From London with Love

by Diana Quincy

  Bean stretched his neck from side to side. “Calm yourself, Vale. That’s no way to talk to your business partner.”

  “More like partner in crime,” Emilia muttered.

  Sparrow shook Bean’s hand. “Do we have an agreement?”

  Bean beamed. “Indeed we do.”

  “Find Mr. Onslow and you will be handsomely rewarded.” Sparrow drew his calling card from his pocket. “Contact me when you have any information on his whereabouts.”

  Bean eagerly took the card. “As you wish, my lord. Happy to be of service.”

  Emilia blew out an exasperated breath. “Are we going now? I’ve had quite enough for one day.”

  Sparrow offered his arm. “Yes, I think we’re done here.”

  As they went down the stairs, Emilia said, “You cannot trust the man.”

  “I’m aware. But sometimes to find someone in the gutter you must turn to a guttersnipe for assistance.”

  “Well, you’ve certainly found the lowest of the low in Bean.” They’d almost made it down the stairs before Emilia halted. “Oh no, I forgot my spencer.” She turned to go back up. “I’ll just be a minute.”

  He reversed course to follow her, unwilling to leave her alone and unprotected even for a minute or two. “I’ll go with you.”

  They reentered the gallery to find Bean deep in conversation with a brown-haired man Sparrow didn’t recognize. Of average height and well dressed, the man carried himself like a gentleman, but he wore a beard, which was unusual among the so-called quality.

  Beside him, Emilia exclaimed with delight. “Cousin Dominick!”

  Chapter 13

  “This is a surprise.” Dominick Ware greeted Emilia warmly. “Although I should have surmised my favored cousin would be found in an art gallery.”

  She was smiling broadly, delighted to have run into her elusive cousin. Before he’d lost his parents, they’d been very close, almost like brother and sister. After the tragedy, he’d become withdrawn and rarely appeared at family functions. They had the same eye color, but she thought that emerald gaze was much more attractive with his rich brown hair. Nick was devilishly handsome, but he’d become broody and serious-minded since his parents’ demise. He’d been only five-and-ten when the tragedy occurred and seemed indelibly marked by it.

  “Cousin?” Bean flashed a suspicious look between her and Nick.

  “What business is it of yours?” she retorted.

  Nick addressed Bean. “I believe we are finished here.”

  “We most certainly are.” Bean replaced his hat and scurried away like the rat he was.

  She looked after him for a moment, wondering what business Nick could have with a sharper like Titus Bean. Then she realized Sparrow and Nick hadn’t met before. “Nick, may I introduce Hamilton Sparrow, Viscount Vale. This is my cousin, Dominick Ware.”

  Sparrow inclined his head. “Ware.” He was distantly cordial, giving every outward appearance of being relaxed, as though her cousin were any passing acquaintance, but she knew Sparrow had been trying to run Nick to ground for weeks now.

  “Where have you been?” she asked her cousin. “We’ve not seen you at all since the wedding, well, the almost-wedding.”

  “My sincere apologies for neglecting you, cousin, but I’ve had some matters to attend to.”

  “What were you doing with Titus Bean?” she asked. “That man’s a snake.”

  “It was a chance meeting,” he said easily. “I recognized him as the curator at the Walden Collection and asked his opinion about a piece of art I’m interested in acquiring.”

  “Really? Which one?” She waved a hand and continued talking without waiting for his answer. “Whatever you do, do not take that man’s opinion. He’s a cheat who will rob you blind if given half the chance.”

  Fondness edged his smile. “I will consider myself warned.” He pressed a kiss against her cheek. “Now I regret that I must leave you, but I have an appointment.”

  “Will you come and see us soon?” she asked.

  “Of course, you may depend upon it.” But they both knew he would not. Sadness ached in her throat at the loss of her close friendship with her cousin.

  Sparrow stepped to the side, as if to reach for her spencer on the bench, but the movement effectively blocked Nick’s exit. “I wonder if you could spare a moment, Ware. For a few words.”

  Nick assessed Sparrow in a thorough unhurried manner. “I’m afraid not. I’ve an appointment that I really must keep.”

