"Skye." Taking a chair and dragging it closer to Furlong's, Mr. Talbot sipped his Madeira and, watching the younger man narrowly, asked when Gideon Rossiter was coming back to town.
"He sent a note yesterday. The damage to his farmhouse is ex-extensive, it seems. And Ross is detained by the local constable. They've a suspicion, you see, that 'twas arson. He hopes to be b-back in London by the end of the week."
Talbot grunted. "One trusts it won't be too late." Furlong looked startled, and Talbot went on, "Where's that madman August Falcon?"
"Down at Ashleigh. His sire took a nasty toss."
"Did he, though! Neville's a fool to buy those showy hacks. Only man I ever knew who could fall off a horse when 'twas standing still! What about Glendenning, or Morris? Either of 'em about?"
"Glendenning's off to Bristol to enquire after my brother's arrival. Jamie's in Guildford. His married sister's coach overturned."
"By thunder!" Talbot's shrewd brown eyes were suddenly very round. "Too many nasty coincidences here! The League's work?"
"So I think." Furlong nodded, and held out a tanned hand. "There. Much steadier now! And I'm afraid you shall have to make do with me at all events, sir, unless you can wait till Ross comes back. Is it about the accident on Tuesday? I assume you saw the account of it in The Spectator?"
"I did. A strange affair, and no charges brought as yet, I gather. Are you up to telling me about it?"
Furlong's account was concise. When he finished, Mr. Talbot was leaning back in his chair, frowning at the swordbelt that hung over the edge of the mantelpiece, and the holstered pistols propped against the fender. He said, "The article fell short of blaming Cranford, and the witnesses were not mentioned by name. Are you judging it to have been an execution?"
Furlong shrugged. "The Squire allows but one mistake, as you know. Farrier was a valuable tool, but he had f-failed on several counts. He let Horatio Glendenning wriggle out from under the axe; allowed a treacherous co-plotter to slip through his fingers; and then Gordon Chandler escaped the very neat web he'd woven. I think Farrier was-was killed and then tossed under the hooves of my team in an attempt to throw the blame on me."
"Ugly." Talbot pursed his lips. " 'Twould have given the League a glorious opportunity to name it deliberate murder."
"Exactly. I'd have been lucky to escape a public hanging, and our cause would have been badly damaged. Certainly, these confounded street agitators would have trumpeted all over London that 'twas yet another proof of the arrogance and inhumanity of the 'nobs' as they call us. And the dunderheads in Whitehall would be reinforced in their comfortable belief that Rossiter's Preservers are mischief-making young ne'er-do-wells, and our warnings so much silly twaddle!"
Talbot nodded. "This fellow Cranford," he said thoughtfully. "Isn't there a fine old family of that name in Hampshire? As I recollect, the parents were lost some years ago, on the way out to India. Tragic thing. Victims of that wretched James and Mary sandbank in the Hooghly River. Lucky they'd left their children here. Any connection?"
"Yes, indeed. Mitten, that is Miss Dimity Cranford, married Sir Anthony Farrar a couple of years back, and now lives near Romsey. Her twin brothers spend most of the year at the family home. Piers is the heir, but I think they both regard it as a sort of joint ownership. There's rather an astonishing bond between them."
"Often the way with twins, I've heard. Didn't one of them lose a leg in the Uprising? Not your fellow, I trust?"
"A foot. Yes."
Talbot's glance returned to the weapons by the fireplace. "Can he use those?"
"He's a crack shot. A bit of a fire-eater, in fact. He seconded August Falcon in a duel in April, and—"
"Lord! Who hasn't? Got into it with his principal, did he?"
"Not—exactly. His—er, his peg-leg got stuck in the mud. Falcon was—er, rather put out."
Talbot gave a hoot of laughter. "I can see it, be dashed if I can't! It sounds as if young Cranford's a good man. Is he a member of your small army?"
"No, sir. And we've no intention of enlisting him."
"But—he knows? You've told him? Jove, but you must! He'll be a marked man now!"
