Angelique could smell the stench from the sluggish Tower moat long before they arrived.
It was a rancid odor that got worse as they drew nearer, eclipsing even the stew of the Thames. She stayed motionless in the small skiff that Alex rowed, maneuvering their way through the mass of watercraft that swirled and thronged the waterway. Up ahead on her left, rising up from the river, the Tower loomed, its stony walls staring back at her, blank and unforgiving. It was hard for her to keep her eyes fixed ahead and not stare up at the great edifices that rose behind the walls, in the hopes of catching sight of her brother.
Which was ridiculous, she knew. It wasn’t like Gerald would be strolling the parapets. She couldn’t even begin to imagine where he might be within the maze of buildings that were stacked within the Tower’s walls. Another wave of hopelessness rose. Even if they could somehow get past the guards and the warders, how would they ever find him?
She took a steadying breath, trying to stave off the anxious worry that once again threatened to overwhelm her. She focused her attention on Alex instead, studying his radically altered appearance. Gone were the tailored and expensive evening clothes. In their place was a soldier’s uniform—a blue jacket with dull buttons that ran up the facing and a pair of worn but neat trousers that had faded to grey. The black collar of the jacket came up high against the sides of his face, and the brim of the black military hat he wore cast most of his face in shadow. His knife was jammed into a sheath and belted to his waist, and a pouch was slung across his body,
When she had first seen him in uniform, it had surprised her. Not because the clothing looked strange on him, but because, somehow, it didn’t. She recalled the easy way he handled both firearms and blades. Both reasonable things, perhaps, for a gaming hell owner, but the mastery and ease with which he was guiding this tiny skiff made her pause. It was obvious he had spent time on the water. For the first time, Angelique realized she knew absolutely nothing about his past. And it hadn’t mattered. Until now. Now there was a part of her that wanted to know. Needed to know.
“You were a soldier,” she said suddenly.
She saw his hands tighten on the oars, the rhythm hitching before it resumed. “Mmmm. A little late to verify my skill set beyond a hand of loo now, isn’t it?”
Angelique leaned forward, refusing to accept another one of his non-answers. “Were you a rifleman?”
His face tightened almost imperceptibly before he schooled his features into an unreadable slate once again. “Isn’t this where you ask me if I really was a spy?”
“See, now a good spy would never answer that. A waste of a question.” She paused. “You were a rifleman.”
“You sound very sure of yourself.” He glanced behind him at the river, adjusting their course.
“You answer questions you don’t want to answer with questions, Mr. Lavoie. It’s how I know I’m right.”
His eyes snapped back to hers. “I don’t do that.”
She held his gaze steadily. “You do.”
She could see a muscle working along the edge of his jaw, his mouth set into hard lines.
“Militia,” he said after a long minute. “I was militia. Third York Regiment with Major William Allen under General Sheaffe.”
Angelique frowned. “Was that from Yorkshire?”
“Canada.”
Angelique felt her jaw slacken. “You fought in the colonies?”
“I grew up in the colonies.” The strokes of the oars slowed. “York was our home. At the time, defending it seemed like the honorable thing to do.”
Angelique was having a hard time imagining what sort of circumstances might bring a militiaman from the vast wilds to a gaming hell in London. “Why did you leave?”
Alex’s entire body stiffened, and he looked away. “Because war leaves nothing behind save ruins.”
“What about your family?”
He dug the oars into the water. “Why is my distant past so fascinating all of a sudden?”
Another question. Angelique fell silent, recognizing that this conversation had come to an end. Whatever lay in that part of the story was not something he seemed inclined to share. At least now. Perhaps he might eventually trust her enough to share the rest of that story. Or perhaps not.
“Thank you,” she said.
“For what?” He remained focused on the river.
“For your answers. All four of them.”
She saw his posture relax as he understood that she had given him the space to retreat. “You counted them?” he asked dryly.
“I like counting things. I’m good at it.”
He turned back to her, a hint of a smile playing around his mouth, his eyes almost gold in light reflecting off the surface of the water. He held her gaze for a moment before he looked away again, concentrating on moving the little boat past the river traffic. Angelique shifted on the hard bench, the welcome distraction of their conversation fading in the face of the reality that was looming just ahead. She watched as they drifted past Tower Hill and the stairs that ran up the bank, angling toward the entrance that cast deep shadows over the greasy surface of the water.
