“WHERE is your moustache?” Marcus Worth whispered to him as he unlocked the music room window for Jack.
“Missing,” Jack shrugged. “Laundress might have mistaken it for lint.”
“Or a rat’s hide,” Marcus grinned. Which only made Jack wrinkle his nose in disgust. “You’re late.”
“I had to wait for the carriages to thin out, and the guards to loop around again,” Jack replied. “Too many eyes.” Indeed, Jack had been waiting on the rooftop of the mansion across from the Duke of Parford’s stately classical home in the heart of Mayfair for over an hour. The arrivals of the glittering ton who had garnered an invitation to what had turned out to be the dinner party of the Season had taken ages, with people making their entrances as if they were attending a royal wedding—moving with that stately grace reserved for being seen. Of course, this meant they moved abominably slow, and Jack found it difficult to leap from the next-door roof across the high wall to the Duke of Parford’s roof without causing a stir.
“A little performance anxiety?” Marcus grinned at him.
Jack shot him a droll look. “If I wanted cheap shots at this time, I would have made your brother come along.”
“He couldn’t, you know that.” Marcus replied.
It was true. Over the past week, Jack had spent the daylight hours playing watchdog over Sarah—because he would be damned if he was going to leave her alone with the Comte, knowing what was suspected of him. A courtesy she seemed to appreciate, if not for the same reasons. The number of times she sent him an amused glance over her shoulder or an eye roll when the Comte was pontificating again on his Burmese adventure had made Jack’s heart sing. Meanwhile, his nights had been spent working with Marcus and Byrne on their plan of attack for the Comte’s dinner party.
One that Jack would be infiltrating alone.
After making sure Jack pulled off the first part of the adventure, Byrne had left the city for his home in the Lake District. When Jack asked why the Blue Raven would possibly leave halfway through an operation, Marcus replied carefully.
“My brother … he has certain weaknesses the city caters to. He can keep this part of himself in check if his family is with him, but falling into the Blue Raven business…” Marcus looked down at his desk, contemplating, then returned his eyes to Jack. There was bleakness there. “Suffice to say I do not begrudge him the decision to go home. Nor will you,” he commanded. And that was all Marcus would say on the subject.
Marcus had managed to obtain the original sketches of the floor plans for the Duke of Parford’s home from the days of its construction. How Marcus was able to obtain these papers, Jack did not question—but they turned out to be a gold mine of information on how they would enter and search the residence. It wasn’t a terribly old manse, Georgian in style and built within the last century and, therefore, easy to navigate—not Byzantine like some medieval structures, nor involving some of the more elaborate “romantic” architecture that was now popular, with turrets and passageways that lead nowhere.
Even though Jack could have been invited, if he so desired, he knew it was best if he not attend as a guest—he could too easily be noticed as missing from the dinner table. Therefore, they decided that Jack would enter through the garden, when everyone was still arriving—all of the attention would be at the front of the house, not the back. But to get there, he would have to jump from the roof of the property next door, over a high wall and into some fortunately thick shrubbery—without arousing the suspicion of any guards that happened to be posted nearby.
Of which, it turned out, there were several.
From there, Marcus, who they had made certain was invited to the party, along with his wife, Phillippa, would make sure the path was clear for him to enter through the back gardens, where he would quickly slip in a downstairs window, to the music room. Since Jack had somehow managed to persuade Sarah to exclude traditional music from that evening’s entertainments, that room would be dark and unused.
And apparently, quite dusty.
“I don’t think anyone’s been in this room in years,” Marcus whispered, as he ushered Jack in through the window. “Be careful not to disturb the drop cloths, or any of the surfaces. You want to leave no trace of having been here.”
“What kind of French aristocrat doesn’t have his home—even a borrowed one—dusted regularly?”
“The kind who either doesn’t appreciate music, or is harder up for money than we thought,” Marcus replied.
“Well, it will make searching the rooms the Comte and Mr. Ashin Pha occupy simpler.” Jack mused in a whisper. At Marcus’s quizzical look, he continued. “If the dust in a room is thick and undisturbed, then no one has entered for a number of years—therefore, no hidden secrets from short-term residents in those rooms.”
