Malcolm found his brother at Gentleman Jackson's Boxing Saloon in Bond Street, stripped to his shirtsleeves, sparring against his school friend George Plumtree. Edgar had been fonder of sports than Malcolm, and better at them. Funny, Malcolm thought, watching from the sidelines as his brother dealt a punishing right to Plumtree, it had never occurred to him how well that translated to a life of action. In some ways, Edgar was better suited to it than Malcolm was himself. Malcolm judged himself a passable fighter, but he didn't really enjoy it.
Edgar, intent on his match, hadn't noticed Malcolm yet, leaning against the wall, but Jackson caught sight of him and inclined his head with a smile. Malcolm had sparred at the saloon to keep himself in shape while in London in the old days, before he had a family. Jackson, he recalled, had raised money for British prisoners in France and for a Portuguese village destroyed by the French. The latter being the same sort of people the Goshawk had helped.
Plumtree went down to a devastating right hook. Edgar held out a hand to help him to his feet, then turned and at last caught sight of Malcolm. "Brother mine." He strolled over to the side. "Come for a bout? It's a long time since we sparred."
"It is, indeed." Back to their days at Dunmykel, home from Harrow. "Not today. But I'll stand you a pint. I have something to talk to you about."
For the briefest instant Edgar's eyes narrowed. Malcolm wasn't sure he'd even have noticed it before his talk with Mélanie about 'Poor Tom.' Edgar was very good at this. "Never say no to a pint," Edgar said with an easy smile. "Just let me change my shirt."
A quarter hour later, Malcolm was ensconced in a high-backed bench at a nearby tavern, sharing a pint with his brother. Just as he had been with his father a few hours before. Funny how things worked out. Two years ago he hadn't even known Raoul was his father. A few months after that, he'd been sure he'd never trust Raoul again. Now he was closer to Raoul than to most people in the world. Whereas, looking across the table at his brother he felt he was looking at a stranger. But then, perhaps he'd always been closer to Raoul than to Edgar, even in childhood.
"My compliments," Malcolm said. "When I went looking for the Goshawk, I never dreamed I'd find him so close to home."
Edgar froze, his tankard a few inches from his lips.
"Don't deny it," Malcolm said. "You've done enough sparring for one day."
Edgar set the tankard down, spattering drops of ale on the tabletop. "How the devil did you work it out?"
"Mel worked it out, actually. From Shakespeare."
Edgar gave a shout of laughter. "I might have known it. How the devil—"
"A reference to briars that led to bracken. And Annabel Larimer referred to you as 'Poor Tom.' That's what Edgar calls himself in disguise in King Lear."
"Of course it is."
Malcolm studied his brother. The bright blue eyes that seemed so guileless, the ready grin, the open smile. "The wonder is I didn't see it sooner. But I'll own I'm still in shock."
Edgar sat back against the bench with a rough laugh. "Your shock says wonders about your opinion of my abilities, brother mine."
"No," Malcolm said quickly. "Never that. But you're not an agent. At least, I'm not used to thinking of you as one."
"As I said." Edgar gave a lopsided smile and reached for his pint. "You could always run rings round me at lessons."
"It's not that." Well, not entirely that. "You've always been one of the more honest people I know, Edgar."
"And you aren't? I can't remember the last time I caught you in a lie."
The confidences Malcolm had made to Edgar in the Berkeley Square library only the day before, and the things he hadn't said—notably, the truths about Mélanie and Raoul—stuck in Malcolm's throat. "You can't be a spy without lying."
Edgar took a drink of ale. "I mean when you aren't working."
"Define 'not working.' I've never been able to do so." Besides, being an agent took a certain flexibility of mind. But he couldn't quite say so. Not in so many words. "You've always been very sure of how you see things, Edgar. I wouldn't have put it this way years ago, but I think questioning can help make an agent."
Edgar gave another laugh, though this one was warmer. "Perhaps I have layers you didn't credit."
Malcolm met his brother's gaze. He saw hurt in those blue eyes. Hurt and a certain combination of hardness and irony he hadn't glimpsed before. Had Edgar hidden the truth of who he was? Or had Malcolm been too set on seeing his brother one way? "We can get locked into seeing a person the same way, Edgar. I'm sorry."
Edgar shrugged. "This wasn't a complicated mission in a lot of ways. Helping those who needed it, fighting for our side, ducking in where there was need, then getting out. More like the books I read than the ones you did. I suppose given our taste in reading matter, it's not surprising that that's the story I wrote for myself."
