Sir Lee sat on a park bench puffing on his West Indian cigar and enjoying the afternoon sun. His old bones needed more warmth than ever before and nothing quite compared to nature’s own hearth.
Although he sensed the man’s presence long before the crunch of stones on the path ceased behind him, Sir Lee did not turn. “Good day, Wheaton.”
After a moment of silence, his former protégé, Tristram Wheaton, stepped around the bench, moved the folded newspaper aside and sat down beside him. “What’s so bloody good about it?”
Sir Lee motioned with his cane. “The birds are singing, the sun is shining.”
“Don’t tell me you asked me here for a diatribe on the scenery.”
“Of course not. But can’t you find a moment in your life simply to appreciate the world around you?”
“You’re becoming melancholic, Sir Lee.” Wheaton’s icy blue eyes narrowed. “Speaking of which, you’re not looking particularly well these days. Is the blackmailer turning out to be a bit too much for you?”
“Of course not.” Sir Lee frowned, knowing that in this instance, at least, Wheaton wasn’t simply egging him on. He was tired. Feeling every moment of his seventy-plus age down to his aching joints. “It’s these blasted balls, musicales and the like. The ton is up and about until dawn and then sleeps the day away. It’s unnatural, I tell you. No matter when I lay my head upon my pillow I am up when the sun rises. This social calendar is getting…well, tiresome.”
“Growing a bit crotchety in your old age, are you?”
“Crotchetiness is highly underrated. Besides, I’m past seventy and entitled.”
“Still, Sir Lee.” Wheaton waved his cane toward the building across the park. “No matter your mood, it cannot be helped by the view.”
Wheaton was one of the few people in this world who knew that the whitewashed indigent hospital across the way was where Sir Lee’s daughter had died, destitute, alone, and without a stitch of family in the world to support her.
“It’s coming here that keeps me on track.” Sir Lee exhaled. “It reminds me that my work is all I have left. I have no family, I have no heirs. It also reminds me not to be too proud. Pride is a very lonely bedfellow at the end of a long life.”
“She chose to leave…”
“After I’d given her an ultimatum.” Shaking his head, Sir Lee couldn’t recall the incident without shame. “Pride ran thick in our veins, but, after me, no more.”
“So now you’re consumed with death, are you?”
“Nay, Wheaton, consumed with life. And how to live out the rest of my days in a manner that does me some semblance of credit.”
Sir Lee turned to his former protégé. “It was coming here that gave me the idea for how to trap our friend, Mr. Quince. Sniffing after the fellow at balls and soirees and the like leaves him in control and us flailing.” Holding up his hand he curled it into a tight fist. “We need to contain the bugger.”
“Contain?” Wheaton’s bushy white brows lifted.
“I’m going to arrange a country house party where a number of the people on your list of suspected victims and possible accomplices are invited as guests. I will be a late addition to that guest list, a doddering old gent who couldn’t harm a fly.”
Wheaton scratched his chin. “Fish in a barrel, eh?”
“It’s the best way to see which ones stink.”
“So you’ve learned nothing about those fish so far?”
“Oh, I’ve scratched up a thing or two about the people on your list. By the by, have you ever heard of The Society for the Enrichment and Learning of Females?”
“Nay. What is it?”
“Supposedly a place where ladies gather to study and do good works together. One of the ladies on your list is a member there.”
“You believe it’s connected to Quince?”
“I cannot say for certain until I learn more. What I do suspect is that it is fertile ground for subversive activities. What better place to gain information or plant the seeds of unrest than in the bedroom or breakfast room? Daughters of earls, wives of viscounts, mothers of barons can be members. It’s a perfect place for subterfuge.” Resting his chin on his hands, he leaned on his cane. “I will discover the truth of it.”
Wheaton chuckled, reclining against the park bench. “You’re just upset that you didn’t think of it first.”
Sir Lee lifted a shoulder. “That doesn’t mean I can’t fashion the society for my own ends.”
“You were always very good at turning traitors into resources, I’ll grant you that.” Staring off in the distance, Wheaton’s cool blue eyes narrowed. “Hmmm. If there are any seeds to be planted though, they’ll be mine to sow, you know.”
