Daphne stared at the series of letters she’d jotted down from memory from the painting of The Young Pretender.
As had happened since she was a small child and first began to notice patterns, she let herself go to the place she thought of as the aether. Where everything else ceased to exist. It was just her and the numbers.
She found it impossible to explain how it happened. Her tutor and her father had both tried to have her explain it to them—perhaps so that they could do it themselves? But she honestly had no notion of how it happened. It just did.
And it worked with other patterns as well. Cards for example.
When she was dealt a hand at whist, a glance at the cards in her hand was enough to set her mind calculating odds and possibilities. And every play set her to recalculation, reassessing, mentally building a list of which cards had yet to be dealt.
With codes, it was a bit more complicated. Instead of letters on the page, she saw numbers that were the sum of two other numbers. The first corresponded to a letter of the alphabet. “A” was equal to “0,” “B” was equal to “1,” and so on. The second was added to each of the letters in the solution. So, if she were to add 3 to every letter of the alphabet, “A” would be represented by 0 + 3, “B” would be 1 + 3, and so on.
It fell to Daphne to figure out what the second number or, perish the thought, numbers were that had been added to the original message’s letters.
Of course, this was if Cameron had used a substitution code. It was entirely possible he’d done something else entirely. But Daphne thought not. Substitution codes had been used for centuries, and the fact that the message in the painting had been composed of letters only told her it was not a symbolic code or anything more complex. The true challenge would be to determine if more than two numbers had been added together to come up with the coded message. It was a typical form of substitution code—the type of code she hoped Cameron had used to write the location of his treasure.
The cipher in the painting had read:
Gdbpc Opiw Hjbbtgatp Thipit
She set to work, trying out various combinations and subtracting important numbers in Jacobite history from the letters in the message.
So engrossed in her work was she, that she was completely unaware of the silent figure creeping up behind her.
One minute, she was scribbling a notation in pencil.
The next, she was unconscious.
* * *
Maitland found Lord Forsyth pacing the same path between the window and the drawing room fireplace that Daphne had so recently walked.
As soon as he stepped into the room, the earl looked up with ill-disguised impatience. “You took your time,” he said with a scowl. “Am I not to be afforded the courtesy of prompt attention? I am to be your father-in-law, Duke.”
Biting back a sharp retort, Maitland said, “What is it you want from me, Forsyth? I gather you wished to speak to me, and only me about this matter? What is it you cannot share with your daughter, pray?”
The earl pokered up. “It is a matter of my daughter’s safety,” he said with a touch of asperity, “which I thought would better be handled by her betrothed than her father. I am not, after all, in her good graces at the moment, and I doubt she’d listen to me.”
That was an understatement, Maitland thought wryly. He doubted Lord Forsyth had been in Daphne’s good books since she was a babe and had no way of knowing how corrupt the man was. “By all means, tell me. I will do what I can to see that she is kept safe. Though by demanding to see me in person you took me from that very task.”
“You will know much better how to protect her when you learn the man’s identity,” Forsyth assured him with a flourish. Clearly the man had a flair for the dramatic.
“Who?” Maitland asked, prepared to hear the name that had been racing through his own mind ever since they’d learned of Sommersby’s visit to Hargrave’s office.
“He has been passing himself off as an agent of the Home Office,” Lord Forsyth said, his nostrils flaring in annoyance. “A Mr. Ian Foster.”
Maitland felt a frisson of alarm. “But surely Foster is who he says he is. Squire Northman assured me he knew the man as such from his own dealings with the Home Office.”
“Perhaps it once was true,” Lord Forsyth said, his vehemence convincing Maitland of his sincerity, “but no longer. I had dealings with the man on a separate matter some years ago, and the fellow assured me he was no longer in their employ.”
“What ‘separate matter’?” Maitland asked, suspicious. He doubted it was anything aboveboard or Daphne’s father would have told him as part of the explanation of how he knew Foster.
“That is neither here nor there,” Lord Forsyth said pettishly. “What I am telling you is that Foster is likely the man responsible for the murder of Nigel Sommersby. If you had been more forthcoming with me about the matter, I might have made the connection earlier. As it is, I only learned from Northman this morning that Ian Foster was traveling with Sommersby, at which point I knew he was responsible.”
“Is it not possible that he only told you he was no longer working for the Home Office in order to gain your trust?” Maitland asked, not quite sure he was ready to follow Forsyth down this particular avenue of speculation. He accounted himself a rather good judge of character, and he’d seen no hint that the man was lying.
