by Alanna Lucas
It was clear Beitel didn’t have any further knowledge on the subject. Grant changed the course of questioning to something Beitel could answer.
“What were these men going to be used for?”
“For smuggling, assassinations…whatever Typhon wants,” Beitel blurted out. His labored breath coming in short spurts.
A crash from down the hall penetrated the small office, bringing their interrogation to a halt.
“What now?” Beitel edged himself between the wall and the desk. Wiping his brow as he pushed past Grant and Simon, he opened the door and stepped into the dark hall.
A loud shot rang through the seedy interior, followed by shouts and yells.
“What the…” Beitel’s words died off as another shot rent the air. He fell to the floor just outside the door with a loud thump.
Grant and Simon flanked the interior door of the office waiting for the intruder to approach. Footsteps running in the opposite direction met Grant’s ears.
“Let’s go.” Grant took off, running down the hall. By the time he reached the entry, there was no sign of the killer.
“Damn,” Simon swore as he caught up to Grant.
“Beitel’s dead?” Grant questioned over his shoulder, already suspecting the answer.
“Yes, along with any hope of discovering Typhon’s plans.”
“Not quite.” Grant still needed to study the letters he’d borrowed from Lord Cyppe’s clock.
Grant, Simon, and Abrams—Grant’s mentor-cum-valet in disguise—gathered around the worktable in a small room off the kitchen at the manor. It was cold from disuse, but served their purpose well. Grant pulled the small stack of papers from its hiding place, spread them across the table, and began to sort them into two piles—ones with writing and ones without.
“Do you think this is really going to work?” Simon’s skeptical question earned him a glare from Abrams, who took his skills seriously.
“If there is anything written on the page, yes.” Abrams stated with the confidence of a man who’d done this many times before.
Taking one of the blank pages, Abrams skimmed it across the candle flame. Grant watched as letters slowly became visible and darkened.
Schiff…Geheime Dokumente…nacht…London…ermorden… mühle.
When all the words had been revealed on the page, it was clear they were random, and in no apparent order.
“What do they mean?” Simon asked.
Grant translated the page. “Ship, secret documents, night, London, assassinate, mill. Incriminating information, but not enough facts.”
Abrams had already started on the next blank page. “This one is even more cryptic than the last.”
Grant stared at the page as a series of Roman numerals darkened. “Seventeen, nine, one.”
“We need more information.” Simon tossed several letters aside with an aggravated grunt. “Hopefully Miss Atwell is having better luck decoding her stack.”
Grant’s body warmed ten degrees at the mention of Miss Atwell. He hadn’t thought about her for over an hour, and suddenly she was all he could think about.
Tossing the rest of the contents in his hand on the table, he let out a frustrated sigh. “It’s late. We’ll pick this up in the morning.”
~~~
The letters retrieved from Lord Cyppe’s clock the night before had brought Grant no closer to figuring out Typhon’s next course of action. With each passing day, Typhon was growing stronger. Napoleon was a minor threat compared to the destruction Typhon could bring.
There had been no further word from Lord Fynes since earlier in the day. Instead of wandering the streets, Grant decided to settle in for a quiet evening. He was content with re-reviewing the information Lord Fynes had sent and reading a book by the fire, anything to keep his mind off Miss Atwell.
“I thought I would find you hiding here.” Simon strolled into the study, snatching the paper Grant had been studying for the past hour. “Life can not always be about work, my friend.”
“It is when another suspect turns up dead.” Grant picked up the letter he’d received from Lord Fynes and handed it to Simon.
He watched as confusion streaked across Simon’s face as he scanned the letter. “Lord Cyppe? Why would Typhon have him killed?”
“My guess is Cyppe was a little too careless.”
Simon glanced up from the letter. “What about Lord Baxter?”
“Still alive. Lord Fynes has assigned agents to watch his every move. And we’re—”
“Going to the theater. You need a diversion,” Simon said with an air of annoyance.
