Martin stirred up the fire, chose a book from the shelves lining the walls and settled down in one of the leather wingchairs before the fire in the parlour. The cat washed itself by the fire, studiously ignoring him.
He wished to God that Psyché Barclay was here for Kit, but the dog would have to do. A dog, he knew, was a comforting thing. And sometimes you needed to be alone to lick your wounds. He remembered the night he had returned to his lodgings, his betrothal broken, the knowledge of his mother’s criminality throbbing like a rotting tooth, until he wanted nothing more than to rip it out. Unlike a tooth, knowledge could not be ripped out. Once known, you couldn’t unlearn something.
At least his father, for all his foolish attempts to take his grandchildren from their mother, had been innocent of the greater evil of plotting Harry’s death. But Martin had sat in front of the fire and brooded alone. How could his mother have believed he wanted the dukedom at all, let alone at the cost of a child’s life? How could she have been so obsessed with the idea of him inheriting?
He was brooding now. The room seemed to close around him, the walls lined with books and the two desks, one tidy and one anything but.
Why didn’t you insist on discussing this mess with Selbourne instead of going to a concert? If you had, he might be alive. Kit would not be grieving...
‘Something he wanted you to have... His desk is the messy one.’
Much as looking in that desk, even with Kit’s permission, went against the grain, he could think of only one thing Ignatius Selbourne might have wanted him to have. And perhaps it was for the best that Kit didn’t see it.
He rose, picked up a candle, went to the desk and opened the drawer. It held only one object—an enamelled snuff box.
Lacy...snuff box.
Martin stared at it. In the candle’s flicker he could almost believe that the water rippled, that the willow framing the swans, their necks entwined as a heart, danced in a breeze. Of all the damnably romantic images Selbourne could have possibly chosen... Reluctantly he reached in and took it out.
The latch was a little stiff, as if it were not used much, and he eased it open with careful fingers. Inside the lid an inscription caught the light.
To my dearest Ignatius with all my love
Your Agatha
1752—forever
He swallowed. Those words, etched in the gold, glimmered in the candle’s flicker, echoing across the decades. A gift, then, from Selbourne’s wife.
But it was what the box held that Selbourne had really wanted him to have. Martin drew out the tightly folded slip of paper and set the snuff box and its secret on the table. Unfolding the paper, he read.
December 26th, 1803
My very dear Lacy,
If you are reading this it means fate has intervened and I have not been able to return this little item personally. It also means that my prayers have been answered and I have not had to give it to Kit. I kept my word to you. She knows nothing of this.
I will continue to hope that you will one day be able to return it to her. Know that you have my blessing and affection always.
Selbourne
Swallowing the lump in his throat, he refolded the note, slipped it into the pocket of his waistcoat and took out the snuff box’s last secret. For a moment he looked at it. Such a small thing, yet it held a promise made and broken, joy and grief. With a sigh he placed it in his pocket with the note and went back to the fire. The book held no appeal now and, leaning his head against the back of the chair, Martin closed his eyes, remembering the first time he’d seen this book-lined room...
Martin had been followed to Keswick House on the Strand and he knew at least one watcher was still there when he left. He had to assume all entrances were being watched. At four o’clock the light was dying. In the great house his father, the duke, sat alone now with his thoughts and self-recriminations. It had been a miserable Christmas dinner for both of them. His father had merely nodded when he said he was leaving London for the time being. A request to borrow a closed carriage for a couple of days received another nod.
Drawing his cloak around him as he left the ducal stables after giving a set of instructions that had probably startled the staff, Martin set off on foot, trusting to his sword, the pistol in his pocket and the weather to keep himself safe from footpads. Careful not to glance around, he strolled along like a man without a care in the world.
His world was in ruins.
His first stop was a brothel off the Strand. He didn’t doubt that his shadow thought nothing of that. After he came out with two cloaked women, handed them both up into a waiting closed carriage and gave loud instructions to the coachman, he thought he had the fellow’s attention. Ducking into a gin shop, he waited. For a moment the shadow hesitated, but then he hurried off.
With a grim smile Martin left the shop, his gin untasted, and followed, remaining well back, until he saw his quarry hurry up the steps of the Carshalton mansion in Bloomsbury. Then he slipped into the shadow of the steps leading up the front door of the next house, waiting, waiting. Reminding himself that it took time to get a message to the stables, time to harness the horses... He heard the rumble of the carriage before it trundled around the corner from the mews to pull up at the front door...the front door which opened immediately. A footman scurried down, clutching a pair of valises, closely followed by two gentlemen.
Carshalton and—Martin’s hands clenched into fists—Lucius Winthrop. Breathing evenly, he clung to control, watching as they got into the carriage and it set off.
Grimly satisfied, Martin stepped out of the shadows and set off on the last part of his journey.
