by Nancy Butler
Kip rubbed fretfully at the side of his bristly jaw. “I’ve been working on a delicate problem for the Admiralty, one that requires total secrecy. But when Sir Richard Hastings told me Father’s health was failing…well, I had to risk telling him. I had no idea he’d taken my death so hard. I’d been off fighting Napoleon for the past four years, after all. It was always a possibility that I might be killed.”
Bryce wondered if Kip had any idea how hard he had taken the news. “Without divulging any state secrets,” he drawled, “could you give me some of the pertinent details? Were you really lost at sea?”
Kip nodded as he poured himself a brandy. “It was during a squall that blew up off Romney. I lost my footing running to help one of the men with a line, and the next thing I knew, I was in the water. I managed to make it to shore, but I got cut up on the rocks off the headland. When a group of smugglers found me on the beach, I was barely conscious. Fortunately, my uniform jacket was gone…a good thing, or they would have coshed me and tossed me back in the water. The men took me to one of their storage caves and looked after me—I’d gotten a nasty gash on my head.”
“But, thank the Lord, it is an unusually hard head,” Bryce remarked with great fondness as his brother settled into the chair opposite him.
“I was ill for nearly a week, but afterward, once I’d gotten my strength back, I asked to join up with the smugglers. Said I’d been first mate on a merchant ship with a hellish captain and swore I’d never go back into service.”
“Why not just come home, Kip? Why the pretense?”
His brother leaned forward and said in a low voice, “One night while I was ill I heard Tarne, the leader of the smugglers, plotting with his men. They thought I was asleep, I suppose, because what they spoke of was nothing less than treasonous. It appears Tarne’s been taking orders from someone in London, orders to carry French spies back and forth across the Channel. French gold can be pretty persuasive in these lean times, and I bore the smugglers no real ill will—they had rescued me, after all. But I knew I needed to win Tarne’s trust so I could discover who was at the head of the operation.”
“And I gather you did…win his trust, that is.”
Kip sat back. “Yes, and I was able to furnish the Admiralty with descriptions of every man who came over from France. They’ve apprehended three of them, so far.”
“I understand your need for secrecy, but surely your family was entitled to know you hadn’t perished.”
Kip shook his head. “I couldn’t risk anyone outside Whitehall discovering I was still alive. If Tarne got wind of the fact that I was Lieutenant Kipling Bryce of His Majesty’s Royal Navy, I’d end up fifteen fathoms deep, with an anchor tied to my legs. Not a pretty end, Beech.”
“Well, I must say this has been quite a week for dead brothers returning from the grave.”
At Kip’s bewildered expression, Bryce grinned and said, “No, it would take too long to explain. So what brings you inland?”
“Our most recent import, a Mr. Perret, needed an escort to London. Tarne usually accompanies the Frenchmen to the city, but he was suffering from a bad case of the influenza.”
Bryce gave a low chuckle. “It’s been going around.”
“Since I professed some knowledge of the city, I was chosen to take him. The first night we were there I led him to Bacchus, at his request. In fact, our informants in London have trailed at least three of these French fellows to Bacchus. Perret obviously met with someone there.”
“Who?”
Kip shrugged. “I’m not sure. Your doorman wouldn’t allow me to follow him inside.”
“You should have written me for an introduction,” Bryce said smoothly. “I believe I could have gained you admission.”
Kip’s eyes lit. “Someday you’ll have to take me through the place. I hear there are all sorts of…interesting goings-on.”
“I rarely go there myself anymore,” Bryce muttered.
“Anyway,” Kip continued, “Sir Richard, who has been my contact in the Admiralty, decided we could use Perret to pass some false information back to France. I engineered a meeting between Perret and a supposed traitor in the Admiralty. He informed the Frenchman that Sir Richard would be carrying some important naval documents with him when he traveled down to Withershins for a prizefight—reports of our current squadron positions in the Channel. They were to be passed from Sir Richard to Admiral Beston in Dover the day after the fight.”