“What are you doing?” she asked.
Alex looked up at her before hauling on the oars again. “I would have thought that was obvious.”
Angelique eyed the tunnel that was drawing closer with every steady pull of the oars. “We’re going through the Traitor’s Gate?” She despised the hesitant way that came out.
“Mmmm.”
The boat slid into shadow. Angelique shifted in her seat again, the unfamiliar clothes she wore scratching at her skin. The din of the river traffic was suddenly and eerily muffled, replaced by the dripping and lapping of water that echoed around them. Out of the weak sunlight, the temperature dropped, and she shivered. She eyed the sludge that had gathered along the edges of the stone near the water’s edge, lines visible that marked the rise and fall of the tide. Here, the stench was almost enough to make her eyes water, and all around her, a dark, slimy coating covered every surface, making the color of the stone almost impossible to see.
“Why couldn’t we go in by Tower Hill?” she asked.
“I don’t have friends at that entrance.” Alex glanced up.
Angelique stared at him a moment before her gaze followed his. Above their heads, on the platform that overlooked the passage, a red-coated guard raised his hand briefly to the brim of his hat and tipped his head. Alex nodded and pulled on the oars again and the skiff slipped into the pool directly in front of two large gates.
Within seconds, one of the gates swung open, groaning on its hinges and sending sluggish ripples of water to slap softly against the hull. Alex deftly maneuvered their boat through the narrow opening and rested as the craft came to a stop just in front of a wide set of stone stairs. Behind her, the gate banged shut. She felt a shiver go through her that had nothing to do with the cool damp.
“Also, I’m quite sure that your brother would have been brought into the Tower this way. The fewer witnesses, the better.”
There was something that Angelique found deeply unsettling about the idea of Gerald being brought in through the Traitor’s Gate. As if it somehow condemned him to guilt.
The sounds of footsteps from above jerked her from her dark thoughts.
“Mr. Lavoie. It’s been a long time.” The guard from the platform was coming down the stairs, glancing quickly behind him.
“Been busy.” Alex stepped from the little boat and held it still while Angelique clambered out. “Watch the stairs,” he said. “They’re slippery.”
Angelique’s booted foot had already sunk into a soft muck that coated the stair, and she carefully climbed up farther where the footing was less perilous.
“What do you want?” The guard had come to a stop in front of them. He was older, with an obvious air of authority about him. A captain or some such thing, Angelique surmised. He was also short, but standing a foot above them, it put him on equal eye level with Alex.
“Always to the point,” Alex murmured. “That is what I like most about you, Hervey. Where are your colleagues?”
The thickset guard made a gesture of impatience. “Sent ’em to look for something they’ll never find when I saw you coming. They won’t look forever, though, so talk fast.”
“There was a man brought here last night. A prisoner. I’d like a word.”
The guard raised bushy brows, and his lips curled into a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Sent you to save him, did they?”
Alex shrugged. “Sent me to talk to him first. We’ll see about saving him later.”
The guard looked unimpressed. “He’s denied visitors.”
“At whose request?” Alex inquired pleasantly.
“Chief warder.”
“Unusual, that, isn’t it? No visitors?”
Hervey snorted. “Unusual they brought him to the Tower in the first place.”
“It is, isn’t it?” Alex mused. “Why do you think he was brought here?”
It was the guard’s turn to shrug. “I don’t get paid to think. But the toff’s a murderer.”
Angelique could feel every muscle in her body tense, but Alex only chuckled. “Heard that rumor too.”
Hervey squinted at Alex. “You’re sayin’ he’s not?”
“I’m saying it would be helpful for me to speak with him. I’m not here to help him escape.”
The guard looked unimpressed. “I’ve heard that before,” he muttered. He crossed his arms, and his eyes flickered to Angelique. “Who’s this?”
“A concerned citizen,” Alex replied.