“I hadn’t realized you enjoyed the theater?”
“I don’t, but it is a good place to mingle with society and catch a glimpse of one’s prospects.”
“Clearly not marriage prospects?” Grant said with a jesting quip.
“You should be horsewhipped for even mentioning the ‘m’ word.”
It was common knowledge between the two friends that Simon had no intention of marrying…ever.
“It’s amazing we’ve been friends for as long as we have considering how little we have in common.”
They’d been the best of friends since they were young boys. Their parents’ estates had bordered one another and they had been inseparable. During Grant’s many years of sickness, Simon would often sneak into his room, bringing artifacts and tales of his adventures. As a child, Grant had always envied Simon’s escapades..
“We have more in common than you think.” Simon slapped him on the shoulder. “Come on, let’s get going.”
After a quick change of clothes, Grant followed Simon to his waiting carriage. It must have been a ridiculous sight seeing the both of them crammed inside the small, elegant conveyance. Grant presumed the interior size was intended for the convenience of closeness and seduction, not the comfort of two large men dressed in their finery.
“And who is on the list of conquests this evening?” The darkness did not diminish the teasing in his tone.
“One never plans these things.”
“That’s not the story Miss Oliver has told in every salon since the two of you were discovered behind the topiary at Lady Capers’ ball.”
“She was out to seduce me.” Simon’s voice rose an octave as he defended himself with feigned innocence.
“A likely story.” Grant was enjoying ragging Simon about his exploits. They had been far too serious as of late, focusing all their attention on Typhon. Perhaps one evening out wouldn’t hurt.
“I could find a mistress for you.”
“No. Watching the performance on the stage will be all the entertainment required this evening.”
Grant was not interested in a mistress. He wanted more than a quick romp, or a mistress at his beck and call. He wanted…no, it didn’t matter what he wanted. Some things were out of reach, and besides, he should not even be thinking about her.
The carriage rolled to a gentle halt. Simon peered out the window. “Quite the crush tonight.” The two men descended and made their way to the front entrance and joined the abundance of people filing into the theater.
“Perhaps you’ll change your mind.” Simon muttered as he nodded toward a beautiful woman whose bosom was barely contained within her dress. She was the sort of female Simon found irresistible but Grant had no interest in.
“Not likely.”
Grant knew Simon wanted to argue the point. Tell him that life did not revolve around saving the country. But Grant’s late father had instilled a sense of duty in him. A duty to protect, not seduce.
Sir Simon, the rake, was popular with the ladies, always knowing exactly what to say to get a blush or girlish giggle. Standing a couple of steps behind, Grant watched the amusing display. That was not the life for him. Never had been.
“I didn’t expect to find you here this evening, Captain Alexander.” Miss Atwell’s voice warmed his entire being.
Before Grant could answer, Simon strolled up to them. “Good evening, Miss Atwell. It is a p
leasure to see you here this evening.” He bowed, offering a seductive smile that turned Grant’s stomach. It would appear Miss Atwell was catching Simon’s eye this evening.
Never taking her eyes from Grant’s, she replied, “It is a great pleasure to be here this evening.” She leaned in a little and whispered, “I see you’ve recovered from the other night, Captain Alexander.” Her tone was not filled with anger or despair, but had a playful lilt that told him he might have underestimated Elizabeth.
He offered a smile, and wanted to say more, but was tongue-tied. A long uncomfortable silence passed between them.
“Well, I’d best return to my party.”
Much to Grant’s chagrin, Simon made another effort. “Perhaps we’ll meet again?”
Elizabeth gazed at Simon with polite indifference before turning her attention back to Grant. Warmth filled her eyes.
“Captain Alexander.”
“Miss Atwell.”
“Elizabeth.” Her name reached his ears in a breathy whisper. It was the most intoxicating sound he’d ever heard.
Mesmerized by her elegant stroll and lush brown hair, he watched as she returned to where Lady Carteron was standing.