Bryce frowned. “Why risk a spot so close to Bryce Prospect to do the deed? If you were so intent on keeping your identity a secret, I mean.”
“It was Sir Richard’s idea. He thought it best to pick a location where I knew the lay of the land. And he wanted the documents to be stolen close to the coast, so that the Frenchman wouldn’t be tempted to return to London, where he might have the means to discover they were patently false. We wanted him away from England and back in France as quickly as possible.”
“And you didn’t fear that you would be unmasked once you were here?”
Kip shrugged. “I’d let my beard grow while I was with the smugglers; it altered my appearance enough so that I knew few would recognize me. And besides, I only planned to be here for one afternoon. I was to wait in the grove while Perret went off to search Sir Richard’s room at the Tattie and Snip.”
“It’s the perishing Iron Duke now,” Bryce muttered.
“So I’ve heard. Tolliver is fallen under Old Hockey’s spell like the rest of us. Lord, Beech, do you remember when you and I were boys, we stole Tolliver’s fattest pig and hid it in our cave?”
“Of course I remember… I also recall the whipping that prank earned us at Father’s hands. I think I still bear the marks.” The words were uttered with a rueful grin.
Kip nodded. “He was harsh sometimes, but in his own way fair.”
Bryce kept his own counsel on the matter and chose to say nothing, except to inquire why the Frenchman would think Sir Richard would leave important papers lying about in his room at the inn.
“Because,” Kip said, “I assured him the old man wouldn’t carry them with him to a prizefight. Perret entered the inn once Sir Richard rode off, and when he returned to the grove, he was in a towering rage. He said he’d located the right room, complete with an admiral’s hat in the window, but the only papers he’d found were worthless bits of scribble. He claimed I had lured him there on false pretenses. I swore that I was Tarne’s man to the end, but Perret began to fear a trap. He got the wind up then, pulled out a knife, and tried to stick it between my ribs.” Kip’s eyes darkened. “I never intended to kill him, Beech, but he didn’t leave me much choice.”
“You always were too tenderhearted,” his brother said.
“It wasn’t that. Since he’d clearly botched the theft of the papers, I thought I could salvage something by bringing him back to the Admiralty for interrogation. I hoped we might be able to shake the name of the ringleader out of him. But he pulled his knife before I could draw my pistol…and now he’s beyond any questioning.”
“At least on this plane,” Bryce commented dryly. “And so now you are back where you began.”
“Not quite. I don’t like to say this, Beech, but the Admiralty suspects the ringleader is a member of Bacchus. It could be anyone in that rackety group.”
“Including myself?”
Kip looked noticeably uncomfortable. “There has been some discussion of that possibility. You do live rather high, and with no income to speak of.”
“And treason is not beyond a man as morally decayed as I am.” Bryce’s voice was dangerously quiet.
“I never wanted to believe it; you must know that. But you aren’t only a member of Bacchus, you own the damn place. And when you left London so abruptly last month and came down here, the Admiralty was sure you were involved in some unsavory business along the coast. It only confirmed their suspicions about you.
Bryce rose from his chair and turned toward the hearth, trying to restrain his anger.
How typical, that the one good deed he’d performed in a decade would give rise to such damning speculation.
“And did you explain to them that there was another reason why I might have come here?”
“What? To look after things for Father?” Kip gave a brittle laugh. “I had a difficult time crediting that, even when the old man himself told me. I thought there had to be another reason.”
“So what changed your mind about me?” His jaw tightened. “Or am I being premature?”
Kip shook his head. “I knew you were not in London the night the Frenchman visited Bacchus. I bribed the porter afterwards and got a list of the men who had been there, some twenty names or so.”
“Hmm? I shall have to speak to Tompkins about that. We can’t have every rascal in London getting wind of our private members.”
“Oh, stow it, Beech,” he snapped. “I don’t care who takes their pleasure at a bawdy house. But at least I now have a list of possibilities.” Kip fished a paper from his inside coat pocket and handed it to his brother. “Here. Have a look and tell me what you think.”