It took every ounce of willpower not to look away from the guard’s probing look. The bulky, bland men’s clothes and coat she wore hid any trace of femininity. Alex had also produced a pair of spectacles and a battered cap that completely covered her tightly braided hair, and the end result had been startlingly thorough. A soldier on Tower grounds with a woman would draw attention, Alex had told her. A soldier in the company of a clerk would be less noticeable.
“I don’t work with people I don’t know,” Hervey said.
Angelique reached into her coat and pulled out the small bag Alex had given her. She held it toward the guard, and he took it from her fingers.
“Diamonds,” she said, pitching her voice low, a little surprised at how steady it came out. “I found them and was hoping that a member of His Majesty’s service might know what to do with them. Mr. Lavoie thought you would be able to…help.”
Hervey pulled open the string and upended the bag. Two stones fell out, glittering against the rough texture of his palm. The guard grunted and eyed her again. “Perhaps I might make an exception.”
“I knew you’d see reason,” Alex said, and this time his voice had a slight edge.
Hervey grunted again, and the diamonds disappeared into his jacket pocket. “You’re lucky you pay well, Lavoie.”
“Luck has nothing to do with it, Hervey,” Alex replied, moving to pull the skiff into the shadow of the stairs where it couldn’t be seen. “And as much as I admire your entrepreneurship, I do expect to get my money’s worth.”
* * *
The Marquess of Hutton had been imprisoned in the White Tower.
That revelation had taken Alex aback, until he stopped to consider it. The White Tower contained nothing but stores of gunpowder and records. No civilian traffic went in and out, and the only entrance to the ancient keep was guarded. Perfect if one wished to restrict and control access to a prisoner. It also made it easy for Hervey to use his rank to send his men elsewhere on another fruitless mission, deftly clearing the way for a soldier and a clerk to slip inside.
Once they were in, Hervey had joined them, leading them through mazes of barrels stacked in rooms that had once been banqueting halls and council chambers for the most powerful men and women in the country. They followed him up a spiral staircase and stopped in the northeast corner of the upper floor, in front of a door that was almost black with age. Light from the tall, recessed windows spilled across the stone passage, creating long, repetitive patterns at their feet.
“Gave him a room in the old king’s chambers,” Hervey said with a slight sneer. “He’s even got a real bed in there. Can’t say we didn’t provide him with the best.”
“Indeed.” Alex eyed the medieval-looking door, bolted and padlocked from the outside. A rectangular metal plate had been added to the upper portion of the door at a more recent time, fixed on one side with heavy hinges. On the other, another padlock secured it. Hervey had produced a key and inserted it into the lock, the sound of it turning inordinately loud in the silence around them.
“Got a visitor, your lordship,” Hervey announced as he swung the plate to the side, revealing a long eyehole crisscrossed with an iron grate that would allow a clear view of the room and its occupants but prevent anything from being passed through.
“You’re not going to open the door?” Alex asked.
“You said you wanted to speak with him. So speak. Be so kind as to lock up when you’re done, or the next time you come knocking, I might not remember you, diamonds or not.”
Alex gazed at him impassively. He was quite sure that he’d be able to pick the locks within minutes if he so desired. He tucked that bit of information away for future consideration.
“You have ten minutes, Lavoie. Ten minutes and then my men on the south side entrance will resume their posts. Though you may not have that long until the warders of the keep do their rounds. The presence of our illustrious guest here today has them a little more diligent than you’ll like. And I have no control over those men.”
Alex gazed at the guard. “Diligent?”
“They’re like mice today, everywhere in the keep corridors, making sure their titled cat stays safely locked away.” He paused. “Don’t get caught, Lavoie. You find yourself in chains, I can’t help you.”
“Understood.”
“Pleasure doing business, as always,” Hervey said, and, without another word, melted into the shadows down the passage, his footsteps fading.
Alex turned back to the door, only to find Angelique already had her face pressed up to the spy-hole. “Gerald?” she said uncertainly.
“Ang?” It sounded muffled coming from the other side of the door, but then Alex saw Hutton’s face appear. Or rather, he saw the man’s eyes appear, and they were bloodshot and shadowed and miserable. “Is that you?”
“Yes.” She pulled off her spectacles and shoved them in her coat pocket.
