A dozen years ago, the government established the Foreign Letter Office to open correspondence to foreign embassies from their governments. The office got so good at opening, copying, and resealing the letters that evidence of their tampering went unnoticed. Within a year, this secret operation was absorbed into the Alien Office, another office known only to a trusted few.
William had been one of the few for many years. But now he was trusted by no one, and his plan to secure his own future had transformed into a monstrous enterprise that sickened him to the core. How had he lost all control to LaRouche?
Some would think the Frenchman insane, but William knew better. The man was ten times more intelligent than anyone of his acquaintance. Yes, it was true that many a genius descended into madness. LaRouche would never forfeit so much control, however. He loved power and money far too much.
A knock sounded at the door, and William whirled around, grabbing his pistol from a nearby table. No one knew he was staying here, not even LaRouche. He’d been careful not to stay in the same location for more than two days. Any more than that and his enemies were sure to find him.
William had failed his foreign partners one too many times, and he had no doubt they were now seeking his death. He was a loose end they needed to snip off. William understood, for he would have done the same had their roles been reversed.
Another knock, this one more insistent. William crept across the darkened room. He never lit candles for fear of drawing undue attention to himself. Leaning close, he pressed his ear near the door at the same time a boot slammed into the other side. Streaks of white light exploded before his eyes, and wind whipped past his ears as he sailed backward.
Unable to catch his footing, he crashed into the bed frame and the side of his head struck the sharp corner. Bone cracked, and he lost vision in his right eye. He hit the floor with enough force to drive out what little air he had left in his lungs.
A large, filthy boot stepped on the side of his throat. Pain ripped through William’s neck as tendons and ligaments ground together. He grappled for his weapon while thrusting the heel of his palm to the inside of his assailant’s knee. The man grunted but the pressure on William’s throat did not ease. With his impaired vision and limited movement, his pistol could be inches away but it might as well be miles, for he could not locate it.
“Do that again, guv’nor,” his assailant said, “and I’ll break your wee privileged neck.”
William squeezed his eyes shut and blinked them open again, trying to regain focus. The action proved little use, especially when his assailant rotated his boot forward, shoving William’s face in the opposite direction. With his nose a mere inch from the wooden floorboards, his world narrowed down to a blurry image of a year’s worth of dust and dead insects beneath the bed.
Behind him, a door creaked. “You should have answered the door on the first knock, monsieur,” a newcomer said.
The sound of LaRouche’s refined voice caused his fingers to reflexively dig into his assailant’s ankle. A worrisome pressure began to build in William’s head.
“You are looking quite unkempt, monsieur.” The Frenchman moved farther into the room until William could see the tips of his polished shoes. “I think it might be time to replace your valet. Oh, that is right. You no longer have a valet. How insensitive of me to forget.”
LaRouche’s not-so-subtle reminder of William’s reduced circumstances did nothing to discompose him. Everything he had lost he would replace it tenfold in America. Everything but one item, he amended, with a mixture of fury and regret. Lydia, he would never be able to replace.
“What do you want, LaRouche?”
He tsked. “Surely, you know.”
“The list?” Black spots now dotted his vision.
“Oui, monsieur. You failed to deliver.”
“My man established a list of agents did not exist. Had you not ordered his death, he might have gleaned other useful intelligence about the Nexus members.” He had also ordered Lydia’s death, but LaRouche would never know how much that decision affected him. Never would he hand over that kind of power.
“Cochran’s usefulness had come to an end,” LaRouche said.
William was losing consciousness. His hand dropped away from his assailant’s ankle, and his lids fluttered like a trapped butterfly in a losing battle.
“Mr. Jones, I do believe you’re killing him. Now is not the time.”
Before the ruffian obeyed, he thrust his boot deeper into William’s throat. Sucking in a lung full of air, William somehow found enough strength and presence of mind to roll away from the two men. Like a child who had whirled around in a circle too long, he could not command his equilibrium. Instead, he crouched on one knee, his hands braced on the floor before him. “What is the point of this meeting, LaRouche?” His voice was raw, broken. “I am well aware of what you want and am working on a solution.”