"I hope not, and I don't really think so. The League was after me, not Perry. I'm very sure they know he's not one of us. To say truth, sir, he's—er, well, he's had a very nasty time of it. We none of us expected him to survive after what he went through on the battlefield, but he did, and then it was touch and go again because the pneumonia set in. He's a fighter, and he pulled through, but later suffered a bad fall, and an infection resulted in more surgery. Came near to turning up his toes several times. To top things off, his chere amie just threw him over and made no bones of the fact that she could no longer put up with a—er, maimed man."
"Damme! What a heartless jade! Beautiful, I suppose?"
"Very. He was hit hard. You can see why I'd as soon steer him clear of this business. We'll keep an eye on him—as s-soon as we can keep an eye on anyone. We're rather pared down at the moment, unfortunately, but I think Cranford means to stay in Town for only a day or two. He's not likely to get into trouble in that short time. Is he connected with this fellow you spoke of earlier?"
"Joel Skye? No, I don't think they're acquainted. Skye's a Navy man, and I must say he seems like a decent sort. Just got promoted to sub-lieutenant and was so proud of it that I stood him a cognac and we toasted his prowess. He's on the staff of Lord Hayes of the East India Company. Who chances to be his uncle. Ah, I see you know him."
"Not personally, but I believe he was present when Johnny Armitage was hauled up before a Board of Enquiry. Wiry young fellow. Doesn't say much, but I think he doesn't miss much, either."
"Just so. He called on me—in a manner of speaking. I was at the Cocoa Tree, actually. Skye introduced himself, and dropped a few hints."
"About Armitage?"
"About your fabled League of Jewelled Men."
"Did he, by Jove!" Furlong leaned forward and asked intensely, "Never say he believes there is such a group?"
"He wanted to hear all that I know of it, certainly."
"And when you'd told him, he roared with laughter, no doubt!"
"He did not so much as crack a grin. What he did do was imply that a few men in high places are beginning to wonder if there may be something to what you've been saying this past year. And he wanted to know if you have certain knowledge of interference with East India Company cargoes."
Furlong frowned and was silent, and Talbot admitted with a nod, "Yes, it could be a trap, of course."
Furlong said slowly, "When Gideon Rossiter named several of the men we know to be members of the League, he was ridiculed, and told he should be ashamed of having attempted to malign such sterling pillars of the community. The rest of us have fared no better."
"Aye. Well, if you'd had some proof perchance…"
"Jonathan Armitage had proof. He was charged with dereliction of duty in the foundering of his East Indiaman, despite the sworn testimony of his ship's carpenter."
"Which I understand was in direct opposition to statements taken from the other survivors. Including the supercargo, whose word held more weight than that of the ship's carpenter, you may be sure. And even had Armitage been believed, he had nothing to link the scuttling of a fine ship to any member of the League of Jewelled Men. Nor, in fact, any proof that such an organization actually exists!"
Furlong said passionately, "Are the authorities blind? They have only to look around Town to see what's going forward. They've only to read the incredible lists of shipping losses. Don't they find it unlikely that so many impeccably honest gentlemen in high places should suddenly commit the most outrageous crimes, and wind up disgraced and imprisoned and their estates confiscated? Can they really believe 'tis all chance, or coincidence?"
"Can you prove beyond doubting that 'tis not?"
"No, dammitall! We have no such ironclad proof! And while we fight to obtain it, our time is running out! Rossiter believes—we all b
elieve—that the League is almost ready. I've no need to tell you that rabble rousers are everywhere. The riots grow more frequent and more violent. And the fools in Whitehall yawn and chat over luncheon of the menace of France or Spain, and pay no heed to what is happening right under their stupid noses!"
Talbot gazed at his wineglass. "Not all, dear boy. Not quite all."
"Do you mean Hayes?" asked Furlong eagerly. "Has something happened in Town to shake his complacency?"
"Something has happened. But not in this town." Talbot set down his glass and leaned forward, linking his hands. "It seems that Hayes has a little network of spies scattered about the world—just sort of sniffing around, as you might say. Apparently, one of his best men got wind of a secret meeting between some powerful British gentlemen and some equally powerful gentlemen of France. All extremely treasonable, of course. Rumour has it that large sums of money changed hands, and an Agreement was signed. We have no details, but one of the Frenchmen was killed later that same evening in an apparent street brawl, whereupon, according to Hayes' man, there was an incredible flurry in Paris. The gates to the city were closed, hundreds of known thieves and criminals were seized, searched, and questioned with varying degrees of brutality."