Marcus nodded in agreement. “Good point. Now I must hurry back, before anyone notices I’m missing. We’re still all in the sitting room, but will be going into dinner shortly. You’ll be most free to move about the house then. You know what to look for?”
Jack looked heavenward. This had been drilled into him. “Just a guess … letters stained with blood?”
“Not only will they prove either the Comte’s or Mr. Pha’s involvement, but hopefully they can give us a clue as to who is pulling the strings. Best get to it, then.” Marcus said, slapping him on the shoulder before he tiptoed to the door.
“Marcus,” Jack called, and he turned. Jack’s voice became a grumble as serious as thunder. “Don’t leave Sarah’s side tonight.”
Marcus nodded gravely, right before slipping out the door and back into the brightness of the hallway beyond.
Leaving Jack to carry out his mission. Careful not to disturb the dust of the stale room, he immediately went to where he knew the hidden door to the servant’s staircase to be, and slipped inside.
This particular corridor he knew, thanks to memorizing the house’s schematics, lead to the servants’ bedrooms—and since all of the maids and footmen would be dealing with the party, it was predictably unoccupied. A quick rifling of all the servants’ rooms turned up nothing. Except for the fact that none of the servants appeared to be English. Jack wondered briefly what had happened to the housekeeper and skeleton staff most aristocratic houses retained even when they were not in use. But since he located no letters, let alone bloodstained ones, he put his questions into a spare corner of his brain and moved on.
Since the main floors of the house were occupied by the party, Jack moved silently up the servants’ staircase to the top of the house, where the storage rooms and nursery were. The nursery was predictably dusty and unused (no call for someone without young family to open up those rooms), but the attics were clean as a whistle … and unaccountably empty. Jack searched every corner, but came up with nothing. It was deeply suspicious, because the Duke of Parford was said to have been a collector, with every one of his homes full of beautiful things. Even if he had lent this house for the Season, why would he have bothered to clean out the attic?
There was, indeed, something very strange going on in this house.
But since there was nothing in the way of communiqués, Jack had no reason to stay, and as such, he began working his way down the house, room by room. And coming up with nothing. Even the Comte’s bedroom—which was a mess, and spoke to his valet’s lack of discipline—contained nothing of note that Jack could find. Nor did Mr. Ashin Pha’s—and he seemed to be living in a state of dissolute grandeur to rival his friend’s.
There was a hairy moment or two when Jack knew he had to move from the family rooms to the public rooms below, the sounds of laughter, warmth, and clinking silverware drifting up the main staircase. Apparently the dinner party was a great success. But Jack would have to ruminate on Sarah’s party-planning abilities later, as he was confronted by the unexpected—a footman, stationed at the top of the staircase.
Judging by the dark man’s size and the ill-fitting uniform, he had not been “just” a footman in India. And he was to make sure that no guest moved up the stairs to the family rooms.
Lucky for Jack, he was not expecting anyone to be moving in the opposite direction.
It was dark enough at the top of the stairs that dragging the heavy man’s inert form into a linen closet went unnoticed—but Jack knew his absence would be noted soon, and therefore, his search of the most important rooms would have to be as quick as it was thorough.
He slipped down the staircase, holding in a shadowed alcove, as a number of servants moved past with empty trays and decanters. The doors up the hall from him were the dining room and drawing room, respectively. From the sounds and light, Jack guessed dinner was in its last throes.
He would have to hurry, then.
There was only one door at the end of the hall—the Duke of Parford’s library. And if Jack was going to wager money, he would bet that what they looked for was in there.
When the last servant passed with the last tray of empty plates, Jack slipped out and made his way to the library door. Of course it was locked, which only heightened Jack’s expectations.
Now he just needed to pick the lock. Luckily, the Blue Raven spent the better part of a week teaching him how. Less luckily, that had always been with much better light.
“Come on,” Jack breathed to himself, as he maneuvered the mangled hairpin in the latch. Byrne could do this with a breath and wrist flick, he thought ruefully. Female noise from down the hall were getting louder … The ladies were retiring to the drawing room … They would be in the hallway at any moment.