  “Perhaps we could set a time to meet. It is of the utmost urgency.”

  Nick regarded Sparrow with both interest and surprise. “Very well. There’s a coffeehouse in Covent Garden called the Golden Lion. Do you know it?”

  “I’ll find it.”

  “Tomorrow at three o’clock. Will that suit?”

  Sparrow dipped his chin. “Until tomorrow.”

  Nick held his gaze. “Until tomorrow, Vale.”

  —

  “I can only presume that whoever intends to harm Miss St. George will continue to try until he succeeds,” Sparrow concluded after discussing the attempts on Emilia’s life with Will Naismith.

  His friend steepled his fingers beneath his chin. “That is a fair assumption.” They were at the Home Office, located at Number 20 Crown Street. Seeing Will behind a desk still took some getting used to; he’d once been the quintessential man of action, undertaking dangerous missions in far-flung places of the world. However, since marrying Lady Elinor several months ago, and becoming a father to her daughter, Will rarely accepted assignments that led him far from home. “When is the new wedding date? When does Miss St. George marry Worsely?”

  “In a fortnight.” The words felt like acid in his mouth. He still held out hope that Emilia would come to her senses and call off her wedding to the bastard.

  “So whoever intends to strike will likely do so before she becomes Mrs. Worsely in two weeks’ time.”

  Sparrow reached for a silver wax seal on his friend’s desk. Anything to fill his idle hands. “I expect whoever hired Graves has retained someone else to finish the job.”

  “Graves remains under the care of your staff in Hastings?”

  Sparrow nodded. “Not a peep out of him. He remains mostly unconscious.”

  Will’s mouth curved. “That must have been some hit.”

  Sparrow smiled at the memory. “Yes, any man would be a fool to cross Miss St. George.”

  “Weren’t the two of you once betrothed?”

  “Yes, but I was involved in that Abandonatos business at the time so I thought it best to leave her out of it.”

  “I remember. Ruthless buggers, those Abandonatos.”

  “Exactly.” He absentmindedly traced a thumb over the heavy engraving on the wax seal’s cool silver handle. “At the time, I spoke with her father and we both agreed to call off the wedding in order to avoid putting Emilia in any danger related to my work.”

  Will studied him. “Do you regret it?”

  “No. Then as now, I would do whatever it takes to keep Emilia safe.”

  “The danger from the Abandonatos is long past and she isn’t wed yet.”

  “Your point?”

  “You are out of the game. Your occupation no longer presents any risk to your future wife. You’re also a viscount now, which means you’ll have to procreate soon.”

  Sparrow scowled. “You’d better have a care, Naismith. You’re beginning to sound like my matron aunt. Have you given up the game only to become a matchmaker instead?”

  “Hardly.” Will’s mouth twitched with amusement. “However, I do speak from experience. Elle and I waited far too long and almost lost each other because of our idiocy. If you care for this girl, you should stake your claim before time runs out.”

  “It’s already too late. Marie Dubois saw to that.” Weariness dragged at him and he stifled the urge to yawn. He’d had another restless night. Too often in his dreams, he saw the mangled bodies of his men.

  Not much
got past Will. “Still not sleeping well?”

  “Well enough.”

  Will’s expression was grim. “You are not responsible for those men’s deaths.”

  Sparrow’s grip tightened on the wax seal. He damn well was and they both knew it. “On that we disagree. In any case, it isn’t in me to trust women any longer. And Emilia deserves better than to be tainted by someone with my past.”

  “Hmm. She definitely deserves better than Worsely.”

  “That’s for certain.” Sparrow paused. Something about the way Will said the words indicated he had more to say. “Have you learned something new?”

  “Only that the man doesn’t have two shillings to rub together.”

  His eyes widened. “Are you saying Worsely is rolled up?”

  “That’s what I’m saying.” Will drew off his spectacles and began to shine the lenses. “He’s completely cleaned out.”

  Sparrow dropped the wax seal on Will’s desk, where it landed with a decisive thud. “Everyone says he’s well breeched.”