"Does Hayes' spy know what was being sought?"
"Allegedly, a painting of great value was taken from Versailles." Talbot smiled thinly. "But 'twould be interesting to remove the back of that objet d'art!"
Furlong whistled softly. "And Lord Hayes believes that the secret meeting may have had to do with the League?"
Talbot nodded. "Just so. Hayes believes that the man who was slain may have been carrying the French copy of the Agreement."
Deep in thought, Furlong muttered, "I wonder…" He glanced up from under his brows. "Sir, what do you know of Marshal Jean-Jacques Barthélemy?"
Talbot's eyes opened wide. "What, France's national hero? I know he's a splendid soldier, a born leader, young, handsome, intelligent, and—so they say—threatened only by his own ambitions. And I hope to God you do not suspect he's got a finger in this pie!"
Furlong said slowly, "I don't know. We have information that would seem to point that way, but—nothing very definite, I'm afraid. I take it you do not have the identities or occupations of the Frenchies who signed the Agreement?"
"Not yet, more's the pity. They might simply have been merchants contracting to supply armaments and mercenaries."
"Or our ambitious French Marshal might fancy himself as President of a British republic! But, either way, sir, this could be the turning point for us! If only we had the copy of that Agreement! When was it lost?"
"Last year."
"Last year! Oh, deuce take it!"
"Never look so discouraged. The search has continued ever since. A most deadly competition between British and French Intelligence agents, private spies, and soldiers of fortune, all slavering to be first to find the stolen copy. And with the lives of those who signed it hanging in the balance." He paused and said curiously, "Owen, you look like a cat with the choice of mouse or rat. What now?"
The suspicion that had crept into Furlong's mind was farfetched, but his voice was tense with excitement as he answered, "Likely a piece of nonsense, sir. But have you any notion at all of the present location of that Agreement?"
Talbot hesitated, but it was clear that Furlong thought he had something. He said, "In the very strictest confidence, Owen! I've heard that a dying man in Mozambique passed it to the priest who administered the last rites, and that the priest in turn handed it to a British officer; a Major Rathdown."
Furlong let out his breath in a long sigh. "So much for my silly suspicion. Then this Major—er, Rathdown, has delivered it safely?"
"Not to my knowledge. So far as I'm aware, he is dodging about India, and damned hotly pursued, you may be sure!"
After a pause, Furlong muttered, "God help the major! I'd not trade places with him for any amount!"
"Nor I! But I'll tell you one thing, my boy. Even if that poor devil is never heard of again, the incident has done one thing for you. It has caused Lord Hayes to begin to believe there may indeed be a conspiracy afoot. And he is thinking far more seriously of the possible existence of your League of Jewelled Men!"
"Miss, are you sure you can manage him?" Gorton eyed Viking uneasily as he alternately led the way along the street, or dragged Zoe to a halt while a promising scent was attended to. "He is nigh as tall as you and has twice your strength. Pray allow me to take him." She reached courageously for the lead, but her hand shot back as Viking turned and showed her his teeth.
Zoe pushed back the curl that the wind would persist in blowing into her eyes on this blustery morning. "Thank you, Elsie. But he knows you fear him, you see. It would not do."
"Everyone fears him." Gorton eyed the rambunctious hound without affection. " 'Tis not may place to criticize, but Lady Julia should better require Phipps or Whipley to exercise the beast."
"I wish I may see it!" Zoe chuckled at the prospect of the thin and timid lackey taking the big dog for a walk. "Poor Phipps is terrified of Viking, and Whipley is far too grand. That is the difficulty, I think. Viking has not been taken out sufficiently often to learn how to go on. But he is really a good dog. He just—" She hung on desperately as the "good dog" hurled insults at two passing chairmen and strove to come at them.
Gorton gave a shriek and threw her arms supportively around Zoe's waist.
Abandoning his interest in the rapidly retreating chairmen, Viking showed a distinct inclination to devour a link boy, then turned his attention to a dandelion.