Blessedly, the latch gave way with one last flick of the wrist, and Jack slipped inside the library door, just as the dining room doors were opening.
Immediately, Jack knew that had he been a betting man, his pockets would be fuller right now. The Duke of Parford’s library absolutely tingled with discovery.
This room was used, and used often. Even in the dark, Jack could see the piles of papers, maps, and objects from foreign lands scattered seemingly at random about the room.
He moved swiftly to the desk, and the stack of papers that was haphazardly strewn there. Nothing but bills—massive ones, but just bills all the same. No bloodstains. He rifled the books, to the same result. The cushions of the lounge chairs, the uncomfortably high desk chair … and found nothing.
The only thing he found out of place was the excessive amount of ash in the fireplace—it had been too warm for the past week for any need of a fire. Was someone burning bloody letters?
He had just ducked and begun gingerly sifting through the ash when he heard a sound at the door. Someone was turning the knob.
Swiftly he pulled his hood firmly over his head, seeking darkness, obscurity. He moved to hide himself beside the doorjamb … quickly pulling out the seaman’s dagger he had concealed in his boot. He waited, as the door handle clicked … and the massive carved plank of solid oak was pushed in…
And Sarah Forrester ducked her head around the corner.
“God damn it,” he breathed.
When she turned, and saw only a dark figure in the dark with the shine of a blade in hand, she did what any sane person would. She opened her mouth to scream.
Which he could not allow.
Thus he did the only thing he could think of at that moment. Roughly, he pulled her to his body and kissed her.
Up until that moment, Sarah could rightly say that the evening had been inauspicious.
Aside from the excitement of Bridget’s strange exit from Sarah’s room and their conversation, and then Bridget’s subsequent announcement that she would not be attending that evening’s festivities, Sarah had begun to think the night would turn out to be terribly dull.
So far, everything about the dinner party was going according to plan. The people invited were glittering in their diamonds and feathers, the majority of the ladies donning Indies-inspired fashions. Sarah had to admit that the golden embroidery along her hem was the scrolling leaves and decorative flowers associated with Indian textiles. But there was absolutely no reason for the Marchioness of Broughton to be wearing peacock feathers in her outlandishly styled turban, making her almost twice the height of her usually diminutive form.
Sarah had arrived early with her mother in tow, and helped the Comte and Georgina, whose natural timidity had returned in force, her eyes shining with presumed nerves as she shook hands with everyone who entered. But by the time the last person had made their way down the row of the Comte, Georgina, and Mr. Ashin Pha (who looked regal in an elaborate headdress, the feathers of which tickled the nose of more than one guest, he bowed so deeply), Georgina had relaxed a bit, and they took them all into dinner.
Sarah was not seated next to the Comte as planned. Instead, she found herself next to Marcus Worth, although she had been certain she had arranged the seating differently. But it mattered little—the Comte’s voice carried, and his stories were ones Sarah had heard far too many times at this point. The gaiety of the guests, as well as the unexpected delight of the traditional Indian courses that were served, kept the spirits of the room up, but Sarah’s mind could not help but flicker to the man who at that moment must have been sneaking about the house, and where he could possibly be.
It made appreciating the dinner and the conversation very difficult.
Finally, after half a dozen courses of exotic meats and spices had been massacred on the table, Georgina, prompted into her role of hostess by Mrs. Hill, stood up and led the ladies into the drawing room.
And that was when she saw him.
Or at the very least she saw something, thanks to Georgina forgetting to follow protocol and have the higher ranking ladies walk with her, instead grabbing Sarah’s arm and pulling her along. When her hand touched Sarah’s skin, she could tell why. Her hands were shaking.
“I’m more nervous about sitting with the ladies than I was about dinner. At least at dinner Jean was able to carry the conversation.” Georgina whispered to Sarah in her little voice. Georgina’s sweetness and timidity snapped Sarah out of her worrying about the Blue Raven’s whereabouts, and instead back to the difficulties of the dinner party itself.