“How can you solve something that does not exist?”
William lifted his head and noted the hard line framing the Frenchman’s mouth. “I warned you that Somerton would never betray his agents, even under duress.”
“So you did,” LaRouche said in a conciliatory tone that raised the hairs on William’s arms. “Since you were unable to bring me a list of the Nexus secret service agents, my superiors have devised a new plan.”
Rolling to his feet, William faced this new threat on limbs that quivered like a newborn fawn’s. “A plan that requires my assistance?”
LaRouche sent him a knowing smile. “Call this new request an opportunity for redemption, if you will. You have much to make up for.”
So, he wouldn’t die today. Relief steadied his trembling legs, though he knew it to be a temporary condition. Whatever task LaRouche had in store for him, William sensed it would violate what few morals he had left. If nothing else, Bonaparte was determined to squash England beneath his rule and would order all manner of savagery to make his greatest wish come true. William could not be here when that happened. He should not even be here now. Traitors were tolerated but never accepted. Not by their home country, nor by the enemy they aided. William’s plan had always been to collect his blood-fortune and then disappear. With Lydia and…
LaRouche said, “You are familiar with the new Viscount Melville?”
William nodded carefully, while his mind searched for a possible connection. “Henry Dundas, the former War Secretary.”
“The very same.” LaRouche began to pace a wide circle around him. “He has a grandson of the same name, if I’m not mistaken.”
“I’ll have to take your word for it.” William’s stomach coiled into a knot when he recalled Melville’s current position within the government. “I try to avoid such intimate discussions.”
“You surprise me,” LaRouche said from behind him. “I would think an intelligence gatherer would be interested in all manner of discussions. One never knows what morsels might prove useful. Like now.”
“Lord Melville?” William pressed.
“Bring me his grandson.”
William concentrated on keeping his breathing even. “How old is the boy?”
LaRouche stopped before him. “Petit Henry will celebrate his fourth birthday in February.” He tilted his head to the side. “Please do not tell me you are being plagued by scruples, monsieur.”
Most had vanished from his life two years ago when he’d made his first exchange with the French. He had not been unhappy with that fact until a few weeks ago, when his euphoric state disintegrated into a pile of bone-crushing loss.
“You would ask that of me?” William infused as much scorn into his tone as he could manage. “After all the crimes I’ve committed against my countrymen?”
“Yes, I see your point.” LaRouche pivoted to leave.
Heart pounding, William demanded, “We will make an exchange when I deliver the Dundas boy.�
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LaRouche paused, then glanced over his shoulder. “Of course. However, should you disappoint me again, I will be forced to destroy what is yours.”
Eleven
“Lord Danforth, I’m so happy you could join our little gathering.” The Marchioness of Shevington crossed the drawing room, extending her hands in greeting.
Ethan obediently kissed her powdered cheek. “And miss an opportunity to spend time with one of my favorite women?”
She squeezed his hands then linked her arm with his. “Save your pretty compliments for the young ladies. They have more need for them than me.”
He winked at her. “Who am I to entertain tonight?”
“I’m sure you’ll understand, but I have saved the best partner for my son.” Her eyes twinkled. “I am quite determined to find him a wife before year’s end.”
At times, Ethan both envied and empathized with his friend. Shev had a mother who adored and fawned over him like any proud mama would. But, if it were her son, her very fawning would cause Ethan to bolt any time she approached. “I will have to console myself with second best.”
“As with my son, I have taken good care of you. You will not be disappointed with your dinner partner.”
The smile she sent him was not one of reassurance, but one of nefarious intent. A sudden need for masculine support hit him. “Where might I find your scapegrace son?”