Alex moved a little farther away, pressing himself into the shadows. It was likely Hutton would say more to his sister if he believed her alone.
“What—when—how the hell did you get in here?”
Angelique was shaking her head impatiently, her entire body visibly tense, even under her bulky clothes. “Are you all right?” Her voice was strained.
Alex could see Hutton’s eyes narrow. “You shouldn’t be here.”
“Where else would I be?” she asked. “You’ve been arrested, Gerald. For murder.”
Hutton’s eyes darted away but he remained silent, as if refusing to acknowledge that.
Angelique’s hands were pressed to the surface of the door so hard the ends of her fingertips were white. “Did you do it? Did you kill her?”
Her brother’s reddened eyes flew back to hers. “No! I didn’t kill anyone. You believe me, don’t you, Ang?”
Alex shook his head. Of course Hutton would say that. Whether it was true or not was more difficult to tell.
“But you were there.” Angelique’s voice was rising. “A woman died, and you were there. They caught you. Covered in blood!”
Hutton’s face disappeared briefly before it reappeared in the eyehole. “I tried to help her! But she was already dead. I was set up.”
“Set up.” Angelique repeated it flatly.
“Yes.”
“Why would someone do that?”
“I don’t know!”
“Gerald, if they find you guilty, they’re going to hang you,” she said, her words ragged.
“They can’t find me guilty. And they certainly can’t hang me,” he replied stubbornly. “I’m a marquess. I am above the law.”
Angelique’s head dropped, and she rested her head on the door. “Not for this, Gerald.”
“Your sister is right.” Alex stepped out of the shadows. It appeared that Hutton was not going to voluntarily confess anything on his own, and time was not on their side.
Hutton’s eyes bulged in horrified recognition. “What is he doing here, Ang?” he demanded.
“He’s trying to help me. Help you.” Angelique raised her head from the door.
“You need to stay the hell away from my sister,” Hutton said.
Alex ignored him. “You have bigger problems, my lord, the least of which is my relationship with Lady Angelique.”
“I have powerful friends that will make sure—”
“Shut up and listen, Gerald,” Angelique snapped, and Alex saw Hutton’s face go slack with shock.
Alex took advantage. “If you are to come out of this with your neck still intact, my lord, I would suggest you start telling some truths. I cannot help a man who will not help himself.”
Hutton was blinking rapidly. “I am a marquess, Mr. Lavoie. I can’t be—”
“Disgraced? Hanged? Made an example out of? I’m certain that is what Earl Ferrers told himself after he shot his steward and before he found himself dancing at the end of a silk rope. There are laws, my lord, and your title will not be enough to protect you. And while the ton will gorge themselves on the scandal that this will create, they won’t be able to distance themselves from you fast enough. You’re on your own.”
The young marquess suddenly looked uncertain. “I don’t believe that. The Duke of Rossburn—”
“Told me to leave London after he made it clear he would not be coming to our aid.” Angelique’s words were dull.
Hutton paled. “I did this for you, you know. And Phillip and Gregory. I was trying to help. It was the perfect solution. No one was supposed to get hurt.”
“Thieving was the perfect solution?” Angelique demanded.
“Where else was the money supposed to come from, Ang?” Hutton sounded angry now. “My friends? Burleigh’s only a baron, not a banker—he doesn’t have that sort of blunt. Seaton does, but his father controls the purse strings.” He stopped. “The Earl of Trevane spends more on his mistress in a month than we spend in an entire year. A man with enough money to commission a necklace fit for a queen and then hang it around the neck of a—” He clamped his lips together. “He wouldn’t have missed it.”
“Mmmm.” Alex drummed his fingers on his leg. This was getting them nowhere. Time to change his approach. “Let me tell you what I think happened. You needed money. A young maid who you may or may not have had a sordid relationship with gave you information. Told you that Trevane had the necklace, told you where he kept it, and probably even let you into the house. No doubt you promised to give her a cut of the profits when you fenced it. But then you changed your mind. Got greedy, perhaps, or just didn’t want to take the chance she would talk.”
“No! That’s not what happened at all! I already told you I didn’t kill her. I’d never seen that woman before last night.” His eyes were wild.