Bryce gave his brother a long, steady stare, and then his mouth relaxed into a smile. ‘Thank you,” he said, acknowledging Kip’s act of faith in sharing the list with him.
“There are a few men here I think you can eliminate,” he said when he’d read it. “Lord Troy, for one.”
“How can you be so sure? I know the man is a celebrated poet, but that don’t mean he’s a patriot.”
“No, he might not be a patriot, but he is possibly the least political man I’ve ever met. And the most indolent. Treason takes too much work.”
“Rumor has it that Lord Troy is staying here with you.”
“Rumor, for once, speaks the truth. That was his sister you trampled in the hall tonight.”
“A tasty bundle,” Kip observed blithely. “Hope I didn’t do any permanent damage.”
Bryce growled. ‘I’d prefer it if you didn’t manhandle my guests. Especially that particular guest.”
Kip gave a soft whistle. “So, the wind sits in that direction.”
“Don’t jump to any conclusions, boy. She is merely a diversion until I get back to London. Unfortunately your encounter with Lady Jemima convinced her that a bearded murderer was loose in the house. I had to tell her you were old Simmy Wilcox.”
“The smuggler? Lord, Beech, the man’s a halfwit.”
“Yes,” he purred as his eyes lit up. “And by the by, what were you doing in the upstairs hall? Besides waiting to frighten maiden ladies out of their skins, that is.”
“I was after a blanket from the linen closet—it gets damned chilly in that cave once the sun goes down. I came through the library out to the main staircase and nearly tripped over one of the footmen. Fortunately he was asleep on the floor. I had to go up the back stairs on my belly, like a snake.”
“I thought it prudent to post guards in the house. I still wasn’t sure who we were dealing with.”
“Jesus, what’s the world coming to when a man can’t burgle his own home in peace?”
Bryce merely grinned in reply. “So why did you come back to the library? I was just girding myself to ride out to the cave and confront you—in your den, as it were.”
Kip held up his glass. “I needed a drink after running into your Amazon. I swear she took ten years off my life. I shinned down the drainpipe from the old schoolroom and slipped into the cellar. Oh, and I fetched a blanket from one of the guest bedrooms… I hope you don’t mind.”
Bryce rolled his eyes. “You could always stay here at night. I’ll make you up a nice little pallet in the attic, just the spot for a demented relative.”
His brother made a rude face. “This all probably sounds daft to you, but I know what I’m doing. And I promise, when we find the spy master, I’ll come out of hiding.”
“You weren’t exactly in hiding in the east meadow yesterday afternoon. Not the most prudent way to avoid detection.”
“You saw me?”
“Lady Jemima did. She thought you were one of Father’s by-blows.”
Kip gave a hoot of laughter. “That pious old parson. He was lucky to have got us, Beech.”
“So why did you risk riding about in broad daylight?”
Kip stalled a bit. “MacCready’s been leaving food near the cedar ridge, for me and my nag. And no, don’t start ripping up at me for telling him and not telling you. I needed an ally while I was here. And you are too visible.”
“Not to mention still a suspect,” Bryce murmured under his breath. “So why haven’t you returned to the coast, now that the Frenchman is dead?”
“Hastings thinks the ringleader will send someone to follow up on Perret’s disappearance. He wants me to watch for any unusual comings and goings in the area.”
“You’ve picked a fine week for that, my boy. The house is overrun with guests, with three more due to arrive tomorrow. You’ll be interested to hear that one of those men is on your list—Harold Armbruster, a crony of Troy’s. Ralph Carruthers will also be here, and your old school friend, James Kimble. At least he’s not on your list of suspects.” Bryce stopped a moment. He misliked the idea of anyone even remotely suspected of involvement with the spy ring under the same roof with Jemima.
“What do you know of Armbruster?” he asked. “Any reason I should forbid him my home?”
Kip thought a minute. “He is in tight with several highly placed ministers, but I doubt he’s the man we’re after. Armbruster’s not the brightest bullock in the herd, and the man who is operating this ring is a pretty cagey fellow. He’s led us all a merry dance for nearly six months.”