“They are all so much more … glamorous than I.” Georgina’s eyes darted to the far-too-fashionable plumes and turbans of the other women there, and then down at her lovely, if somewhat plainly designed gown, which maintained a sole note of interest due to the red Indian silk it was made of.
“You’re doing fine,” Sarah replied, patting her hand. “Now, you should make sure the servants are ready with the special tea you brought back from India with you—”
It was at that moment that the burly footmen opened the doors to the main hall, ushering the ladies out—and Sarah, at the front of the women, caught a glimpse of movement.
It was just a flash, a sliver of light as a brass door handle moved a fraction of an inch—but it was enough to start Sarah’s heart beating faster. It was all she could do not to run to the door just then and fly into the unknown room. Instead, she was careful not to spare the door a second glance, while memorizing which one it was. She knew he was in there. She felt it in her bones.
And a mere ten minutes later, she was proven right.
Because no one else kissed like the Blue Raven, she thought on a sigh, as she leaned into his arms.
Although, there was something different this time.
“Where—where is your moustache?” she said in a whisper, when he finally broke off the kiss.
“Ah—I shaved it,” he replied quickly, after returning his knife to its place in his boot. Then he looked up at her from the depths of his cloak. “You shouldn’t be here.”
“I know,” she replied, chastised. “I know it’s stupid. I should have stayed with the ladies.”
“You’ll be missed, and soon,” he warned, as he stalked over to the fireplace, and began inspecting the ashes.
“Then why are you here?” he asked, frustrated.
Why was she here? She narrowed her eyes furiously. “Maybe I’m here trying to find the necessary, which is the excuse I gave the ladies when I stepped out of the room. Maybe I’m here because I’ve spent a week planning a party that you asked me to create and I wanted to make certain that you were finding what you needed, and I find myself invested in the outcome of this adventure. Or maybe I’m here because I haven’t seen you in over that amount of time and with all I’m doing for you, don’t I have a right to a little consideration?”
He straightened, having apparently not found anything in the fireplace. “It’s too dangerous for you to be here. You have to go,” he claimed, taking her by the arm, and pulling her toward the door.
“If I go back to the room now, it would be even more suspicious.” Sarah rationalized. “Women know how long it takes for us to … arrange ourselves.” He paused right before the door. “Besides, you look like you could use some help.”
He seemed to be indecisive. His thumb on her arm began to move gently back in forth, making his mind up. Finally he breathed, “Damn it.”
“Have you found what you’re looking for?” she asked quietly.
“No,” he admitted. “And this is the last room to check.”
He released her arm, and stalked back to the desk, which was littered with papers.
“Let me help. What are we looking for?” she asked.
“A letter. There will likely be … droplets of blood on it,” he answered as she paled. “But these are all just bills—from reputable companies.”
“High ones,” Sarah said drily, returning to regular color as she perused the papers. She placed the paper back down where she found it. “Well, let’s get to work, then.”
Over the next few minutes, they scoured every surface, explored every piece of paper in the room, every book, every crevice that could hold a note, every tiny little scrap, straining their eyes to read in the moonlight.
And coming up with nothing.
“I don’t understand,” she whispered after some minutes. “If I know the Comte, he’s the type of man who would hide his secrets in plain sight, thinking he’s being clever and outwitting everyone.”
“Which makes this lack of anything suspicious all the more confounding. Unless, of course, he’s not guilty of treasonous activities as suspected.”
“You suspect him of treason,” Sarah repeated, feeling a line of coldness trickle down her spine. “You never told me that.”
“I didn’t want you to know,” he grumbled, as he began feeling around the seams of the desk—hoping for a secret pocket, or a button to depress, most likely. “For your safety.”
“And yet you left me alone with him all week,” she replied quietly.
Without changing from his course, he answered easily, “You were never alone with him.”
“How do you know that?” she asked, suspicious.
He froze in his movements, his head coming up ever so slightly. Even in the dark, she could tell that he was regretting his words. Words that gave him away.
“How do you know that?” she asked again, taking a step closer to him. “Were you … were you keeping an eye on me from afar?”