  “Probably because that’s what he wants people to believe.” Will replaced his spectacles, using his pointer finger to adjust them on the bridge of his nose.

  “What about the inheritance he supposedly received? Or his allowance from his grandfather the duke?”

  “He’s apparently spent it all. And His Grace is said to be displeased with his grandson’s free spending. He’s cut off his allowance.” Will studied Sparrow. “I haven’t been able to discern where the money is going. Worsely isn’t known to frequent the gaming hells.”

  “The mistress.” It came as no surprise that a temptress such as Marie Dubois would help hasten the ruin of yet another man. “She has very expensive tastes.”

  “Ah. I see. That expensive?”

  “Most definitely. Only the best will do for Mrs. Dubois, and marrying an heiress ensures Worsely will have plenty of coin to shower his mistress with gifts.” Anger scalded his blood at the thought of Emilia’s certain misery and humiliation at Worsely’s hands.

  “It seems that, once again, we must eliminate Worsely as a possible suspect in the attempts on Miss St. George’s life.”

  Sparrow reluctantly agreed. “He needs to keep her alive at least until he marries into the St. George fortune. But what if the incendiary device was intended for St. George himself?”

  “If the father were out of the way”—a speculative expression settled over Will’s face—“then Worsely’s wife-to-be would be even wealthier.”

  “Exactly.”

  “If Worsely does want to kill St. George, would he be foolish enough to risk harming his betrothed in the process? After all, Miss St. George could have been grievously injured had her maid not stopped her from opening the box.”

  “Very true. But suppose the device was planted in the basket early in the day, by someone who knew the St. Georges—minus Emilia—intended to picnic with their elderly aunt? There was enough power in that explosive to do away with the lot of them had Sophie not reacted so quickly.”

  Will nodded gravely. “I see your point. The parents could have been done away with in one very foul swoop.”

  “Leaving Emilia to inherit everything.” Sparrow blew out a frustrated breath. “In both scenarios, even if Worsely wants Emilia dead in order to keep the money and the mistress, he’ll have to wait until after they’re married.”

  “And your assassins seemed intent on striking before the wedding?”

  “So it appears. And there’s no doubt Worsely is marrying Miss St. George for the money. He shows absolutely no masculine interest in her.”

  “Unlike you?”

  He glowered. “Leave off on that, would you?”

  “I also have it on good authority that Worsely intends to quit the embassy once he marries.”

  “To what end?”

  “To become a gentleman of leisure, of course, what else?”

  “He has not said as much to Miss St. George.” Sparrow frowned. “The primary reason she’s marrying him is because she believes he offers a lifetime of travel and adventure. She expects to move to Paris immediately after the wedding.”

  Will’s dark copper-colored brows rose. “Is that wise? I doubt the current peace between England and France will hold much longer.”

  “I agree.” Concern for Emilia’s safety pressed in on Sparrow. “But she’s intent on traveling with Worsely to his diplomatic posts.”

  “All the more reason, then, for him not to tell her of his intentions to leave diplomatic work until after they’re wed.”

  “Indeed.” Sparrow clenched his fist. “When it’s too late and she’ll be stuck with him for all eternity.”

  “At least until death parts them.” The boxwood clock on Will’s desk chimed, heralding the new hour, reminding Sparrow of the engagement he was anxious to keep.

  “I must go.” Sparrow pushed to his feet. “I have an appointment with Dominick Ware.”

  “Ah yes, the cousin. I gather he remains your most viable suspect.”

  “He certainly appears to have the most to gain from Emilia’s death. He would become St. George’s sole heir.” When he reached the door, he paused and looked back at Will. “Do you miss it at all? The travel, the intrigue?”

  “No. I’m quite content with my lot,” Will said easily. “I gather you do miss it?”

  “Very much so.” Acute longing for the fast pace and sense of purpose of his old life quivered through him.

  Will smiled. “A man eventually learns there is more to life than the spy game.”

  Sparrow’s answering smile was wistful. “Especially when you have someone like Lady Elinor keeping the home fires burning?”