Malcolm took a drink of porter. "I think you're underrating what you did, Edgar."
"I'm used to being out-thought by you, brother."
"In this case, you out-thought me entirely."
Edgar shifted his position, glanced out the mullioned window for a moment, looked back at Malcolm. "I never set out to do it," he said. "It was something of a lark at first. We needed to retrieve information and do it unofficially. The disguise was my idea." He grinned. "I'll admit I said something about 'if my brother can do it, I can.' Once I got there, it was clear the village was starving. I couldn't not help."
"A lot of people would have done just that. That is, not helped."
"I brought food in using the same disguise. I was using a Goshawk's call to communicate with my batman, who was there in disguise as well. The villagers took to calling me the Goshawk. I thought I might be in trouble for striking out on my own, when I got back to headquarters. I was braced for a talking-to when my commanding officer called me in. But to my surprise, he said they were delighted with my enterprise. That the mission had gone off very well and was a great boost to morale. They wanted me to keep on being the Goshawk. Then he said someone from intelligence was there who wanted to talk to me. I should have seen it coming, perhaps, but it was a shock when a tent flap opened, and Carfax walked in."
"Carfax." Malcolm clunked down his tankard. "You were working for Carfax?"
"Well, yes. He ran British intelligence."
"He didn't run military intelligence." Though Carfax had had other soldier agents.
"I suppose you could say I was seconded. My commanding officer made it clear I was to report to Carfax. Carfax set up a system for me to communicate with him."
Probably employing codes Malcolm had devised himself. "Who else knew?" Malcolm asked.
"Not many. My batman. My commander. A sergeant assigned to help me."
"Named McIntosh."
"You've been busy. Yes."
"You didn't tell Lydia?"
"Good God, no. Look, Malcolm, I know you share things with Mélanie, but surely you realize my marriage is very different. Besides, Lydia and I weren't even betrothed when I was the Goshawk."
"I thought you might have told her during your courtship."
"Christ, Malcolm, even to you does it seem like the sort of thing one would discuss during a courtship?"
"I rather think that would depend on the two people involved. Othello wooed Desdemona with tales of his adventures."
"And look how that turned out. I would think it would take a very unique two people. Lydia never even really liked to hear details of army life. Besides—it seemed safer for her not to know. Safer for Lydia, and safer for keeping the secrets. Even in the early days, at my most besotted, I knew Lydia wasn't the best at keeping secrets." Edgar hesitated. "Carfax said specifically that he didn't want you to know."
"Yes, I can see that. I don't know that I can necessarily argue with his choice. I wasn't involved in the mission, and family relationships can cloud issues."
Edgar met Malcolm's gaze in the smoky air of the tavern. "I still remember the first time I saw you in Lisbon afterwards. It felt damnably odd not telling you. At the same time—" Edgar pushed his tankard from one hand to the other. "I can't deny a part of me enjoyed having a secret from you."
Malcolm grinned. "It's all right, Edgar. It's entirely understandable you enjoyed having a secret from your brother. And you had every right to be proud of yourself. You left out one person who knew the truth, though. Annabel Larimer did."
Edgar's brows drew together. "Yes, I was never more shocked than when she told me she'd worked it out. Apparently she'd been going through Diego Martinez's papers—You know about her and Martinez?"
"And that Annabel was an agent spying on Martinez who was reporting to the French. Though I didn't know any of it until she was attacked and we began to investigate."
"I didn't know until that day in the Peninsula when she came to me and told me about this report of Martinez's she'd decoded. Apparently Martinez described a man he'd figured out was working for the Goshawk who Annabel recognized as my batman from the description. She told me she didn't think Martinez had put the pieces together. But she warned me that he was a French agent, and I should be careful." Edgar stared into his tankard for a moment. "Philip Larimer was a friend. Not a close friend. Still—"
"One never knows what goes on inside a marriage, Edgar."
Edgar looked up quickly. "And that justifies anything?"
"I was thinking of explaining, not justifying."
Edgar shook his head. "I suppose I should understand. It's not as though my own marriage is bliss. But it was damned hard knowing what I did and facing Philip. Facing the two of them together. Philip was a good man." Edgar's brows drew together. "I suppose a part of me can't accept what she did to him. She was clever, obviously. Is, I mean. Brilliant. Did invaluable service to Britain. And of course I'm horrified at what happened to her—You think it has something to do with the Goshawk?"
"It seems to."
"But why? Why would anyone care it was me, at this point? Carfax and my commander wanted to keep it quiet during the war. They liked the mystery, and they said it played better if people thought the Goshawk was a Spaniard. But I can't imagine even they would care now."