Of course, he was not infallible.
“It’s possible,” Forsyth said. “If you must know the truth, I bought some claret and brandy from free traders through him. I do like a good brandy, you know. And his name was given to me by a friend, who said he’d once worked for the government, but now wished to get a bit of his own against them. He had the connections on the coast, and saw that I received the items I asked for.
“But surely,” he continued, “I would have been taken into custody, or at the very least fined, if he was attempting some sort of trap. And there was none. I got my claret and brandy, and never thought of the man again until Northman mentioned him today.”
Maitland didn’t bother asking why Northman had been speaking to Forsyth about the murder at Beauchamp House. Northman didn’t strike him as the most discreet of fellows, and he likely wanted to tell his old school chum the details of the murder that had taken place in his daughter’s new home.
“What makes you think he poses a threat to Daphne?” Maitland asked. “We already believe that Nigel Sommersby’s father is the one who killed him. And attacked a solicitor in Battle.”
“Richard Sommersby?” Lord Forsyth asked, looking pale. “Of course—it makes perfect sense.”
“What does?”
“It was from Richard Sommersby that I got Foster’s name.” Lord Forsyth looked grim.
“Are you sure you don’t mean Nigel Sommersby?” Maitland asked.
“No, I’m quite positive,” the earl said with a quick shake of his head. “I had little to do with the son. He showed a bit too much interest in my daughter, if you must know. It was impossible to convince the lad that he was beneath her, however. I tried to drive the message home by treating him in the manner his station deserved.”
And perhaps stirred resentment against the girl who was so far above him, Maitland thought with a pang of contempt for Daphne’s father.
“Why not forbid him from taking his lessons with her?” he asked.
“I had an agreement with Daphne that I wouldn’t interfere in her lessons,” Forsyth said curtly. “That included who was present for them.”
He wanted to know more about this arrangement, but Maitland had a fair idea that it involved the blackmail she’d used to get a tutor in the first place.
“How did you find Sommersby?” he asked, realizing it had never occurred to him to wonder just how the man had ended up in Forsyth’s employ.
“Daphne met him at some sort of meeting for scholars.” Forsyth furrowed his brow. “I don’t think it was the Royal Society or anything official. To be honest, I didn’t ask many questions given the circumstances.”
Which the duke took to mean that Lord Forsyth had done exactly what Daphne told him for fear she’d reveal that she was his secret weapon in the card room. If he hadn’t already despised the man, he would have begun now.
“I don’t suppose you’ve had any luck finding this missing cipher that Northman told me about,” Lord Forsyth said with a hopeful note in his voice. “It’s been the cause of a great deal of trouble, but I must admit that the idea of finding a cache of lost gold is tempting. I can see why Sommersby and Foster would be so desperate to get their hands on it.”
Maitland stared at the man in disgust. “Did you even come here to warn Daphne?” he asked. “Or did you come to pump me for information about the hidden gold? Because if that was your reason, then you can take yourself off now.”
Turning, he began to leave the room, but was stopped by Forsyth’s plea. “Maitland, I do want to find the gold. I won’t lie. But I also wished to warn you about Foster. There was a vicious streak that the fellow only showed me once. But it was enough to confirm that I never wanted to see him again.”
At the door, the duke looked back and saw that Lord Forsyth did indeed appear to be sincere. His face, which showed signs of the dissipated life he’d led, was no longer wearing his usual mask of ennui. “Protect my daughter, Duke,” he said. “Don’t let that villain kill her like he killed Sommersby.”
* * *
Something was wrong, she was sure of it.
Consciousness came back to Daphne slowly, like the sun creeping up over the horizon. First one thought, then another, then another, until she was fully awake and aware of the fact that she was no longer in the library at Beauchamp House.
Her head ached terribly, and she had some vague recollection of being transported across rough ground in some sort of cart.
“So,” a familiar voice said from nearby, “you’re rousing at last. I am afraid I was a bit rough when I hit you. But I couldn’t take the chance that you would run. Fortunately I was able to let a strong fellow I hired in the side door and he carried you out to the cart. It’s amazing what a man will do for a few pounds. And he earned his money. As I’m sure you know, you’re no featherweight, my dear.”
Her eyes were still closed, and she didn’t need to open them to know the speaker’s identity, but she slowly raised her lids anyway. She preferred to confront her captor face to face, rather than cower before him with her eyes closed against her inner terror.