  “Indeed. And it shall be so for you one day as well.”

  “Spare me,” he said irritably before going out.

  “Greater men than you have fallen.” Will’s quiet laughter drifted from behind him. “You will see. But consider yourself warned: Affairs of the heart are not for the meek.”

  —

  The Golden Lion in Covent Garden was a respectable coffeehouse with long wooden tables crowded with gentleman discussing politics or reading the latest newspapers. When Sparrow entered, the dark, rich aroma of coffee—intermingled with smoke—filled the air, and he paused to allow his eyes to adjust to the dim interior.

  He half expected Emilia’s elusive cousin not to appear but soon spotted him reading a newspaper alone at a corner table. When Sparrow settled in the opposite seat, Ware folded the newspaper away.

  “I gather this is not a social encounter since we are only just barely acquainted.”

  Sparrow took the man’s measure. He had even features and, beneath his trimmed beard, a solid jaw women would likely consider handsome. His eyes were a brilliant green, almost unnaturally so, their intensity emphasized by the dark circles ringing them.

  “Why did you wish to speak with me?”

  Since Ware came straight to the point, Sparrow decided to as well. “Someone is trying to kill Miss St. George.”

  Ware’s expression turned thunderous. “The devil you say.”

  “A hired killer who is well known in certain circles has attempted to harm her on three separate occasions; twice on her wedding day and then again a day later.”

  Ware released a breath. “Thank God they didn’t succeed. What happened?”

  “I stopped them.”

  Ware openly assessed him. “I understand you used to work for the Home Office before unexpectedly coming into your title.”

  “Yes.” The coffeehouse server, a boy of perhaps ten or twelve, placed two pewter cups of steaming coffee on the scarred table.

  Ware reached for his mug and brought it to his mouth. “What purpose would Emilia’s death serve, do you think?” he asked before taking a drink.

  Sparrow studied the man’s reactions. “She’s an heiress. Certain people have much to gain from her death.”

  Ware froze in the act of drinking his coffee. His face darkening, he slowly lowered
the coffee to the table with a decided thud. Some of the hot liquid sloshed over the sides as he did so. “I see what you are about.”

  Sparrow kept his voice even. “Do you?”

  “Naturally.” Anger rippled through Ware’s voice. “A man who might have killed his parents would think nothing of doing away with his cousin.” The words were bitter. “I am St. George’s heir should Emilia perish before marrying and bearing children.”

  “Many men have killed for less.”

  “I adore Emilia and would never harm her. But of course you have no reason to believe me.” He sat back. “Because I would say that even if I had sent assassins after her.”

  “You are a hard man to find. You seem to disappear quite often.”

  “Where I go and what I do are none of your affair. I am meeting with you now solely as a courtesy to my uncle and cousin.”

  “Do you know a man named Pierce Graves?”

  Confusion marred Ware’s face. “No, who is he?”

  “The professional killer who was hired to do away with Miss St. George. Fortunately, he was stopped before he could do her any harm.”

  “Where is this Graves person now?”

  Sparrow swallowed some of his coffee. “He is in my keeping.”

  “Why don’t you ask Graves who hired him?”

  “Because he is not well enough to speak. Once he recovers, I do plan to retrieve all of the answers I need from him.”

  “Excellent. Because if he tells you the truth, you will learn I have nothing whatsoever to do with this.” He rose and threw a few coins on the table. “If that’s all, I have matters to attend to.”

  Without waiting for Sparrow to respond, Ware turned on a heel and strode out of the coffeehouse.

  —

  Clutching her sketchbook, Emilia crept into the gallery overlooking the Grand Salon. Sparrow was down below, fencing with her father again. She paused by the balustrade and took in the sight.

  Mercy. He was shirtless again and she marveled at the play of muscle rolling under his slick skin whenever he attacked and parried. Sparrow and her father traded occasional oral jabs but, for the most part, let their foils speak for them. The salon was silent except for the sounds of their fencing shoes sliding across the marble floors, the clatter of the foils meeting, and the men’s heavy breathing and occasional grunt of exertion.