Malcolm curved his hands round his tankard. "Perhaps someone doesn't want the Goshawk to surface again."
"But I couldn't. I mean, we aren't fighting in Spain now."
"The same people are in need of help."
"But it's not our war. I don't belong choosing sides in the midst of it." Edgar studied Malcolm for a moment. "Even you wouldn't do that, would you?"
"Choose sides?" Malcolm took a drink of porter. Lighter than the stout he'd shared with Raoul but still complex. "More often, I'm all too aware of the problems with both sides. All sides."
"I meant go against Britain's position," Edgar said. "You're still a British agent."
"Actually, I'm not. I think even Carfax has grasped that."
"You know what I mean. You're an MP."
"In the Opposition."
"Yes, but you wouldn't work with the enemy."
"Actually, I don't think either side in Spain could be called the enemy." Leaving aside the fact that he could be said to be sleeping with the enemy.
Edgar's brows drew together. "But it's not our place to take a position."
"We're human beings. And citizens of the world."
"We're British first."
"I'd say we’re human first." Malcolm studied Edgar. Questions it had never occurred to him he'd have to ask about his brother clustered in his mind. "What would you do if someone asked you to resurrect the Goshawk now?"
"You mean Carfax?" Edgar took a long drink of ale. "I'm still a soldier. I'd need to go along with it."
"No, I mean the Spanish. You must have heard that the Spanish rebels would quite like to have Goshawk on their side. He could be a powerful symbol."
Edgar returned his tankard to the tabletop. "You mean Kitty Ashford."
"Among others."
"I know she's a friend, but—" Edgar's fingers curled round the tankard handle. "Kitty's Spanish. If she chooses to support the rebels and go against her government that's one thing. I have to do what Britain decides to do."
"You struck out on your own when you first helped the villagers."
"That was different. I saw people who needed help."
"Kitty would probably say all the people in Spain need help right now."
"Yes, but—damn it, Malcolm, it's not the same. Helping one village wasn't going to disrupt international relations. Tipping the scales in Spain right now could. That's not my place, as a British soldier. Or a British citizen, for that matter."
"Carfax would certainly agree with you."
Edgar's gaze locked with Malcolm's across the table. "He's not wrong about everything."
"Even I'll grant he has his moments. Though I don't know that I'd call this one of them. When did you last talk to him?"
Edgar turned his tankard on the tabletop. "When he was in Paris in the spring. But we didn't talk about anything remotely to do with the Goshawk or espionage. After Toulouse, he said that on no account should the Goshawk be active in France. That would give away that the Goshawk wasn't Spanish. So the Goshawk's work was done, and Carfax was done with me. I'll confess I missed the adventure of being the Goshawk. But I didn't miss taking orders from Carfax. Don't miss it. To be honest, I don't know how you stood it, Malcolm. One can never be sure of what he's saying or what he wants."
"Quite."
Edgar tossed down the last of his tankard. "I'm done. I liked the adventure, but I'm ready to lead a dull life."
"I think you gave up the chance to lead a dull life when you became an agent, Edgar. Or at least when you went to work for Carfax." Malcolm took a drink of porter. His own tankard was still half full. "Has anyone talked to you about the Goshawk recently? Or anything that hinted at the Goshawk?"
Edgar shook his head. "We dined with Lydia's parents last night. Her youngest sister Celia wanted to talk about Waterloo. She asked if I'd really fought in my ball dress after the Duchess of Richmond's ball. She looked crestfallen when I confessed I wasn't even at the ball. I think I lost about ten points in the hero equation. That's the closest I've come to discussing anything to do with the war since we left Calais." He regarded Malcolm for a moment. "I may not have your subtlety, but I assure you I'd know if someone was trying to draw me out."
"I don't doubt it. But people want the Goshawk. Annabel may have been attacked to keep the Goshawk's secret. If we're to learn who was behind the threat to Annabel, we can't keep your secret. You're going to have to make a decision about what to do with the Goshawk's legacy."
"Easy enough. There's no Goshawk anymore."
"I think you may find you can't control your creation, brother."
"I've told you. I've made a choice."
"Carfax's choice."
"The only honorable choice."
"Honor is a word open to many interpretations."
Edgar frowned. "Is that Shakespeare?"
"It's a play on a Shakespeare quote."
"Your answer for everything, isn't it?"
"No. But he does contain a lot of answers to human nature." Malcolm tossed some coins on the table. "I need to talk to our former spymaster."