“He should be here any moment. Allow me to introduce you to my friends.” For the next ten minutes, Ethan met an interesting assortment of businessmen, shopkeepers, craftsmen, and even a servant or two. They all knew the marchioness from when she was a small child dashing around their neighborhood until her newly prosperous father sent her off to an exclusive boarding school for young ladies. Unlike many who were born commoners and then married into the aristocracy, the marchioness never lost touch with her childhood friends.
Of course, there were those of the ton who did not approve of Shev’s mother mingling with the lower classes. To her credit, she paid them no mind. She had once admitted to Ethan that remembering the challenges her family faced all those years ago helped her to appreciate her good fortune today. And staying in touch with her old friends kept her from becoming a snooty aristocrat.
Ethan thought she was merely a rebel. She took an inordinate amount of glee in flouting society’s customs and tweaking a few pompous noses. All this she did with only the slightest of repercussions. She paid them gladly, though, making her one of the most genuine and kind-hearted people he knew.
The marchioness halted a few feet away from the last of her guests. “Good evening, ladies and gentlemen.”
Facing them stood an attractive woman in her forties, whose once beautiful blond hair had begun to dull with time. Next to her idled a younger, slimmer version of herself, with eyes bluer than Sophie Ashcroft’s and a smile that would catch the notice of any masculine gaze. To her right fidgeted an even more youthful male replica. Ethan guessed the two younger guests, probably brother and sister, were still two or three years from reaching their majority.
Then Ethan’s attention moved to the couple, who shifted to the left to make room for Lady Shevington. Ethan barely took notice of the older gentleman, for his entire focus centered on the tall, dark-haired beauty wrapped around the man’s arm.
Miss Sydney Hunt. The maid who’d helped nurse him back to health after he’d received the worst beating of his life. He still couldn’t believe he’d finally found her. If not for an unruly lock of hair, he might still be searching. Something about the simple action of tucking a strand of hair behind her ear had brought a blurry memory of her sitting at the edge of his makeshift bed into sharp focus.
Draped in rose silk, Miss Hunt outshone all the other young ladies present. Refined, confident, accessible—qualities most gentlemen would seek in a lover. Unfortunately, most of London’s ballrooms were populated by debutantes taught to suppress the very qualities that would make them most appealing. Ethan had learned much about beauty and its many disguises—and uses. Although he could still admire a woman for her svelte figure and feline eyes, it was not those qualities that would make him linger in her presence for more than an hour or two.
Anticipation pulsed inside Ethan’s veins. The day before, his concern for her had overridden any thoughts of the dockside maid or her cloaked partner. But now, his mind was overwhelmed with his good fortune. Hours of searching had finally born fruit, and he was one giant step closer to finding his savior. Once that long-sought occasion occurred, he would be free of this blasted debt of honor.
Why would she risk her life to care for a stranger? How did she come to know the cloaked figure? How many other disguises did she have in her repertoire? An endless stream of questions ran through his mind, but no answers surfaced. Those would have to wait until he got her alone again.
Miss Hunt’s eyes rounded in recognition, and Ethan did not miss the slight shift in her posture that brought her closer to her gentleman friend. Now that Ethan’s shock had dissipated, he studied the man standing protectively at her side. The term distinguished came to mind as he took in the man’s sharp jawline, silver-dusted brown hair, respectable height, and aging, yet Corinthian build.
Lady Shevington said, “Please allow me to introduce Viscount Danforth, a good friend of my son’s. Lord Danforth, it is my pleasure for you to meet one of my oldest and dearest friends, Mrs. Pratt.” She indicated the blond-haired woman and then nodded toward the older gentleman at Miss Hunt’s side. “And her husband, Mr. Pratt.”
The pressure building around Ethan’s heart eased, and he bowed over Mrs. Pratt’s hand before shaking her husband’s. So, this was Sydney’s mother and her stepfather, the man she called father and the one who helped her establish the Hunt Agency.
“And their children—Miss Hunt, Miss Pratt, and the youngest, Mr. Pratt,” the marchioness said.