Even knowing his plan had worked, he’d circled around to approach Soho from the north. Probably a pointless exercise. Someone would be watching here, too, and he didn’t doubt any visitor would be noted, but he wasn’t going to make it easy for the blighters.
Fear, not for himself, but for Kit, had dogged him ever since her father and Winthrop had descended on his lodgings at three in the morning demanding her return.
She ran from her father and she didn’t come to you for help.
That burned.
His own fault. That one shocked moment when he’d nearly believed her part of the plot against Harry. She hadn’t tried to defend herself, but returned his ring and walked out of his life.
How could she come to you? Maybe she believed you were involved in plotting Harry’s death.
He believed, hoped, she was safe, but he had to know before he left the country on this assignment.
He hurried by on the opposite side of the street to his destination and spotted the watcher easily enough, loitering by the gate leading into the inn yard of the Red Lion. He kept going towards Greek Street and crossed there, hidden by the veiling snow.
On the corner of the alley he needed several lads huddled together, laughing.
‘Give it to ’im, Ned! ’E’s a bloody thief, this ’un!’
The yip of terrified pain brought Martin up short.
Another yelp.
Never draw attention to yourself on the hunt...
‘Get the rope on ’un. We’ll see how well ’e dances on air!’
The first boy crashed to the icy pavement with a startled yell. The second hit the wall of Murchison’s Drapery Emporium and slid to the ground, dazed. The rest took one collective look at Martin’s naked sword and fled, sliding and slipping in their haste to abandon their mates.
A small, bedraggled dog—a puppy—with a rope about its neck and a brick tied to its tail, cowered in hopeless terror against the wall.
‘Christ!’ This was all he needed.
The two boys he’d felled had scrambled to sitting positions and were scuttling backwards.
‘Get out of here before I give you a real taste of what you were dishing out,’ he growled.
‘Just a bloody mongrel dog,’ one boy spat. ‘Allus hanging around thievin’. You think we won’t find ’im again?’
Martin smiled. ‘Because this time ended so well for you?’
His sword glinted in the faint light off the snow.
‘Let’s go, Rab,’ muttered the second boy. ‘No job ain’t worth gettin’ skewered for.’
Job?
‘An excellent point,’ Martin said. ‘Rab, you really should listen to your marginally more intelligent friend.’ He tossed the second boy a shilling. ‘A reward for thinking.’
The shilling was snatched out of the air and the boy was gone in a flash, Rab hot on his heels, whether in fear or pursuit of the shilling Martin didn’t care.
He stared down at the pup, muttered a curse and bent to remove the rope, fully expecting the pup to snap. It whined, gave his wrist a dab with its tongue, then cowered again.
He untied the brick. ‘You’d better find the nearest muck heap and hide under it before they come looking for you.’
The pup whined again and lifted a front paw. The size of the paw belied the size of the pup. It would be a damn big dog. Or it would be if it lived that long. Another whimper and, damn it, the bloody thing was shivering. And if his instincts weren’t entirely off, in rescuing the creature he’d accidentally run off a set of watchers without arousing any suspicion.
‘Oh, for God’s sake!’ He bent down and scooped it up. ‘What the hell am I to do with you?’
He tucked the creature under his coat, where it snuggled in, and discovered in passing that it was definitely she.
A few minutes later, after making his way through assorted back lanes and traversing two snowy yards, Martin picked the lock on the back door of the building he wanted. His companion in crime, judging by the silence, had fallen asleep under his coat.
The door open and his lantern fully shuttered, Martin slipped inside and shut and relocked the door. No point inviting unwelcome interruptions.
An ominous click was his only warning.
‘Turn around slowly and keep your hands up.’
Martin didn’t move. ‘Before you shoot me, sir, may I put the pup down?’
‘Lacy?’
‘Yes, sir. I apologise for the intrusion, but—’
‘You damned young fool! What the devil are you about breaking into my shop? Turn around!’
This time Martin obeyed. The faint glow of embers from the kitchen fire illuminated Ignatius Selbourne standing in the doorway, a pistol trained on him.
He held absolutely still and then breathed a sigh of relief as Selbourne uncocked the pistol.
The old man’s voice was cold. ‘If you’ve brought Kit here, you’ve made a mistake.’
Martin’s stomach lurched. All day he’d clung to the belief that Kit would have gone to Selbourne, that she must be safe with him. He’d been so damn sure that she’d be here, he hadn’t given any thought to where else she might have gone, or what danger she might have fallen into. If she hadn’t come here, if she hadn’t made it, where the hell was she?
He stared at Selbourne, his brain struggling to get past the clawing panic, to think... Gradually reason fought clear. Selbourne had no reason to trust him. Quite the opposite. The man had every reason to believe he’d conspired with his mother and Kit’s father.