"He just likes to play the bully," Zoe finished breathlessly.
"Play!" Restoring her cap, which had slid during their efforts, Gorton panted, "Ay only hope—"
Her hopes went unrevealed as the wind whipped the cap from her fingers and danced it back the way they had come.
"Run!" urged Zoe, restraining Viking from doing so.
The cap was a fetching article, recently bestowed on her by Coachman Cecil, and Gorton threw constraint to the wind and galloped in pursuit.
Watching with interest, Zoe was suddenly jerked around. There came an outburst of shrill barks, punctuated by Viking's deep growl. A tiny fluffy dog pranced up, and Viking plunged to the attack. Hanging on for dear life, Zoe found herself entangled with leads, quarreling canines, and a lady who scolded and darted in a spirited attempt to remove her pet from harm's way.
"Viking—down!” cried Zoe with all the fierceness she could muster.
The tiny victim, evidently deciding that attack is the best means of defence, reinforced Zoe's command by turning about and nipping Viking on the nose.
Viking howled and slunk behind Zoe, pawing at his hurt and giving every appearance of an innocent bystander cruelly persecuted.
"Oh, my goodness!" gasped Zoe, unwrapping herself. "I am so sorry, ma'am!"
"And considerably outweighed," said a laughing voice.
Zoe glanced up hopefully, and met a pair of brilliant dark eyes that held the friendliest smile imaginable. The lady's face was a perfect oval, the finely arched brows and high cheekbones, the delicately carved nose, beautifully shaped mouth and firm chin, framed by glossy dark curls, atop which was a most fetching lace-trimmed cap. Vaguely aware of a rich maroon velvet cloak and a dark pink gown, Zoe thought that she had never seen such exotic loveliness, and she exclaimed in her forthright way, "Oh! How very pretty you are!"
"Now that is unfair! How may I protest your naughty hound when you are so charming?"
There was only amusement in the rich, husky voice, but Zoe blushed. "Alas, I must learn not to be so bold, but—"
"But, 'faith, ''Tis a delight! And I think my little Petite has defended the family honour admirably, so you are not to be embarrassed."
"You are too good, ma'am. But despite your kindness, I am ashamed of Viking's uncivilized behaviour."
The small Petite advanced upon the skulking hound, and Viking whimpered and retreated.
> Petite was swept up and her mistress said affectionately, "Restrain yourself, my pet! We will not further alarm the large one, che cosa dice? Luigi! Kindly make me known to this lady."
A liveried footman, who had hung back during this lively exchange, now came forward, and announced in halting English, "La Signorina Maria Benevento say her compliments to Miss…?"
"I am Zoe Grainger," supplied Zoe with a curtsy.
A slender hand was removed from its velvet muff, and Zoe took it gratefully.
"No, but I am in England now, and am Miss, not Signorina, if you please. Ah, here comes your woman. And I am sure she would judge this a most improper introduction, so I had best leave you. Do not fret yourself, Miss Grainger. There is no harm done, and my pleasure has been to meet you."
"And mine," said Zoe earnestly. "I do hope we shall meet again."
"Perchance we will. Until then, arrivederla." With a smile and a nod she passed by, the footman following respectfully and the small Petite prancing along with the pride of the victor.
"Miss Zoe!" panted Gorton, hurrying up clutching her cap.
"No, pray do not pinch at me, Elsie. I know I must not speak to strangers. But truly, I could not escape it, and we were introduced most politely. I assign all the blame to Viking, who was very naughty. But I cannot be sorry. Did you see the lady? I never met anyone so lovely; so vital."
"She looked foreign," said Gorton disparagingly, making a hurried effort to replace her cap as they walked on together with an uncharacteristically well-behaved hound.
"Why, so she was. Italian, I think, though she had the very faintest of accents."
"Her complexion was dark, surely."
"A little sallow, perhaps. But so clear, Elsie! And with such a glow to her cheeks. What a fascinating creature!"
Gorton relented and said, "Ay vow, Miss Zoe, you have not a jealous bone in your body. The lady was likely envying you that lovely auburn hair and your pretty green eyes. But if Ay may make so bold, 'twould be best not to mention your meeting to Lady Buttershaw."
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