Alex studied Hutton, reasonably sure now that this, at least, was the truth. “Then if you didn’t kill her, who did?”
“I don’t know. But someone set me up!”
“Yes, you keep saying that.”
“It’s true,” Hutton wheezed.
Alex wasn’t convinced. The more plausible explanation was that someone else had broken into that house to steal a necklace that was worth a king’s ransom.
Alex frowned. “Tell me how you knew about the necklace.”
Hutton stared at him with glassy eyes. “There was a note.”
“From whom?”
The marquess rubbed at his face with his fingers. “I don’t know. It was delivered to my house by a street urchin. All it said was that the Earl of Trevane had just that evening picked up a diamond necklace he’d commissioned. That he could be counted on to keep such things in the drawer of his desk in his study. That it could be had by whomever was bold enough to take it.”
Alex wondered, for a moment, just how Angelique was related to this man. How this naïve, idiotic boy shared any sort of blood with the woman standing beside him. “Do you still have it? The note?”
“Maybe. It might still be in my room.”
“Who knew you needed money?” Angelique asked his next question for him.
“No one. Just…Burleigh and Seaton.” His hands dropped from his face. “But Seaton said he’d ask around. He’s got…contacts that he thought might help.”
“Contacts?” Alex let that hang for a second. “Like the kind you find in a tavern in Pillory Lane?”
Hutton made a pathetic sound. “Maybe?”
“And you thought to trust such?” Alex was incredulous.
Hutton hung his head. “I didn’t kill anyone. You have to believe me.”
“These contacts that Seaton had—did you ever speak with any of them?”
Hutton shrugged helplessly. “Sort of.”
“Sort of? Who were they?”
“They said they were men who worked at the customs houses.”
“Did they have names?”
“I don’t remember,” the marquess mumbled. “Seaton kept buying me gin.”
Alex felt his teeth grind. This man probably deserved everything that was coming to him, if only for his colossal lack of judgment and stupidity. Except the woman standing beside him didn’t. Angelique deserved none of this.
“It’s not too late to extract him,” he said, turning to Angelique and holding her gaze. “I’ll need probably the better part of a week to get things in order, but—”
“Extraction? What the hell does that mean?” Gerald demanded.
“It means exactly what it sounds like,” Angelique replied, not looking away from him.
“You mean to help me escape?”
“Yes. Out of England.”
“But that will make me look guilty!”
“You already look guilty, Gerald,” Angelique said.
“But I’m innocent! They have to believe me. They will believe me! I won’t flee. I am a marquess, and—”
From somewhere in the bowels of the keep, a door slammed. Their time was up.
“We need to go,” Alex said, reaching for the metal plate.
“I’m sorry, Ang,” Hutton said miserably. “I never meant for any of this to happen—”
Muffled voices from somewhere down below filtered up the stairwell. “My lady,” Alex warned, “we’re out of time.”
Angelique bit her lip, her complexion stark under her cap. She turned away from the door.
Alex stepped forward. “Regardless of your feelings toward me, my lord, if you have any regard for your sister, we were never here, do you understand?”
Hutton nodded.
“Good.” Alex closed the metal plate and slid the lock back into place, wincing as metal scraped. With dismay, he realized that the voices were coming closer, the sound of booted feet echoing as they mounted the same spiral staircase that he and Angelique had used to reach Gerald’s cell. Alex had no interest in finding out who might be approaching. They would have to find a different way down. “This way,” he whispered, and Angelique nodded her understanding.
With quick, silent steps, he guided them farther down the hall and away from the stairs. Up ahead, the passage led to a viewing gallery above the chapel of St. John, the large windows on this floor and the one below him flooding this part of the keep with light.
“Hurry,” he urged Angelique. They would need to skirt the gallery to reach the other staircase in the southwest corner of the keep, but with the abundance of light, they would be exposed should a warder happen to look in their direction.
He kept Angelique in front of him, torn between the need to appear as though they belonged should they be spotted and the urge to run. They reached the gallery, and the cavernous space of the chapel opened up. Here the air was thick with the now-familiar scent of charcoal but also with dust and the mustiness of old paper.
“What is all that?” Angelique whispered, looking down.