Mr. Ian Foster, looking somewhat the worse for wear since her meeting with him that morning—had it truly only been a few hours ago?—stood before her, a glass of water in his hand. Stepping closer, he lifted the glass to her lips, and made her drink. Daphne wanted to take it from him and toss the liquid in his face, but her limbs weren’t cooperating. Frowning, she realized that was because her hands were tied behind her back.
“Drink it,” he ordered when she pulled away a little. “You need to be in some semblance of comfort so that you can use that lovely quick brain of yours.”
Despite the nausea roiling in her gut, she took a small sip. Then realizing how dry her mouth was, she drank more.
Satisfied that she’d complied, Foster took the cup away and placed it on a nearby table.
Blinking, Daphne scanned her surroundings, careful not to turn her head too quickly. They were in a small chamber in what looked to be a cottage. The furnishings were neither very elegant nor too mean. The walls were painted in a pleasant light green shade that reminded her of the sea. And from where she was sitting she saw a seascape hanging over the fireplace. On the other side of the room, however, there was a tester bed. At the sight of it, she gave an involuntary gasp and couldn’t help turning her eyes to her captor.
“As lovely as your person is,” Foster said with a slight shake of his head, “I have no interest in harming you that way. That was more Nigel Sommersby’s line than mine.”
Despite the overall awfulness of the situation, Daphne heaved a sigh of relief. She could withstand anything, she knew that now. But she couldn’t deny that his assurance gave her some little comfort.
“I want you instead for your mental acumen, Lady Daphne,” he said, turning to leaf through some pages on a low desk in the corner. Over his shoulder, he said, “I knew when Nigel first told me about your skills at ciphering and calculating odds and numbers with such speed and accuracy that it would come in handy someday. I just wasn’t sure how.”
She wasn’t sure what to say to that.
“When he told me what your father was doing with you—sending you into the card rooms of the ton for fun and profit—I was awed, I must admit. Lord Forsyth has always struck me as a bit of a rapscallion, but I must say that he was able to harness your abilities in that way, well, it was quite admirable. He even bragged about it to me.”
That gave her pause. “When did you have dealings with my father?” she asked, her mind racing at the thought. “And won’t this scheme of yours put you in the bad books of your superiors at the Home Office? I should think they frown on kidnapping.”
Turning, a single page in his hand, he gave her a rueful smile. “I’m afraid I misled you about my connection with the Home Office. We parted ways some years ago when they took issue with my too-friendly relations with some free traders here on the coast.”
So much for using his government connections as a deterrent, Daphne thought with an inner grimace. “But that doesn’t explain how you know my father,” she pressed him. Perhaps if she could keep him talking to her, someone would realize she was missing from Beauchamp House.
Foster moved to stand before her. “He bought some claret and brandy from me,” he said with a shrug, as if that should explain everything. “I had no use for him at the time. He really is a rather stupid fellow. But, I’d known about you for some time, and I was eager to learn if he too possessed your skills. So much easier to deal with men than ladies, I find. Even intelligent ladies like yourself can be ninnies at times, you must admit. Alas, however, Lord Forsyth was a sad disappointment.”
She ignored his complaint about women. Much as she abhorred his words, there were more important things to think of just now.
“Fortunately, I found another gentleman who seemed to possess your abilities with numbers,” Forsyth continued conversationally as he got behind her chair and began to push it across the floor so that it faced the writing desk where he’d placed the page. When he was satisfied with the position, he went on. “Mr. Sommersby, the elder, was much more reliable than Nigel ever was. And he claimed to be far better at figures than even you were. It’s too bad that turned out to be a gross falsehood.”
Daphne’s eyes widened as she stared up at him, just over her left shoulder. It made sense that he knew Nigel Sommersby’s father, but the idea of her tutor discussing her maths skills with this man she hadn’t even known at the time made her skin crawl. And the way he spoke of Richard Sommersby made her worry for her former tutor, Hargrave’s attacker or not.
“Why would Mr. Sommersby say that?” she asked, trying to draw him further into the conversation.
“I thought at first,” Foster said, annoyed, “that it was an overdeveloped sense of his own importance. But later I came to realize that he was only being gallant. Trying to divert my attention away from you. I needed the Cameron Cipher, you see, and I needed it to be translated.”
“How did you learn the cipher was located at Beauchamp House in the first place?” Daphne asked, truly puzzled. Surely Lady Celeste hadn’t told the sort of person who would gossip about it.
