A Gentleman's Honor (28 page)

She held his gaze, evaluating, realizing he’d left her no option. Her lips tightened, but only fractionally. “Very well. If you truly think it necessary.”

“I do.” Absolutely, definitely necessary; if he thought he could get her to agree, he’d have half a dozen men about her. “I’ll be staying in London—Gervase should be back from Devon, and with luck Jack Hendon might have something to report.”

“If you learn anything, you will send word, won’t you?”

He smiled, a flash of teeth and resolution. “I’ll bring any news myself.” He studied her eyes. “If anything happens, Scully, the new footman, or Maggs, will get word to those watching—they’ll find me. I’ll come as soon as I can.”

For an instant, her expression remained serious, sober, the reality of the threat, the potential but unknown difficulty she and her family might have to face—that he and she both felt sure they would face—dulling the gold and green, then a smile softened her eyes. “Thank you.” Putting a reassuring hand on his arm, she held his gaze. “We’ll manage.”

Her “we” included him; that was clear in her eyes, in her inclusive smile.

His expression eased. He hesitated, then bent his head. Cradling her face in one palm, he kissed her, briefly yet… the link between them was now so strong, even that brief caress communicated volumes.

Raising his head, he stepped back. Saluted her.
“Au revoir.”

Tony returned to Upper Brook Street to discover messages from Jack Hendon and Gervase Tregarth awaiting him. Both expected to have firm information by noon; Gervase suggested they meet at the Bastion Club. Tony sat at his desk and dashed off a note to Jack, giving him directions and a brief explanation—enough to whet his appetite.

After that he sat and mentally reviewed all he knew thus far. Action was clearly imminent; why plant incriminating evidence if not to expose it? How, by whom, and precisely when he didn’t know, but he could and did clear everything on his desk, all matters that might need his attention over the next few days.

Summoning Hungerford, he gave orders that would ensure, not only that his houses and estate would continue on an even keel were he to be otherwise engaged for a week or so, but also that the various members of his extended staff, some of whom did not fit any common description, were apprised of his intentions, and thus would hold themselves ready to act on whatever orders he flung their way.

At a quarter to twelve, he headed for the Bastion Club.

Climbing the stairs to the first floor, he heard Jack, already in the meeting room, questioning, clearly intrigued by the club and its genesis. He pricked up his ears as other voices answered—Christian, Charles, and Tristan were there, regaling Jack with the benefits of the club, especially as applied to unmarried gentlemen of their ilk.

“I’m already leg-shackled,” Jack confessed, as Tony appeared in the doorway.

“To a spitfire, what’s more.” Tony entered, smiling.

Jack raised his wineglass. “I’ll tell her you said that.”

“Do.” Unperturbed, Tony took a seat opposite and grinned at Jack. “She’ll forgive me.”

Jack mock-scowled. “I’m not so silly as to encourage her.”

Quick footsteps on the stairs heralded Gervase. He strode in quickly, brown curls windblown, the light of the hunt in his eyes. Every man about the table recognized the signs.

Christian, Charles, and Tristan exchanged glances. Christian made as if to rise. “We’ll leave you…”

Tony waved him back. “If you have the time, I’d value any insight you might have on these matters. For our sins, we’re all sufficiently connected with Dalziel, and Jack worked for Whitley.”

Gervase drew out a chair and sat. “Right, then.” He looked at Tony. “Who do you want to hear from first?”

“Jack’s been checking the specific ships.” Tony looked across the table. “Let’s start there.”

Jack nodded. “I concentrated on the sixteen vessels listed in Ruskin’s notes that we know were taken. Thus far, I’ve only been able to get a general picture of their cargoes—asking too many specific questions would attract too much interest.”

“Were they carrying anything in common?” Christian asked.

“Yes, and no. I’ve got word on six of the sixteen, and each was carrying general cargo—furniture, foodstuffs, raw products. No evidence of any peculiar item common to all ships.”