After the appropriate curtseys, handshakes, and bows, Mrs. Pratt said, “This is your white knight, Una?”
“Indeed, it is, Charlotte,” the marchioness said. “Lord Danforth has saved me from embarrassment more than once.”
Ethan placed his hand over Lady Shevington’s, where it rested on his arm. “It is nothing compared to the many kindnesses you have shown me over the years.”
“Yes, yes, yes, Danforth’s a saint,” a new voice interrupted. “When might we eat? I’m starved.” Lord Shevington bent to kiss the crown of her mother’s head.
She rolled her eyes in the manner of long-suffering mothers around the world. “You are always starving. Stop acting the bored aristocrat and make your hellos.”
“Yes, Mother,” Shev said, his lips twitching. He shook the men’s hands and kissed each lady’s cheek.
“Pratt,” Shev said. “How is the banking business?”
“Lucrative as always, Shevington. And the House of Lords?”
“Tedious as ever, I’m afraid.”
“Mr. Pratt has been charged with the difficult task of combating forgery at the Bank of England,” Lady Shevington informed Ethan.
“A difficult task, indeed,” Ethan said. “I suspect the Ann Hurle incident last winter caused quite the fracas within the bank.”
“That poor dear,” Mrs. Pratt said. “Hanged at two and twenty.”
“Your ‘poor dear’ nearly cost the bank five hundred pounds,” Mr. Pratt said. “If my clerk had not noticed the dissimilarities in Mr. Allin’s signatures, she would be living quite well in America, or some other faraway country, at the moment.”
“Well,” Mrs. Pratt huffed, “you know the young woman could not have concocted such a scheme on her own. I still maintain the rascal who accompanied her to the bank put the girl up to forging Mr. Allin’s signature and trying to sell his stocks.”
“You are no doubt correct, Mother,” Miss Hunt said, breaking her silence. “Such grand schemes are rarely formulated by one intellect. But
you, of all people, should know better than to underestimate the strength of the female mind.”
Mrs. Pratt’s fierce gaze gentled. “Quite right, dear.”
“Pardon, Lady Shevington,” the butler said.
“Are you ready for us to assemble in the dining room, Stafford?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“This evening, we shall not concern ourselves with precedence,” she said to the group. “Lord Danforth, I have paired you with the lovely Miss Pratt. Shevington, you shall escort Miss Hunt, and I am absconding with your handsome husband, Charlotte.” She smiled at Mr. Pratt. “No need to worry, Jonathan. I have the perfect dinner partner for your wife and your son.”
“My concern was not for my wife, but for me.”
The marchioness humphed before guiding her two remaining victims away.
“Well, Syd,” Shev said with a familiarity that made Ethan’s eyes narrow. “My dear mama is attempting to reform me again. Are you up for it?”
Miss Hunt smiled. “Marcus, you know how I adore challenges.” She placed her hand on his proffered arm, sending Ethan a quick glance.
Ethan could do little more than stare at the striking couple in stony silence. Why hadn’t Shev mentioned his close relationship with Miss Hunt when Ethan had asked him about her agency? It made no sense. Then he recalled his friend’s comment about everything being a secret with him. Maybe Shev figured Ethan would refuse to answer any return questions, and he would have been right. Or, perhaps, his friend liked to see Ethan squirm.
After several conflicting seconds, he recalled his duty to her sister. “Miss Pratt, shall we join the others?”
“Yes, my lord,” she said in a shy voice.
He nodded to her father. “Pratt.” The older man nodded back but said nothing, simply gazed at him with a speculative gleam in his gray eyes.
Once the guests were seated, the footmen stationed around the dining room swarmed the table to ensure each guest had a serving of mock turtle soup, macaroni and chicken, braised ham, sweetbread, and an assortment of other dishes Ethan could not name. Through the first three courses, Ethan forced himself to give Miss Pratt his full attention. He had to admit, under different circumstances, he would have enjoyed his dinner partner’s conversation.
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