‘Sir, I don’t ask you to trust me, or tell me anything, but you need to know—Carshalton came to my lodgings looking for Kit.’
‘Did he now?’ The icy voice held scorn.
‘Yes. I encouraged him to think I’d hidden her, so he’s had me watched all day.’
There was a moment’s silence and Martin thought Selbourne’s eyes narrowed slightly.
‘And now you’ve led them straight here? Bright boy, aren’t you?’
Irritation pricked him. ‘Since I knew I was being followed I did something about it.’ He took a breath. ‘You’re being watched, too. A fellow by the Red Lion and a group of lads at the entrance to your back lane.’
Selbourne seemed to be considering. At last he said, ‘I’ve got eyes, boy. You’d better come upstairs. Douse that lantern and leave it here. No point burning the place down.’ He turned and stalked away.
Martin followed him out into the shop and up the narrow stairs in the dark.
‘Watch your step,’ the old man said. He led Martin into a comfortably furnished sitting room lined with books. The remnants of supper for one sat on a tea table by the fire, along with a bottle of brandy, and a large tabby cat was curled up on the hearth.
‘Sit.’
It was more of an order than an invitation and Martin obeyed.
‘So. Where’d you hide her?’ Selbourne asked as he lowered himself into the other chair.
Martin’s churning fear subsided a little. ‘You’re bluffing, sir. For some reason Carshalton came to me first. Why, I can’t say, but—’
‘Nor I.’
Martin cocked his head at the tone. ‘Can’t, or won’t? Anyway, if you didn’t have her safe, you’d hardly be sitting here with a bottle of brandy.’
Selbourne continued to watch him, not giving a damn thing away. He’d be a damnably good interrogator, but Martin knew a little about waiting himself.
After a moment Selbourne’s gaze shifted to the lump under Martin’s coat.
‘What the devil is that?’
The pup, possibly roused by the voices, but more likely the scent of roast beef, poked her head out.
‘Is that a dog?’
‘I believe so.’ Martin unbuttoned his coat and set the pup down on the rug. She looked around, tail tucked tightly between her legs, the brindled coat and size suggesting that somewhere in her ancestry a mastiff had been involved.
The cat rose with an outraged growl, fluffed to tigerish proportions and leapt halfway up one of the ladders servicing the bookshelves. It looked down at the interloper in disgust.
Selbourne snorted. ‘More like a bear. Look at the feet.’ He took a slice of beef and offered it to the pup. The pup hesitated only for a moment, then lunged for the offering. The meat disappeared in three gulps. Several slices followed, after which the pup, replete, curled up by the fire and let out a contented sigh.
‘So.’ Selbourne leaned back in his chair. ‘He said you were damned good.’
Martin raised his brows. Who was he and good at what?
‘Good at analysing intelligence. Seeing patterns,’ Selbourne elaborated, as though Martin had spoken aloud. ‘Holford keeps me informed.’
Martin fought not to react. His superior, the quietly spoken, middle-aged Holford breathed the very essence of discretion. Why the hell—?
Selbourne laughed. ‘I trained him, boy. Known him since he was younger than you.’
Martin could only stare. Selbourne—Selbourne—had been part of the game?
The old man continued. ‘He also said there was absolutely no possibility you would have connived at your nephew’s death.’ Selbourne scowled as he stretched to take a brandy glass out of the cupboard near his chair. ‘I’m not sure I believed him.’ He poured brandy. ‘Here.’ He handed Martin the glass.
‘Thank you, sir.’ He wasn’t only thanking him for the brandy.
Selbourne sat, still scowling. ‘She’s not here.’
He went cold all over. ‘Then—’
A thin smile flickered. ‘Because he went to you first, I had time to get her to a friend. Between us we’ve got him chasing his tail. I spent most of the day tearing around pretending I was looking for her. She’s—’
‘No.’ Martin flung up a hand. ‘You shouldn’t tell me. I only need to know she’s safe.’
Selbourne nodded slowly. ‘I was going to say she’s safe enough for now. And if I can keep her hidden until she turns twenty-one in March she’ll remain safe.’
‘Carshalton had Winthrop with him—they had some idea she was going to marry him this morning.’
Selbourne’s eyes were icier than the street outside. ‘After a fashion. Marriage the medieval way was what they had in mind.’
‘The medieval—Christ!’ Scalding rage hammered through every vein. ‘I’ll kill—’
‘No.’
Selbourne’s voice sliced like a winter-hard blade. ‘Leave it. For now, at least. The important thing is to keep her hidden. Once she turns twenty-one she’s safe. She can stay with me then. Meanwhile I’ve called in reinforcements.’
‘Reinforcements?’