“Six,” Tony mused. “If there’s nothing in common between six, then chances are that’s not the distinguishing factor.”

Jack hesitated, then went on, “All the ships are still registered—there’s no hint of any insurance fraud. On top of that, all the ships I’ve got information on were owned by various lines, their cargoes by a variety of merchants. There’s no common link.”

Tony frowned. “But if you think of what’s lost when a ship is taken as a prize, rather than sunk…” He met Jack’s eyes. “The lines buy back their ships—it’s the cargo that’s lost irretrievably.”

“To this side of the Channel.” Charles looked at Jack.

“But aren’t cargoes insured?”

His gaze locked with Tony’s, Jack shook his head. “Not in such circumstances. Cargoes are insured against loss through the vessel being lost, but they aren’t covered if the goods are seized during wartime.”

“So it’s considered a loss through an act of war?” Tristan asked.

Jack nodded. “The cargoes would be lost, but there’d be no claim to worry the denizens of Lloyd’s Coffee House, no fuss perturbing any of the major guilds like the shipowners.”

“And if the merchants were unconnected individuals, and the losses varied and apparently random…”Tony paused, frowning. “Who would that benefit?”

None of them could offer an answer.

“We need more information.” Tony looked at Gervase.

Who smiled grimly. “It took a bit of persuasion, but I heard three separate tales from three unconnected individuals of ‘special commissions’ being offered in the Channel Isles. The contacts were all English, and all were miffed that these ‘commissions’ were being offered solely to, not specifically French, but only to non-English captains.”

Gervase exchanged a glance with Tony. “You know what the sailors in and about the Isles are like—they consider themselves a law unto themselves, and largely that’s true. It never was clear where they stood in recent times.”

Tony humphed. “My reading is that they’re for themselves, regardless.”

“Indeed,” Charles put in. “But I assume the links between our shores and the Isles, and the Isles and Brittany and Normandy continued to operate throughout the war?”

“Oh, yes.” Both Tony and Gervase nodded; Jack, too.

“Located as they are…” Jack shrugged. “It would be wonderful were they not the haunt of ‘independent captains.’”

Tony turned to Gervase. “Did you get any confirmation on those particular ships?”

Gervase shook his head. “None of my contacts had information on specific ships—they’d never been in the running for those ‘special commissions’ and it seems whoever was making the offer played his cards very close to his chest.”

Tony grimaced. “I could go over and scout about, but…”

Jack shook his head. “Aside from all else, there’d be more than a few who might remember one Antoine Balzac, and that not fondly.”

Tony raised his brows fleetingly. “There is that.” He reached into his pocket. “Which brings us to my discovery, which makes me even less inclined to go fossicking on foreign shores.”

He tossed the bundle of letters on the table; the others’ eyes locked on them. “Yesterday, a greasy-looking clerk in dusty black called at Mrs. Alicia Carrington’s house in Waverton Street while she and her sister were in the park, as might have been predicted, the hour being what it was. Said clerk insisted on waiting, and was shown into the parlor, but when Mrs. Carrington returned home, no sign of this clerk could be found.

“Later, when I searched the parlor, I found these, wedged behind books in a corner bookshelf.”

The others all glanced at him, then reached for the letters. Their faces grew more and more impassive as they read each, passing them around the table. Finally, when all five letters had been tossed back on the table, Christian leaned forward and looked at Tony. “Tell me why Mrs. Alicia Carrington cannot be A. C.”

Tony didn’t bridle; Christian was playing devil’s advocate. “She’s been married just less than two years—before that, she was Alicia Pevensey, and that’s been checked.” He gestured at the letters. “All five of these were written while she would still have been A. P.”

Christian nodded. “Her husband—what was his name?”

“Alfred.” Tony didn’t like pretending Alfred Carrington had ever existed, but life would be easier if he stuck to Alicia’s fabrication. “But he died nearly two years ago, so he wasn’t the A. C. who was continuing to seek and buy information from Ruskin. Further, the Carrington family have no connections through which they might have used such information, nor wealth enough to have played A. C.’s game. The payments, the system, are consistent throughout—we’re looking for one man, A. C., who’s very much alive.”