“Something like that,” he replied, his voice strangled. Then, he turned to her, his voice intense. “Sarah, I should tell you—”
“How did you do it? Did you pay off the servants, or—”
“Jesus, Sarah, I can’t keep lying—”
“Truth be told I don’t care how you did it—I’m just glad you did.” She smiled at him, her eyes a little watery. “I’m glad you trusted me enough to help with your mission, and glad that you cared enough to make sure I was safe.”
She rose on tiptoe and kissed him on the cheek. This was not an expression of passion, of heat—but of gratitude. She was just happy to know that he cared.
But that kiss seemed to break something in him. Because he pulled her to him, holding her steady, as he braced her against the desk.
“Of course I care,” he rasped, as he leaned over her. “I’ve always cared. You may not think so, but I have.”
Sarah felt her heart going fast, so fast she thought she might faint. But being here, in this moment with this man of all men staring down at her, was far too important to succumb to such weakness. Far too important to give any attention to the soft click of a lock, or the silent creak of a door. The way he stared at her—only the shine of his eyes from beneath his cloak visible—she knew he was on the verge of telling her something imperative. Something real.
Something that would have to wait.
“You really think this is the best time for that?” came a whispered voice from the door. Sarah whipped her head around, and was astonished to see Sir Marcus, Phillippa’s husband, peeking his head around the door. He slid into the room and quickly crossed to them.
Curiously, he didn’t seemed shocked at all to see a cloaked man embracing her.
“You have been missed,” Sir Marcus addressed her. “And you have been too long in this room,” he said, turning his attention to the Blue Raven.
“I know, but this is the only room to have any potential. Everything else is neat and spare, to the point of bareness,” the Blue Raven whispered back.
“Sir Marcus, you … know each other,” Sarah stated the fact, her brain catching up to the situation. “Of course you do—you’re the head of the War Department now. I keep forgetting.”
“Many people do,” Marcus replied jovially. “A truth that works to my advantage on occasion.” Then, more pointedly, “I take it that information was withheld from you does not bother you?”
“Not as much as one might suppose,” Sarah replied. “On the contrary, I am happy to learn that he has not been alone in this.” She touched the Blue Raven’s arm. He remained still, impassive, not responding to her touch. Embarrassed, she withdrew her hand.
“Yes, well, your part has been played admirably, Miss Forrester, and it’s time to get back to it. People are questioning your absence and I volunteered to fetch you.”
“But we’ve been searching—”
“No more. You’ve risked enough,” the Blue Raven said tersely.
“So I must risk my patience instead?” she replied, frustrated. “Playing along with people I find as false as that painting?”
All eyes flicked to the wall she indicated. “This painting?” Marcus asked, as he took two steps toward the painting. It was a huge portrait, from the time of the Tudor court. A woman, who must have been very, very wealthy, or perhaps a mistress of the King, stood proud and tall in her court dress. “How can you tell it’s false?”
“I cannot,” Sarah replied. “But my father—he’s head of the Historical Society, you know—he’s been talking about this painting for weeks now. The Holbein. Apparently the society just purchased it in a private auction. So if the society has the original, this one must be a fake.” She looked between the two men. “Am I wrong?”
“No, you’re not wrong,” the Blue Raven mused. “There is a Holbein at the Historical Society, which looks remarkably like this one.”
“And while you may not be able to ascertain its falsity, Miss Forrester, I can,” Sir Marcus piped up, leaning close to the painting and touching a section of blue dress that held his fingerprint. “It’s only been done in the past few weeks. It’s still a bit wet—and I can practically smell the linseed oil.”
Sir Marcus leaned in closer, looking around the edges of the painting this time, circling out to the wall behind it. “There’s a seam here. In the wall.”
“There’s one over here, too,” the Blue Raven replied. “It’s a door,” he breathed. “But there was no door on the architect’s drawings.”
“Must have been added later,” Marcus replied. “The painting is attached to the wall most securely—perhaps if we pull on it, it will open…”
The Blue Raven nodded from within his cloak, taking his meaning. Together, they began to pull on the painting from the gilt frame. Neither the wall nor the painting budged an inch.