Below them, where pews or benches might have once existed, were boxes and trunks and leaning towers that resembled crude bookcases. They rose up in tall stacks, creating narrow alleys and casting deep shadows. In the center of the chapel, a massive, scarred table rested like an island amid a sea of flotsam, a handful of chairs pulled up haphazardly around it. Ledgers and loose documents littered the surface, some piled in perilous-looking towers and others abandoned on their own.
“Chancery records,” Alex replied tersely. “Most of them centuries old, and not important to anyone anymore.” They were hurrying along the south side now, and he kept his attention focused straight ahead, his body tense. But there was no shout that came, no demand to halt and identify themselves, and they reached the staircase in the southwest corner without mishap.
“Go,” he whispered to Angelique, her bulky clothes giving her gait an uneven rhythm as she hurried down the stairs. As they drew closer to the second floor, the sound of more voices and more booted feet echoed up from below them. Alex cursed inwardly and caught Angelique’s sleeve, pulling her out of the stairwell. Here, the acrid odor of charcoal was strong. His eyes scanned the massive room that opened up before them, shafts of light spilling across the expanse that had once been the grandest banqueting hall in all of England. Now the space was lined with barrels of gunpowder and crates full of powder cartridges and powder horns. It was all stacked neatly in rows extending from the outer walls, creating a single passage down the center of the great hall. They couldn’t stay here—there was no place to hide. They’d be seen in an instant.
“Come.” Alex headed back in the direction of the chapel. It would be far easier to find a hiding place in among the stone columns and the towering stacks of records and let whoever was coming pass.
They reached the tall chapel doors, the rap of boot heels and conversation beating like an ominous drum behind them. Alex grasped the handle, pulling hard on the heavy door. It groaned on creaky hinges, and the voices in the passage behind them abruptly stopped. Angelique slipped inside, and he followed, glancing up. Here, they were still out of sight from anyone standing in the upper gallery and hidden from view to anyone in the passage. He put a finger to his lips, and she nodded, both of them frozen against the heavy door, listening intently.
He could hear the rapid rise and fall of Angelique’s breath, her body pressed against his. It didn’t matter that the bulky layers of her clothing hid her curves. Just the feel of her against him had his body responding in a manner more suitable for a randy, green adolescent than a seasoned soldier. And one that was doing his best not to get caught sneaking around the Tower of London at that. He gritted his teeth. Where the hell was his head?
Somewhere south of your waist, a snide inner voice replied.
He felt her put a hand on his arm, and a shudder rocked through him.
God, he was so far over his head with this woman that he didn’t know if there was any hope of surfacing with any sort of self-respect or dignity. All he knew was that he wanted her. Dressed as a clerk in a chapel. Dressed as a goddess in his club. Most importantly, not dressed at all.
“Did they see us?” she whispered near his ear.
Alex closed his eyes briefly, trying to focus on her words and not the feel of her breath against his skin. At least one of them was still thinking rationally. He glanced down at her. She was so close that he could see the flecks of pewter in her irises, could count each freckle across the bridge of her nose. She licked her lips nervously, and he stared, remembering just how intoxicating those lips had tasted. Wondering what would happen if he tasted them again. Right now.
He forced himself to concentrate. “I don’t know if they saw us.” The hinges of the door had been loud. He listened, but it was hard to hear anything from behind the heavy, carved door. Maybe the men behind them hadn’t heard. Maybe they’d been too caught up in their conversation to—
“Who’s there?” The demand came from the other side of the door, and this time there was the unmistakable sound of steel being drawn. “Show yourself.”
“Hide,” he hissed to Angelique, and gave her a shove toward the shadows created by the towers of decaying records. She stumbled away from him, and he turned back to the door.
Shit, he swore. This was what he had hoped to avoid. He blew out a breath. He would have to be careful. With a prisoner on the floor above, he couldn’t give whatever guards or warders that were on the other side of that door any reason to suspect that he was even aware of that. Give them a logical explanation that would have them moving on as quickly as possible.
Alex pushed open the door, and it swung outward, its hinges shrieking in protest. The edge thumped against the far stone wall, and the noise echoed up around him. Alex took a step forward and suddenly found himself with two sword blades pressed up against his neck.