At that, he smiled. “I truly did learn of it when I was at the Home Office,” he said. “Lady Celeste told a friend, who told a friend, who told one of my superiors. At the time I was far too busy working on … other things … to pay attention. But recently, I found I was in need of funds. And by happy coincidence, I learned that you’d inherited your very unusual portion of the Beauchamp House estate. So, I sought out both of the Sommersbys and we concocted a plan.”
He looked almost apologetic as he continued. “I truly had no notion of involving you in this, my lady. Well, not for decoding the cipher in any event. Nigel was supposed to use his former friendship with you to garner an invitation into the house. Then he would search for the cipher, and when we found it, his father would decode it. We’d go retrieve the gold, and no one would be any the wiser.”
“But that’s not how it went at all,” Daphne said, appalled at the whole notion of two men who’d been so close to her once using their connection to her as a means to get rich. They were no better than her father. Indeed, the Sommersbys were worse because at least Lord Forsyth made no secret of his intentions.
“Sadly, no,” Foster said, moving to lean his shoulders against the wall, warming to his story. “Nigel, ever the hothead, decided to go to Beauchamp House the very evening after we met you by ‘chance’ on the road to town. He didn’t tell me—likely because he knew I’d object—and using the knowledge I’d worked so hard to obtain from a former footman about the secret room, he slipped out and broke in. Fortunately, I suspected he’d try something rash like that, and I followed him.”
“And killed him,” she said, remembering with a shudder the sight of Nigel Sommersby dead of a stab wound on the floor of the secret room.
“The damned fool was planning to take the cipher without telling me,” Foster said with a grimace. “Is there no loyalty anymore? He’d never have known that the cipher was even at Beauchamp House if I hadn’t told him. He thought he was so clever, but in the end, that got him nothing but grief.”
“But why didn’t you simply take the cipher and disappear then?” Daphne asked, truly curious. It seemed foolish of him to remain behind, where he might be caught. “And why did you shoot at us?”
“Because running would make me look guilty,” Foster said to her as if she were a simpleton. “And I shot at you because I could have no notion of whether you’d seen me leave through the window. I could hear your voices even as I shimmied down the tree outside. I haven’t come this far only to be caught fleeing a murder scene. I was not made for such an ignominious end.”
“If you think I’m the only one who can solve the cipher, then that wasn’t the cleverest move on your part,” Daphne couldn’t help but point out.
At the criticism, Foster snarled. Clearly, he did not like being called foolish. “I thought I didn’t need you,” he said scowling. “Remember Sommersby had assured me that he was your better or equal when it came to codes and ciphers and the like. But, just as his son had done, he, too, betrayed me.”
“What have you done to Richard Sommersby?” Daphne asked, fearful despite her disappointment in her mentor for allying himself with a man like Foster.
“After his little mishap with Lady Celeste’s solicitor—really, it was too much of him to think the man would freely hand over all of his notes on the cipher—I saw to it that he was no longer able to impede my progress.”
Daphne closed her eyes. “He’s dead then?” Somehow she’d hoped that Mr. Sommersby, for all his faults, would at least escape this imbroglio with his life.
But to her surprise, Foster shook his head. “Don’t get me wrong, the fellow deserves to die for the mistakes he’s made on this operation. It’s been one blunder after another for the man. And I can hang for one murder as well as two.”
She suppressed a shudder.
“However,” Foster said with a shrug, “there is the possibility that alone, you will be unable to unravel the cipher. So, I have kept Richard Sommersby on hand just in case you need his assistance in breaking the code.”
Something relaxed within her chest. At least Mr. Sommersby was still alive, she thought. And really, he may very well have saved her from being taken earlier by Foster. She wondered if that had been at least part of his reason for touting his own skills at coding.
“Enough of this chatter,” Foster said, stepping away from the wall, and lighting the lamp on the table. “It’s time for you to begin.”
Daphne looked down at the page, which contained the same set of jumbled letters as her own paper back in the library at Beauchamp House.
“I’ll need a pencil,” she said, looking up to find him giving her an assessing gaze. “Or barring that, a slate and a bit of chalk.”
“I’m not comfortable untying your hands,” he said with a shake of his head. “You’ll simply have to work it out in that beautiful head of yours.”
“But I need to see the calculations on the page,” she protested. He was right to resist untying her hands. Her first order of business if he had was to toss the lit lamp at him. “And I need to write out a key once I’m able to get one or two of the letters figured out. It’s standard for such work.”
He would not budge on the matter, however. “You’re a resourceful lady. Figure it out.”
And without a backward glance, he left her alone in the tiny room, with only the Cameron Cipher for company.