“And what if this ringleader decides to come down from London himself? He’s not going to feel very charitable toward the person who killed his pet spy.”
Kip nodded. “Actually that’s what Sir Richard hopes will occur. But the man doesn’t know the true circumstances of Perret’s death. I sent a message to Tarne in Romney and told him that Perret and I were attacked by footpads on the road from Withershins, and that after Perret was killed, I managed to get away with the papers. Tarne thinks I was wounded—well I was, actually”—Kip gingerly touched his side—“and he believes I am waiting in the area for instructions on where to dispose of the stolen papers.”
“Well, that is what you’re doing, isn’t it?”
“Not precisely,” Kip responded with a smug wink. “I’m setting a nice little trap. If the ringleader does show up—and he might, because he won’t trust anyone else to carry the papers after Perret failed him—we will be ready for him.”
“What if he merely sends Tarne to retrieve the papers?”
“He’ll come. I feel it in my guts. The man has been feeding the French tidbits of information, but getting these plans to Napoleon would be a coup. No, he won’t risk anyone else taking them to France. I instructed Tarne to have my contact hire a room at the Iron Duke under the name of Marlborough. I thought that name would appeal to a man who has delusions of grandeur.” Kip grinned. “MacCready’s been checking to see if anyone has registered using that name. It’s only a matter of time.”
Bryce looked unimpressed. “Hasn’t anyone ever told you that only a fool uses himself as bait?”
Kip smiled slowly. “I’m not completely alone. Hastings has a man staying at the inn and several posted in the village. But I’m already a dead man, so if our spy master turns vengeful…well then…”
“Well, nothing,” Bryce snapped. “You’ve only just been resurrected, and I’m damned if I’m going to let you risk your neck for the Admiralty.”
Kip nearly blushed at the intensity of his brother’s words. “I value my neck as much as you do, old man. It’s a waiting game I’m playing—just need to keep out of sight until my contact arrives.”
“To retrieve the nonexistent naval documents,” Bryce added.
“Oh they exist all right. They were conspicuously hidden under Sir Richard’s mattress, but that Perret, damn his eyes, missed them.
” Kip again reached into his pocket and drew out a tattered clutch of papers. “All he came away with was this—nothing but a blasted poem—”
“ ‘Ode to Persephone,’ ” Bryce quoted, not needing to see the title scrawled on the top sheet.
Kim started back. “How the devil—?”
Bryce twitched the sheets from his brother’s hands. “It’s Lord Troy’s latest opus. And if you don’t mind, I’ll keep these until I can return them to their rightful owner.” He rose and carried the papers to his desk, where he locked them in the center drawer. His brother was still gaping at him.
“Your canny spy searched the wrong room,” Bryce said, and then shook his head. “Lord, I wonder how the French have managed to stay out of our grasp, if that is the best they can send against us.”
Kip still looked perplexed. “I told Perret that Sir Richard was in the third room on the right.”
“Sir Richard’s was the third room, but if you recall the layout of the inn, it’s actually the fourth door along the passage. The first door is to the privy closet.”
Kip put his hands over his face and shook his head. “Bloody hell! Our careful plan done in by a privy!”
Bryce chuckled. “I don’t wonder Perret was a trifle out of twig. I saw Troy’s room—it looked like an Algerian street bazaar. I am amazed your spy was able to find anything at all in there. Although he did help himself to Troy’s gold watch and his signet ring.”
Kip rolled his eyes. “Clearly not a gentleman, my Monsieur Perret. I’m almost glad I had to put an end to him.” He rose and turned toward the opening in the wall. “Now I’d best be off to my cozy cave.”
“I should mention that there’s a Bow Street Runner poking around the place. A genial enough fellow, but hardly a bloodhound.”
“MacCready told me the magistrate called him in to investigate the murder.”
“Well, what else was Sir Walter to do? The poor man’s never had to deal with anything more serious than a drunk on fair day or a tinker with light fingers. You’d have done better than to hide the corpse in a hay rick, Kip, and then set fire to it, if you’d wanted to keep the law out of things.”