“And up to no good, what’s more.” Charles flicked one of the letters. “I don’t like this.”

Tony let a moment elapse, then softly said, “No more do I.”

After a moment, he went on, “However, the letters confirm that the track we’re pursuing is correct. They show A. C. did engage French naval captains and French privateers to capture ships, presumably using information Ruskin supplied.” He added his knowledge of the Frenchmen involved.

“Stop a minute.” Tristan said. “What have we got so far? How could a scheme based on what we’ve surmised work?”

They tossed around scenarios, pooling their experience to approve some suggestions as possible, discounting others.

“All right,” Tony eventually said. “This seems the most likely then: Ruskin supplied information on convoys, especially when and where certain ships would leave a convoy to turn aside to their home ports.”

Charles nodded. “That, and also when frigates were called off convoy duty to serve with the fleets—in other words when merchantmen would be sailing essentially unprotected.”

“The merchantmen would have made a good show”— Jack looked increasingly grim—“but against an enemy frigate, they’d stand little chance.”

“So, armed with said knowledge, A. C. arranges for a foreign captain to pick off a specific merchantman. Once the deed was done, and Ruskin’s information proved good, A. C. paid him, and both he and A. C. went home happy.” Tony grimaced. “We need to work out why A. C. was so keen on removing specific merchantmen, thus preventing their cargoes from reaching London.”

He looked at Jack, who nodded. “We need the specifics of the cargoes, not just the general description. The only way to access those details after all this time is via Lloyd’s—they always keep records.”

“Can you learn what we need without alerting anyone?” Tony held Jack’s gaze. “We have no idea who A. C. might be, nor yet what contacts he might have.”

Jack shrugged. “I wasn’t planning on asking anyone— I know where the records are kept. No reason I can’t drop by late one night and take a look.”

Charles grinned. “A man after our collective heart— are you sure you don’t want to join the club?”

Jack answered with a brief grin. “I have my hands full just at present.”

“How long will it take you to gather what we need?” Tony asked.

Jack considered. “Two days. I’ll need to scout things out before I go in. Wouldn’t do to get caught.”

“No, indeed.” Christian looked at Tony. “This business of those letters planted in Mrs. Carrington’s parlor more than worries me. Whoever A. C. is, he’s blackguard enough to happily deflect blame onto an innocent lady, without regard for the damage to her—”

Heavy thuds fell on the front door, reverberating up to the meeting room.

They all froze, waited…

The door downstairs opened; voices were heard, then footsteps, not precisely running but hurrying, came up the stairs.

Gasthorpe, the club’s majordomo, appeared in the doorway. “Your pardon, my lords.” He looked at Tony. “My lord, a footman has arrived with an urgent summons.”

Tony was already rising. “Waverton Street?”

“Indeed, my lord. The authorities have descended.”

T
HEY’D ANTICIPATED SOMETHING OF THE SORT, BUT
Tony was nonetheless surprised and made uneasy by how swiftly the expected had arrived.

Jack demanded the number of Alicia’s house, then parted from him on the pavement outside the club, saying he’d meet him there. Together with Christian and Charles, Tony piled into a hackney; Tristan intended to join them, but just at that moment Leonora, his wife, emerged from the garden next door—her uncle’s house where she’d been visiting. She saw them, and instantly wanted to know what was going on.

Tristan stopped to talk to her; behind his back, he waved to them to go on without him. They did.

In Waverton Street, Tony jumped down from the hackney. Collier, masquerading as a street sweeper, was lounging on the railings close by the Carrington residence.

The heavily built man tipped his cap as Tony paused beside him. “Five redbreasts, m’lord. Never seen the like in all my born days—they pushed in like it was a thieves’ den. Pompous little sort leading from the rear.”

Tony murmured his thanks. “Keep watching.”

