“Was she injured?”
Langdon chewed a bite of succulent roast game hen before answering Carmichael. “Thankfully, no.”
“Good.” Carmichael nodded in satisfaction, dabbing at his mouth with a linen napkin.
Langdon took advantage of the pause in their conversation to scan the Young Corinthians dining room. It was brimming with agents and club members alike, some fresh from the card tables while others looked to be fortifying themselves for a long night ahead. Footmen bustled back and forth between tables, busily serving various courses from the massive sideboard along the far wall.
He knew all of the agents in the room were most likely discussing details and status reports concerning Corinthian cases. Each man there worked endless hours to ensure the safety of the country, becoming intimately involved with, yet detached from, the lives of those on both sides of the battle.
Langdon could recall that world. Professional comportment and a keen sense of justice had allowed him to operate as a Young Corinthian without forming any sort of attachments. He lived in a different world now.
Carmichael’s question drew Langdon’s gaze back toward their table. “Now, she is interesting,” he began, setting his fork and knife down. “I would swear upon my father’s grave that she is one of us. A member of the peerage, that is.”
“And why is that?” Carmichael asked, taking a sip of wine.
Langdon lifted the linen napkin from his lap and dropped it on the table. “Some things can be bought. But others?”
“Meaning?”
“Not one person in the world lives who has the ability to teach such …” Langdon paused, eager for Carmichael to understand him. “Such bravado as that which is innately present in members of the ton.”
“Present company excluded, of course,” Carmichael commented dryly.
Langdon smiled. It felt good to be on familiar ground yet again with his superior. “Of course.”
The man nodded with approval. “Anything else about her that would be good to know?”
“Unfortunately she was draped in costume from head to toe,” Langdon replied, settling back in the heavy oak chair. “Does not give you much to go on, I know.”
“Strictly speaking, no it does not.”
A footman approached and waited until Carmichael gestured for him to clear their plates. Both men paused as the man saw to the finished meal and left.
“From time to time, noble families find themselves in need of funds,” Carmichael continued. “For most, such a state is cured through marriage or other, more common means. And then there are those who go about replenishing their coffers in much more creative ways.”
Langdon himself knew of many families who had resorted to unsavory matches or ill-advised business investments in an effort to sustain their privileged way of life. But partnering with a criminal organization?
“Sounds a bit far-fetched,” Langdon suggested, waving off the returning footman.
Carmichael countered Langdon’s instruction and beckoned the man forward. “We will take our brandy here, thank you.”
The footman bowed and noiselessly disappeared.
“You would think so, wouldn’t you?” Carmichael answered Langdon. “But there are some for whom nothing is more important than money. Not morals nor common decency, even. I will look into it.”
“Grace knows something of that,” Langdon added. Her father gambling her away certainly qualified the bastard for such recognition.
The footman returned with a second man. “My lords,” he said, making way for his companion to place a cut-crystal glass in front of each man, then shooing him off before pouring. He returned the stopper to the top of the decanter and bowed before turning away.
“ ‘Grace’ is it now?” Carmichael asked. His face remained unreadable, no hint of innuendo in his eyes.
But Langdon knew his superior never asked a question simply to make conversation. Carmichael was as careful and precise with his words as he was with everything else in his well-ordered universe.
Langdon could lie. And he wasn’t entirely sure that Carmichael wouldn’t prefer a fabricated explanation to the knowledge that one of his agents was in love with a woman intimately tied to a Corinthian case.
Yes, he could lie. And he probably should.
Still, he would not.
“I love her, Carmichael.”
His superior’s face remained fixed. In fact, Langdon would have wondered if the man had heard his confession at all if not for the slightest intake of breath that registered in Carmichael’s chest and puckered his waistcoat for a split second.
“I know,” he finally answered, reaching out and taking his glass in hand. “The change in you is palpable. Let us drink to your good fortune.”
He raised his glass in salute.
Langdon only stared at his superior, dumbfounded by the man’s words.
“This is where you raise your glass, too, Stonecliffe,” Carmichael instructed.
Langdon obeyed, the clink of cut glass ringing softly.
He took a drink of the brandy. “How did you know?”
“Rising to my rank within the Corinthians was not an easy task,” Carmichael answered, slowly rolling the glass between his hands. “The job requires many things, including knowing your agents inside and out. You are not the first man under my command to fall in love.”
Langdon watched the brandy in Carmichael’s glass slowly revolve. “And you? Have you ever known love?”
He could not say why he’d asked the question. But now that he had, Langdon desperately wanted to know.
The glass stopped.
Langdon looked up at Carmichael, whose face appeared to be a shade paler than it had been a moment before.
“I have,” he answered simply. “Unrequited love, that is. She was promised to another and did not return my affection.”
Langdon sipped his brandy, thankful for the liquid heat of the liquor and its momentary distraction. “I am sorry, Carmichael—I should not have pried.”
“I would not have answered you if I did not want you to know,” he explained, his color returning to normal. “My experience makes me uniquely qualified to oversee the Young Corinthians. I have no attachments to speak of, and all the inducement needed to keep things as they are. As it turns out, a broken heart can be quite useful.”
He took up his glass again and knocked back the remaining contents with one swift swallow. “Does she love you?”
“I cannot say for sure,” Langdon replied, still considering Carmichael’s admission.
“But you suspect she does?”
Only a handful of agents during Langdon’s time had left the organization to pursue a life outside service. And he knew Carmichael had attempted to convince every last one to reconsider.
“Is this where you tell me leaving the Corinthians in favor of a life with Grace would be a colossal mistake?” Langdon asked, avoiding Carmichael’s question.
The older man chuckled low in his throat, as if he realized he’d been caught. “So you have heard of my methods?”
“Do not take this the wrong way,” Langdon said somewhat sheepishly, “but your methods are legendary.”
“Perhaps. Nevertheless, do me a favor and answer my question anyway,” Carmichael replied, his countenance settling into an expression of quiet confidence.
He clearly had a strategy in mind.
“Yes,” Langdon answered simply. “Yes, I believe she loves me.”
Carmichael’s chin lifted at Langdon’s words. “Ah. In that case, do not let her go. Ever.”
Langdon stared at Carmichael, struck speechless for the second time in as many minutes. He looked at the man’s empty glass. Then back at the man. “You are not foxed, are you?”
“No, Stonecliffe, I am not drunk.”
“Then why would you suggest such a thing?” Langdon pressed, feeling as if he stood on shifting ground. “You know what it would mean. It is nearly impossible to maintain a happy marriage when working as an agent.”
Carmichael leaned in and rested his elbows on the table, suddenly appearing fatigued. “Of the men I’ve asked to forsake a life outside of the organization, do you know how many have stayed?”
“No. It isn’t something we are encouraged to discuss,” Langdon replied, still attempting to decipher Carmichael’s strategy.
“Precisely,” his superior replied gravely. He slowly twisted the signet ring he wore on his left hand, the movement absentminded. “Nearly eighty percent continued on with the Corinthians. And of those, almost all have risen to become integral members of the organization. They have little in life but the Corinthians. As for the twenty percent who left the brotherhood? They went on to marry, have children, fight with their wives, spend money, lose money …”
Langdon watched his superior wrestle with what to say. “They loved and were loved. Unlike those men who chose to stay.”
“Precisely,” Carmichael repeated. “I could lose my position for what I am about to say. Perhaps even my head. But I will not willingly keep one more man from happiness. Stonecliffe, see the Afton case through. Then grab on to your Grace and never let her go.”