Simon elbowed him slightly. “Perhaps you need more than a mistress.”
Grant blinked away the effects of Miss Atwell’s warm gaze and inviting brown eyes. “Are we going to watch the play or not?”
“After you.”
If Grant had to accompany Simon on this little diversion, he was going to make the most of it, and not in the sense his friend was probably hoping for. He definitely was not going to spend the evening thinking about Miss Atwell. He settled into the seat beside Simon and went to work.
Watching the crowd below with a keen, observant eye, his gaze crossed the span of the stalls, traveling up to the boxes across the way. Nothing appeared out of the…
His heart tightened and constricted as his gaze settled on Elizabeth. She was smiling at the elegantly dressed gentleman beside her, completely oblivious to the effect she was having on him.
“You’re going to make a spectacle of yourself.”
No matter how hard he tried, Grant could not tear his gaze from Elizabeth. “Who’s the man with Miss Atwell?”
“Lord Merton. He’s in the market for a bride.” Simon peered over the banister. “Me, on the other hand, I am interested in an actress or perhaps even a widow.”
Even though Elizabeth’s interest in Lord Merton was probably for the better, it still didn’t sit well with Grant.
Standing abruptly, he blurted out. “I find this diversion tedious. I’ll see you back at the manor.” He didn’t wait for Simon to respond, but stormed out of the theater.
Chapter Four
After wandering the streets for a couple of hours trying not to think of Elizabeth and Lord Merton, Grant was still not ready to retire. He’d had trouble sleeping of late, too anxious for the next assignment. In times such as this, he often found himself keeping busy with mundane tasks. A busy life suggested one filled with purpose, but although he was serving his country, part of him felt like something was missing. The visit to the theatre earlier in the evening had only served to reaffirm his suspicion.
The London manor, secret property of Lord Fynes, was quiet. Simon would probably not return for several hours and what little staff they kept had all retired. Grant strolled down to the library with a small candelabrum in hand with the intention of reading Buffon’s book on natural history. He hoped the thick volume would lull him to sleep.
The moment he entered the vast two-story space, he knew he was not alone. A dark shadow in the far corner shifted, but before Grant could even put the candelabrum on the table, the shadow spoke.
“I was hoping you’d come down,” Lord Fynes’ deep voice resonated through the quiet space. “Didn’t fancy going up to your chamber.”
“What are you doing here at this hour, and how in the bloody hell did you get in?”
“Important business, and none of your business. Can’t have you knowing all my secrets.” The latter came out with a mocking tone.
Leaving the candelabrum on the side table, Grant went over to where Lord Fynes was seated. “What’s this all about?”
Reaching into his coat, Lord Fynes pulled out a packet. “This was confiscated from Lord Sutton’s house. Some are coded, some are in invisible ink.”
“Why not hand them over to Rumbolt? He could decipher them by dawn.” Grant purposely avoided mentioning Elizabeth. Although he suspected she would relish the challenge, he wanted to keep her from danger, not throw her in feet first.
Lord Fynes sucked in a long deep breath. “It would appear that some of our loyal spies are not as loyal as they claim.”
“You suspect Rumbolt?”
“Not sure yet. But until I discover all that are involved, I’m acting with extreme caution.”
“How do you know you can trust me?”
“I know you, Grant. I knew your parents. I know what freedom means to you…what it meant to them. I know what sacrifice you’re willing to make to ensure this country does not fall into the wrong hands.” Lord Fynes handed him the packet.
Grant took the offered correspondence. Suddenly his world felt much heavier.
“I need you to decipher those. I believe it’s the same system used in Sicily. Discover what Typhon’s planning, and stop him. Put a team together and get it done swiftly.”
“What’s the time frame?”
“Yesterday.”
Of course.
“Oh, and one more thing,” Lord Fynes began as he stood. “Miss Atwell will be under your supervision.”