“There has to be a latch somewhere,” Sarah added, and moved in between the two of them, and began inspecting the seams. “Here, let me—”
Unfortunately, she decided to do this as Marcus and the Blue Raven decided to give pulling at the painting one last try, and … the results were predictable.
But, for Sarah, inconceivable.
She and the Blue Raven fell back at the same time, he threw his arm out to catch her. Their tumbling over set a number of books on the edge of the large desk in the center of the room, gravity having them crash to the floor in a muffled racket.
Sarah cringed at the noise. Then she turned to the man who held her, her first instinct to ask if he was unharmed, but before she could, she saw his face.
She saw his face.
In all the movement, the hood of his cloak that he kept up so protectively had fallen back, revealing his profile. The half mask still covered the top half of his features, of course … but she could see his jaw and, without a moustache, his lips perfectly. Lips that she had seen set into a hard line of condemnation or, lately, twist in wry amusement, hundreds of times.
His eyes met hers, and he must have recognized her shock. But he did not move. Possibly because she was lying on his arm, but his stillness allowed her to silently reach up, and pull the half mask off, revealing his face in full.
Revealing Jackson Fletcher’s face in full.
“I don’t understand,” she said, her voice shaking. Her gaze darted quickly between Marcus Worth and Jack. Jack! How the hell—it couldn’t be … “I don’t understand,” she repeated again.
It was as if all the sound fell away, dampened by a heavy curtain, enveloping her and Jack and blocking out everything else. And then the curtain lifted, and all the sound came roaring back.
“Sarah, I can explain—” the Blue Raven—Jack!—began, his voice returning from its grumble to his normal tenor. But he wouldn’t be given the chance to explain, because their falling to the floor had caused enough noise to bring footsteps to the study’s door.
“You have to go,” Marcus ordered Jack. Jack was stone-faced, pale as a ghost. “I know. I’ll take care of it.” He said to Jack’s unasked question. “But you have to go now.”
Jack’s eyes flicked to window. He stood, moving with a grace and fluidity that Sarah could not believe came from the frame of the gawky boy she had known, and swiftly, silently, swung himself out the window.
Sarah was still frozen in her position on the floor, when Marcus grabbed her by the shoulders and lifted her to her feet. “I will tell you everything. But right now, you’ve had more to drink with dinner than you thought. Understood?”
Marcus’s usually kind eyes bore into her with an intensity she did not know the mild-mannered man had possessed. She nodded quickly, just as the door to the study opened, revealing their host himself.
“My word—” the Comte exclaimed as he surveyed the room. His intense expression momentarily frightened Sarah, unused as she was to such fury coming from the man. But it was gone in a moment, once his eyes fell on Sarah. “Miss Forrester! How on earth did you get in here?” Then they narrowed again when he saw Sir Marcus’s hand upon her arm.
As confused as she was, as raw and exposed as she had been mere seconds before, she did not need to look at Sir Marcus again to know the part she was meant to play. The Golden Lady.
A tipsy Golden Lady, that is.
“There you are!” She smiled wide, and let herself stumble toward the Comte. “Oops!” she laughed, when the train of her skirt snagged on her foot. She finally reached the Comte, and leaned heavily enough on his arm that he was taken aback—but not displeased. “I got lost.”
“Indeed,” Marcus replied. “I was sent to look for Miss Forrester by my wife, and found her here.”
“It’s very nice in here,” she said, sillily, going so far as to place her head on his shoulder. “The chairs are so cozy. And it’s cool in here.”
The Comte’s brow went up. His gaze locked in on the heavy brocade curtains, pushing out in the breeze. “Who opened that window?”
“Er, I did.” Marcus supplied. Then, pointedly, “I thought Miss Forrester might benefit from some air.”
The Comte’s entire body relaxed. “Well, we shall get you some tea, and hopefully that will make you feel better, eh, my sweet?”
Her head was still on his shoulder, so he couldn’t see her face. Or how much it burned with embarrassment at having to play this part. But she schooled herself into her role, and nodded, and as they exited the room, Sarah shot one quick, meaningful glance back at Sir Marcus.
He nodded, acknowledging what went unsaid.
She deserved answers. And she meant to have them.