“Aye.” Collier eased upright. “I will that.”

Christian had paid off the hackney; he and Charles followed as, jaw set, Tony strode up the steps. He didn’t knock, but flung the front door wide and stalked in.

A young Runner standing before the drawing room door started, instinctively snapping to attention, then pausing, confusion in his face.

From the direction of the parlor, a stocky sergeant barreled forward, belligerence in every line. “Here, then! Who’d you think you are? You can’t just barge in ’ere.”

Tony reached into his coat pocket, and withdrew a card. “Viscount Torrington.” Face impassive, he handed the card to the sergeant, gestured to Christian and Charles. “The Marquess of Dearne and the Earl of Lostwithiel. Where are Mrs. Carrington and her family?”

The sergeant fingered the expensive card, tracing the embossed printing. “Ah…” His belligerence fled. He glanced at his junior barring the drawing-room door. “The inspector placed the lady and her household under guard, m’lord. Took ’em all into custody, like.”

“Your inspector seems to have overlooked the point that Mrs. Carrington is already in
my
custody, a fact of which the local office of the Watch is well aware.” Tony let his fury ripple beneath his words, subtly scathing.

Yielding to instinct, the sergeant came to attention, eyes fixed forward. “We’re not local, m’lord. We came directly from headquarters—Bow Street.”

“That’s no excuse. Who’s in charge here? What’s your inspector’s name?”

“Sprigs, m’lord.”

“Fetch him.” Tony caught the hapless sergeant’s eye.

“I’m going to check on Mrs. Carrington, to make sure neither she nor any member of her household has suffered any ill effects from your inspector’s reckless action. Your inspector better pray they haven’t. When I return here, I expect to find him waiting, along with every member of your force currently within this house. Is that clear?”

The sergeant swallowed. Nodded. “Yessir.”

Tony turned on his heel and made for the drawing-room door. The young Runner gave way, hurriedly stepping back. Tony opened the door; pausing, he scanned the room, then released the knob and walked in.

Relief flooded Alicia; she jumped up from the chaise and went quickly to meet Tony. Two other gentlemen followed him in; from their appearance and actions, they were friends. The one with black curling hair moved to intercept their guard, struggling out of the armchair he’d commandeered with a weak “Hey!”

Tony turned his head and looked at the man.

Suddenly the object of two unnerving gazes, he stopped, apparently paralyzed by caution.

She reached Tony; his gaze returned to her, searched her face. He took her hands, squeezed lightly. “Are you all right?”

His gaze had gone past her to the boys, Adriana, and all their staff gathered about the chaise.

“Yes.” She glanced back to see them all on their feet.

“Just a trifle shocked.” In truth, she was furious, still seething; the inspector’s insinuations had made her blood boil. Looking back at Tony, she lowered her voice. “Is this about the letters?”

He squeezed her fingers again; instead of answering— an answer in itself—he kept his attention on the others. “This is all a mistake—we’re here to sort it out. I want all of you to stay here quietly. There’s nothing to fear.”

Adriana nodded; forcing her lips to curve, she sat down again. The boys glanced at her, uncertain, then looked again at Tony.

He nodded. “Stay here with Adriana. Alicia and I will be back in a few minutes.” She was close enough to sense the tension that held him, yet he smiled with beguiling charm at her brothers. “I promise I’ll explain all later.”

The smile and that promise reassured them; with fleeting if brittle smiles, they went to cluster around Adriana.

Alicia noted the look Tony exchanged with Maggs, and more briefly with the new footman, Scully, both of whom had refused to be shifted from her and her family’s sides, then he took her arm and turned her to the door.

The other two gentlemen flanked them. Beside her, the larger smiled, as charming in his way as Tony, and half bowed. “Dearne. A pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Carrington, even in such trying circumstances. Rest assured we’ll have this settled in short order.”

She bobbed a brief curtsy.

“Indeed,” the second gentleman said. He saluted her. “Lostwithiel, for my sins.” His grin was unrepentant. “We can deal with the introductions later.”