Selbourne’s smile was all lethal promise. ‘While I was supposedly looking for Kit all over London today, I sent a very discreet message to Huntercombe.’
‘Huntercombe?’ Martin stared. ‘Why—?’
‘Because he’s always been fond of the child,’ Selbourne said. ‘And after Carshalton tried to have his stepson murdered?’ The smile edged towards vicious. ‘Believe me, he’ll protect her.’
‘She’s safe then.’ Martin took a swallow of his brandy and felt some of the fear and tension melt away in its scalding warmth.
‘Trust me for that.’
He did, but despite knowing that Kit was all the safer if he didn’t see her, he had to swallow the bitterness of disappointment. But perhaps it was better for her this way. In the meantime he had to tell Selbourne what he’d done.
‘I sent Carshalton off on a wild goose chase northwards,’ he said grimly.
‘Oh?’ Selbourne sipped his brandy.
Martin explained.
Selbourne stared at him and a grin slowly spread over his face. ‘You sent Carshalton and Winthrop chasing your father’s carriage north out of London? In this weather?’
‘Keswick wasn’t using the carriage and it seemed like a useful occupation for them.’
‘A carriage carrying two whores?’ Selbourne gave a crack of laughter. ‘Lord! I’d give a monkey to see Carshalton’s face when he catches up!’
Martin shrugged. ‘I told my man to get them as far as Barnet. It’s only one stage, but in this weather I’m hoping that by the time they catch up, it will be too late to turn around and return tomorrow.’
Selbourne nodded. ‘Very likely. And since it’s snowing again, he might even be held up for longer. Well done.’ He tossed off the rest of his brandy. ‘I’m in your debt, boy. If there’s ever anything I can do for you—’
‘There is one thing.’ From his pocket he drew out the ring Kit had returned to him and held it out. ‘Will you keep this for me?’
Selbourne frowned. ‘Why?’
Martin shrugged. ‘In case—’ He broke off. Holford might share what he liked with his old master, but Martin had no such dispensation to tell Selbourne he was leaving England shortly. ‘In case. It’s hers anyway. If...if you ever think it right, give it to her.’
The shrewd old eyes searched his. ‘And what should I tell her if I have to do that?’
‘Tell her—tell her that it was always hers, that I wanted her to have it.’ He rose, placing the ring on the table between them, before words that must not be spoken could spill from him. ‘I should go.’ He bent down, intending to pick up the sleeping puppy. God knew what he was to do with the creature.
‘You can’t take a dog where you’re going, boy.’ Selbourne’s voice was quiet.
Martin looked up sharply. ‘You can’t—’
‘Channel Fleet. Intelligence and analysis. Code breaking.’
After a moment’s shock, Martin said drily, ‘Don’t forget the translation.’ He shook his head. ‘Even my father doesn’t know that. All he knows is that I’m leaving London for a time to let the scandal die down.’
Selbourne nodded. ‘So Holford said. Leave the pup for Kit. She loves dogs and Carshalton would never permit her to have one.’
‘I know, but—’ Bad enough to think she would forget him, but he didn’t want her to waste her life grieving for what might have been. Hoping for something that could never be. ‘Don’t tell her I was here.’
‘Not tell her you came? Why not?’
He wanted her to know. Wanted her to know he had cared. That he had worried about her. But he wanted her to be happy, to live her life without regrets.
‘She shouldn’t be encouraged to think of me. It’s better if she puts all that behind her.’
‘As you have?’
There was no answer to that. ‘Goodnight, sir. Thank you.’
Selbourne shoved himself out of the chair. ‘For what? Keeping the pup?’
Martin smiled bitterly. ‘For that, too.’ He hesitated. ‘Look, don’t tell her anything unless you have to give her the ring.’
Selbourne nodded. ‘Very well. I’ll see you out and lock up.’
‘You might use the bolts this time,’ Martin suggested. ‘You don’t want just anyone breaking into your kitchen.’
Selbourne smiled. ‘Quite so. You’ve lost me a wager with Holford coming here, you know.’
‘I... What?’
‘I left the bolts undone for you,’ said Selbourne. ‘I saw Holford this morning. He agreed to get the letters about Kit to Huntercombe and assured me that you’d reach me faster.’ Selbourne’s fingers drummed briefly on the wine table. ‘In fact, he said you’d refuse to leave the country if I couldn’t guarantee to keep Kit safe.’
What?
Holford was damnably acute.
In the end words came from deep within. ‘Thank you, sir. I know she’ll be safe with you. Otherwise—’ He swallowed.
Selbourne held out his hand. ‘Thank you, Lacy. Godspeed. I’ll pray I never have to give her that ring, that you can give it back to her one day.’
Martin gripped the offered hand. ‘That can’t be. But if there is ever anything I can do for you, you have only to ask.’