Justin ran the hard-bristled brush down Cheshire’s flanks and followed it with the soft sweep of his hand. The golden-brown coat gleamed in the lamplight. The stallion neighed softly with pleasure and shifted, rustling the hay beneath his hooves. All was quiet in the stable; the laborers knew when to leave their employer to his solitude.
Cheshire turned his head and watched his master with his large golden orbs. Then, obviously bored with the distraction, he turned back to chewing lazily on his oats.
Justin squatted and rubbed his hands up and down the stallion’s legs, feeling the corded muscles underneath his palms. Nothing settled him and allowed him an opportunity to reflect like grooming his horse. He knew every cleft in Cheshire’s back and hindquarter, better almost than he knew his own body. He inhaled the comforting scents of horse and hay and leather and manure, trying to purge the uneasiness plaguing him.
He stood and rubbed his palm on the soft, short hairs between Cheshire’s eyes, seeking solace.
“Why can’t I seem to think with a clear head where Evelyn is concerned?” he asked his beloved mount. “Is she a siren, intent on enslaving me?” Recalling her loving charm with Jane, her easy smile, and her quick wit, his heart warmed. Her compassion reached so far as to include a destitute street urchin. None in his family, himself included, would have deigned to assist such as he. Picturing his mother’s manner with the lower-level servants made him grimace. Consideration was certainly not her long suit. “Or am I drawn to her simply because I’ve finally found someone who is the exact opposite of my mother?” Attracting him to her like a moth to flame.
His position was becoming precarious. His assignment was to get Evelyn to spill her father’s secrets, and possibly her own. Yet it was he who was opening up. He was the one disclosing potentially dangerous truths better left undiscovered. And he had yet to procure a shred of information from Evelyn.
He pursed his lips, considering. It had been two weeks already, and still he felt as if she were very much a mystery yet to be solved. It was decidedly odd how little she divulged about herself. Indignation pricked at him. Why had she shared so little of herself when he had ostensibly coughed up his life? Did she not trust him? He laughed aloud, but it wasn’t a pleasant sound. Of course she could not trust him. It was his job to bring her down.
Closing his eyes, he rested his forehead on Cheshire’s shoulder. Inhaling his mount’s rich scent, he tried placing Evelyn in a category in his mind that was distinct from his feelings. He tried imagining that he was Colonel Wheaton but could not quite conceive of himself in the ruthless spymaster’s shoes. Instead, he pretended he did not care for her one whit, and perused their discussions as if reading from a book. Detached, clearheaded, with everything defined in black or white.
He read through the meeting at the quay, the ride in the carriage, the walk in the park, the various visits at his aunt’s, the evening she visited her solicitor, the Coventry Ball. Every time the thought of her lips, her touch, or her scent invaded his mind, he quickly flipped the page to the next discussion. Finally he came to today’s chapter, the fair in the park. His mind froze above the page, seeking something but not knowing what. He breathed deeply; doubt nagged at him. Out of focus, yet somewhere on the page, was the key, just waiting for him to see it.
The boy. If he did not pick Evelyn’s pocket, then why had he stepped so close? Justin had seen his hand brush against her skirts. What had she said? “He did not pick my pocket, as there was nothing therein to steal.” Was? He hammered his palm into his forehead, damning himself for being so stupid. He had been so caught up in his own pitiful saga that he had missed the exchange. Anote, most likely. He ground his teeth in frustration. He had missed the opportunity to catch Sullivan when time was critical. He had been distracted from his duty—the worst mistake an intelligence regular could make.
What was the note’s purpose? To set a meeting? To arrange for passage? Perhaps to gain her some help with her funds? To solicit her aid with the plot? He had to find out Sullivan’s plans. He had to stop Napoleon’s scheme from proceeding. And the linchpin to all of these tasks was Evelyn.
The colonel was right. Justin had allowed her appeal to get to him, to make him lose sight of his purpose. He needed to apply more pressure. Shake her confidence, make her turn to him, put her completely in his power. He picked up the large comb and tugged at the knots in Cheshire’s mane. The horse snorted, protesting loudly, and Justin realized that he was being too rough. Disgusted with himself, he threw the comb into the bucket, reset the gate, and strode from the stables. The gloves were off. He no longer had the option of being the refined gentleman. He was the colonel’s man and it was time to start acting like it. Or he could close the book entirely on thwarting the French conspiracy. Something he was not about to do.