Tony shot him a glance as he opened the door.

They emerged into the front hall just as the inspector, a short, red-haired man of uncertain temper with an aggressive attitude and an abrasive tongue, came charging up from the direction of the parlor. “What the
devil’s
going on here?” The demand fell just short of a raging bellow.

Fixing on their company, his eyes momentarily widened, then he recovered. “Scrugs! Dammit, man— don’t you know better than to allow visitors in?”

He rounded on the sergeant, who held his ground. Scrugs nodded at Tony. “This here’s his lordship, what I told you about, sir. And the marquess and the earl.” There was enough emphasis in Scrugs’s tone to convey the fact that if his superior didn’t know when to back off, Scrugs certainly did.

“Inspector…Sprigs, is it?” The words were mild, Tony’s tone was not. It cut.

Sprigs swung to face him, glaring belligerently. “Aye. And I’ll have you know—”

“I assume you checked with the local Watch supervisor before barging onto his patch? Elcott, that would be.”

Sprigs blinked; faint wariness crept into his piggy eyes. “Aye, but—”

“I’m surprised Elcott didn’t inform you that Mrs. Carrington is already in my custody.”

Sprigs cleared his throat. “He did mention it—”

“Indeed?” Tony raised his brows. “And did he also happen to mention that my orders in this matter come from Whitehall?”

Sprigs drew himself up. “Be that as it may, my lord, the information we’ve received—’deed, the people we received it from—well, we couldn’t hardly ignore such, Whitehall or no.”

“What information?”

Sprigs pressed his lips together, glanced at Alicia, then ventured, “That Mrs. Carrington here had hired some villains to do away with this man Ruskin, on account of she was in league with the French. Word had it that if we searched this house thoroughly, we’d find evidence enough to prove it.”

“From whom did this information come?”

Again Sprigs hesitated; again the stretching silence forced him to answer. “Brought to us indirect, it was.” He saw Tony’s welling contempt and rushed on, “From the gentlemen’s clubs. Seems a number of the high-and-mighty heard the story—wanted to know what we were doing about it. Questions were asked. They even had the commissioner himself in to explain.”

Sprigs glanced at Charles and Christian, then looked at Tony. “It’s treason we’re talking about here. Don’t suppose toffs like you care all that much, but if you’d served in the recent wars—”

“I wouldn’t suppose quite so readily, Inspector.”

The voice, languid, even soft, chilled. Everyone looked toward the front door. They’d left it partially open. A gentleman stood just inside; he walked forward as they stared.

His dark eyes remained fixed on Sprigs. Alicia had grown used to Tony’s elegance—this man was equally impressive, moving with innate grace, slim, dark-haired, dressed in dark clothes that exuded that same austere style, a reflection of bone-deep confidence, of their assurance in who they were.

There was one difference. While Tony’s tones could cut, whiplike, this man’s voice projected a patently lethal threat, quietly efficient, like a scimitar slicing, unhindered, into flesh.

Suppressing a shiver, she glanced at Tony, then at his friends, and realized the newcomer was both known to them and accepted by them. An ally, definitely, yet she sensed he was someone around whom even they trod carefully.

Sprigs swallowed. He glanced at Tony. Behind him, the sergeant and his other two men were rigidly at attention.

“Dalziel.” The newcomer answered Sprigs’s unvoiced question. “From Whitehall.” He halted at Tony’s side and looked the unfortunate Sprigs in the eye. “I’ve already spoken with your superiors. You are to report back to Bow Street immediately, taking all your men, leaving this house in precisely the same state as it was when you, so unwisely, entered. You will not remove so much as a pin.”

He paused, then continued, “Your superiors have been somewhat forcefully reminded that, together with Lord Whitley, I am handling this matter, and that contrary to their suppositions, Bow Street’s mandate does not extend to countermanding or interfering with Whitehall’s actions.”

Sprigs, now all but at attention himself, nodded. “Yes, sir.” He sounded strangled.

