
She laughed. “You keep a close eye on me, don’t you? You appeared rather quickly when that drunk got out of hand.”
“My first duty is to keep you safe. All else is secondary.”
“Thank you.” She took his hand, comforted by the knowledge that they were a team. “More of this tomorrow?”
“Yes, we’ll visit a gambling hell in a woman’s house. Madame Blanche runs her establishment more like a private house party than a club, so there’s dancing and decent food as well as gaming. You’ll need Cassie’s help for a thorough disguise.” He frowned. “At some point, we might need to go to a boxing match if that’s where the third surviving kidnapper is to be found.”
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