The words lingered in the air before their full meaning sank in. This was exactly the news Grant needed in order to protect her. He would order Elizabeth to stay at home and not get involved.
He was about to agree when Lord Fynes shattered his plans. “Her knowledge is vital to our success. Miss Atwell will be included in every stage of planning and execution, and you will keep her safe.”
“Why must she be involved? There has to be—”
“There is no one else. She has access to people and places you do not. Women talk, but Miss Atwell is a good listener.”
“But—”
Lord Fynes’ eyes were sharp and assessing. “Do you have a problem with this assignment, Captain Alexander?”
Sucking in his breath and stamping down every urge to continue to argue, Grant told a half-truth. “No sir.” He’d somehow obey orders and protect Elizabeth in the process.
“Good.” Lord Fynes walked toward the rear of the library, turned and offered a final warning. “Be careful who you trust.”
With that solemn advice the older man slid a wood panel to one side. “Now you know one secret.” He stepped into the dark corridor. “Good luck and Godspeed.”
The panel slid back into place, leaving Grant in the quiet stillness of the library to contemplate Lord Fynes’ words. First things first, he needed to discover exactly what was in the packet he’d just received.
~~~
Grant was becoming a creature of the night. It was the third time in less than a week that he’d found himself lurking in London’s streets in search of answers. After decoding a couple of the letters Lord Fynes had delivered, he knew exactly where he needed to go to get more information and perhaps some clarification. It was a long shot, but one worth taking.
Hell’s Gaming House came into view as he rounded the corner. Gentlemen of all walks of life filtered in and out of the opulent retreat. Not wanting to attract attention by marching in through the front door, Grant slunk around to the rear of the establishment, reserved for Fulcher’s special guests.
Rapping his knuckles on the solid wood door he waited for the gatekeeper. Two seconds later, the door opened a sliver.
“Password.”
Grant grabbed the edge of the open door, pulled it forward an inch and then slammed it hard against the gatekeeper’s head. The man flew back, landing on the flo
or with a thud. Grant proceeded inside, stepped over the unconscious body, and headed toward the grand staircase that led to Fulcher’s private rooms. This was not the first time he’d had to extract information from Fulcher, and he was certain it wouldn’t be the last.
Within minutes, he was up the flight of stairs and down the short corridor. Cigar smoke drifted from under the closed door. Not bothering to knock, Grant stormed into the room.
“Good evening, gentlemen.” He used the term loosely. The questionable cast of characters eyed him with suspicion before looking at their boss for direction.
“Captain Alexander, it’s been a long time since you graced my club.” Fulcher sat back and took a swig of ale.
“Enough with the small talk. I need answers.”
Fulcher eased forward, his attention clearly piqued, and rested his arms on the table. The gleam in his dark eyes deepened with nefarious intent. “What kind of answers?”
Grant narrowed his gaze. Fulcher was playing a dangerous game, one in which Grant intended to win. He cut straight to the point.
“Who is Typhon?”
Fulcher’s laughter filled the room. “I cherish my life too much to disclose such volatile information. Now, if there is nothing further I can assist you with—”
Grant slammed his fist down on the table. “Dammit, Fulcher, I know you have the answers I seek. We may not see eye to eye about much, but there is one thing we have in common.”
Fulcher eyed Grant with curiosity. “Such as?”
“We both share a love for this country.” Leaning in, Grant asked again in a slow, firm tone. “Who is Typhon?”
Fulcher began in a smug voice, “You may be surprised to discover I have not a clue.” Grant was about to jog the man’s memory when he offered, “I will share this with you. Warenhaus siebenundfünfzig.” He sucked in a deep breath and then slowly released it. “No one is safe, not even the daughter of a viscount. Typhon’s influence is far reaching.”
Not even the daughter of a viscount. Fulcher’s words were a double-edged sword that sliced through Grant’s mind, settling on one image: Elizabeth. Concern gripped his heart.
He rested both fists on the table, and growled, “What have you heard?”