“Of course, Wheaton. I’m retired, which you hardly allow me to forget.” He shrugged. “When the time comes, I’ll hand everything over to you.”
Wheaton nodded. “Very well then. But what of this house party? How do you intend to ensure that Quince takes the bait?”
“I sent letters to a select few on the blackmailer’s list and have no doubt they will attend. And if Quince is as crafty as I believe he is, then he will probably ensure that a few more of his players are part of the party.” He licked his lips. “But to make it work, I need your man there, more than anyone. It will be far too tempting for Quince to ignore.”
“Absolutely not!” Wheaton made a cutting motion with his hand. “I told you to leave him out of it! I want him back in town working for me, not off in the country subject to Quince’s designs.”
“I have enough means and can set the stage well enough to have a reasonable certainty that Quince will take the bait, but if your man comes, then he’ll be a hooked fish for sure.”
“It’s too risky—”
“At a country house party? Be serious, Wheaton. You want this ended quickly. This is the fastest way to ensure results.”
“Look, Sir Lee, I know how meticulously you plan such things—”
“And my proven results.”
“Those, too. But even if I was to support this plan, he wouldn’t agree to do it.”
“Your man wants this nasty business over, doesn’t he?”
“Yes, but he’s rusticating at his estate, mind you. Unless you’ve arranged for the Prince to host the damned thing himself, what possible reason could he have for simply showing up at a house party midseason?”
Smiling, Sir Lee picked up the newspaper from the bench beside him and handed it to Wheaton.
“What, the broadsheet?”
“Read it.”
Pulling his quizzing glass out of his pocket, Wheaton held the paper out. “It’s the bloomin’ gossip column!”
“Just read it.”
After a long moment, Wheaton lowered the newspaper, and looked off to stare in the distance. “It’s good…”
“Good? It’s bloody well perfect! It explains his presence at the house party flawlessly.”
“Then why not simply come back to London? Why go there?”
“Because things will be moving too fast. It will be a very well-coordinated spring-of-the-moment affair. Bags will be packed, unloaded, and all off and running within this side of ten days.”
“As these things go, that’s very last moment.”
Sir Lee smiled. “I know. Which is why I will control the whole affair, down to the last detail.”
Scratching his chin, Wheaton nodded. “I make no promises…”
Sitting forward, a surge of excitement shot through Sir Lee. “But you’ll ask him? And press him to cooperate…?”
“That I will. But I want your assurance that he will be protected above all else.”
Smiling, Sir Lee leaned back. “Of that, you have my word. I have this very well planned. Everyone I want accepts the invitation and Quince takes the bait. Fish in a barrel.”
Wheaton held up the newspaper. “Did you notice this bit here, by any chance?”
“I took it as a sign that my plan is headed in the right direction.” Agents by nature were a suspicious lot, as they both well knew.
“So there’s no connection?”
“Nay, he’s an orphan. From Andersen Hall. I’ll dig a little more, but think it’s a waste of time.”
Wheaton stood, towering over Sir Lee and blocking out the sun. “So you think you can have this whole mess wrapped up in a few weeks’ time?”
“I’m confident of it.” Leaning on his cane, he rose.
“Good luck to you then.” With the crunch of pebbles under his bootheels, Wheaton strode off.
Closing his eyes and inhaling a pine-scented breath, Sir Lee took a moment to savor the accomplishment of step number one.
He opened his eyes, resolved, eager and ready for steps two, three and four. Like a ball rolling down a hill, a plan once started speeds up until its natural or unnatural conclusion.
Sir Lee spun on his heel, set his cane and strolled in the other direction, the crunch of the pebbles announcing his procession.
Nearing the corner of the park, he took one last glance at the hospital across the way, the familiar regret still burrowed deep in his heart.
He stopped and turned to face the building, and for the countless time since learning of his daughter’s lonely demise, sent off a prayer asking for her forgiveness.
He would do what good he could in the last days of his life. He only hoped he had a few left with which to work.