Dalziel let a moment pass, then murmured, “You may go.”

They went with alacrity. At a nod from Sprigs, the junior stuck his head into the drawing room and summoned his companion; in short order, the five men from Bow Street were clattering down the steps, routed by a superior force.

All four gentlemen—Tony, Dalziel, Dearne, and Lostwithiel—stood in and about the front door and saw them off, watched them go. Trapped behind, screened from the sight by their broad shoulders, Alicia waited, somewhat impatiently. She knew the instant they all let down their guards.

Tony and Dearne visibly relaxed.

“Importunate devils,” Lostwithiel quipped.

“Indeed,” Dalziel replied.

They all started to turn inside—

Then paused.

Along with the others, Tony watched two carriages come clattering up, one from each end of the street. Both carriages pulled up before the house. The carriage doors swung open. Tristan sprang down from one carriage; from the other, Jack Hendon stepped down to the pavement. Both turned back to their respective carriages; each handed a lady down.

Kit, Jack’s wife, and Leonora, Tristan’s wife.

Barely pausing to shake out their skirts, both ladies swept toward the house—and saw each other. At the bottom of the steps, they met, exchanged names, shook hands, then, as one, turned and, beautiful faces decidedly set, swept up the steps.

On the pavement, Jack and Tristan exchanged long-suffering glances, and followed in their wakes.

All four men at the door gave way.

With barely a glance at them the ladies swept in. They saw Alicia, and pounced.

“Kit Hendon, my dear.” Taking Alicia’s hand, Kit waved toward Jack. “Jack’s wife. How terribly distressing for you.”

“Leonora Wemyss—I’m Trentham’s wife.” Leonora waved vaguely at her husband, too, and pressed Alicia’s hand. “Are your family quite all right?”

Alicia found a smile. “Yes—I believe so.” She gestured to the drawing room.

“It’s quite insupportable,” Kit declared. “We’ve come to help.”

“Indeed.” Leonora turned to the drawing room. “This is going to need action to set right.”

Together, the three entered the drawing room. The door shut behind them.

All six men in the front hall stared at the door, then glanced, briefly, at each other.

Dalziel sighed, pityingly or so they all took it, and turned to Tony. “I take it you have whatever Bow Street’s minions were sent to find?”

“Yes.” Succinctly, Tony described the letters, and how they fitted the scenario they now thought most likely, confirming that A. C. had used Ruskin’s information to arrange for merchantmen to be captured by the enemy.

At the end of his explanation, Dalziel, still and silent, stared out, unseeing, through the open door. Then, quietly, he said, “I want him.”

He glanced at Tony, then at the others. “I don’t care what you have to do—I want to know who A. C. is. As soon as possible. You have my full authority, and as for Whitley, suffice to say he’s ropeable. If you have need of his name, you have permission to use that, too.”

Briefly, he glanced at them again, then nodded. “I’ll leave you to it.”

He walked to the door. On the threshold he paused, and looked back. At Tony. “Incidentally, the information against Mrs. Carrington—there’s no way to trace it. I’ve tried. Whoever this man is, he’s extremely well connected—he knew exactly in whose ears to plant his seeds. When asked, every concerned soul said they heard it from someone else. I’ll continue to keep my ears open, but don’t expect any breakthrough on that front.”

Tony inclined his head.

Dalziel left, going lightly down the steps, then striding away along the street.

The five men in the front hall remained where they were until his footsteps had faded, then all dragged in a breath and glanced at each other.

“I’m suddenly very grateful I only had to deal with Whitley,” Jack said.

“Indeed, you should be.” Tony stepped forward and shut the door.

Charles met Tony’s gaze as he rejoined them, then glanced at Christian and Tristan. “How did he know?”

Christian raised his brows, openly resigned. “I suspect he knows one of our staff at the club rather well, don’t you?”

“Our club?”
Charles looked pained. After a moment, he shook his head. “I don’t even want to think about that.”