Two warders stood in front of him, their expressions ones of distrust and suspicion. Their red coats were like spots of dark blood against the dull stone of their surroundings, giving them a slightly sinister air, though that was somewhat offset by the fact that they were painfully young. Which, in Alex’s experience, would make them either easier to manipulate or unyielding in their convictions. He sincerely hoped the former.
“Steady. There’s no need to saw my head off. I’m standing right here.” Alex held up his arms, trying to appear as benign as possible.
The warders examined his appearance before they glanced at each other, frowning. “Identify yourself,” one of them commanded. The shorter one withdrew his sword a fraction of an inch.
“Jonathon Lavoie of the Third York Regiment,” he told them, as if they should already be aware of this. “I’m here on orders from General Sheaffe.”
The warders looked at him blankly.
Alex allowed a frown to pull at his mouth. “Is there a problem?”
“What are you doing in here?”
“What else? Looking for records that I’m likely never to find. The place is a bloody dumping ground.” He was hoping that that would be enough to pacify them and send them on their way. At the very least, lower their damn swords from his throat before someone sneezed and he lost his head.
“We weren’t advised of this.”
Alex shrugged. Carefully. “I’m just following orders. Same as you.”
“Isn’t Lavoie a French name?” the taller of the two warders asked.
“Suppose so. It’s the one I was born with.”
“How do we know you’re not a spy for the Frogs?”
Alex forced a laugh. “Because a spy would be doing something far more glamorous than looking through a bunch of moldering Chancery papers for a general who wants to know if his grandfather owned property in London.”
The warders exchanged another look.
Leave, urged Alex in his head. Just leave—
“You need to come with us,” the smaller warder said, adjusting his grip on his sword. “Or show us your orders. Anyone given permission to use the records room here will have written permission.”
Alex felt an unpleasant apprehension slither through him. This was not good at all. Especially with Angelique hidden somewhere in the chapel behind him. If they hauled him away, it would leave her exposed and vulnerable here. He wasn’t sure that she would be able to slip out on her own without anyone catching her.
He eyed the two men and their weapons. He carried nothing except his hunting knife. Which, given the way the young soldiers were nervously looking at each other, would be enough. But the last thing he wanted to do was to get in a fight. It would be messy and inevitably draw all sorts of unwanted attention and put the warders on full alert. Gerald would likely be moved. Probably to the dungeon. More warders would be dispatched. It would make an extraction at a later date nearly impossible.
Additionally, he found himself troubled at the thought of killing either one of these boys. They didn’t deserve to die today simply because Alex had been too slow in his retreat.
“What the hell are you doing now, Lavoie?” The hoarse voice came from behind Alex, laced with impatience, and his heart missed a beat. The warders’ eyes snapped to a space just beyond him, and very slowly, Alex turned his head.
Angelique had put her spectacles back on and her cap was pulled low over her eyes. In her arms, she carried a massive stack of papers that climbed just past her chin. Some of the edges curled with age, and with every movement, clouds of dust dislodged from the stack and swirled around her head. She coughed and wiped at her face. A streak of grime covered her cheek, and more was smeared across the sleeve of her coat.
“It’s about time you found some help,” she continued rudely, pushing in front of Alex and forcing the gaping warders to take a step back, their blades dropping away from Alex’s throat. She glared at them. “If you’re going to relieve him of his head, be so kind as to do it once we’re finished. There is another fifty years of records here that need to be sorted. This was only supposed to take an hour, but we’ll be here all damn day at this rate.”
“Who are you?” the shorter warder demanded.
“General Sheaffe’s personal clerk.” Angelique somehow made it sound like she had just announced herself as the Prince of Wales. “Didn’t Lavoie here tell you anything?”
“Well, yes, but we don’t have—”
“I don’t really care what you don’t have,” she snapped, hefting her load of papers. “But I most certainly need your assistance. You look like a smart man. Are you?”
The warder’s mouth slackened. “Er, yes?”
“Can you read? Write?”
“Yes, but—”
“Thank God. Lavoie here is good at lifting and such, but not much else. God knows why the general felt the need to send me a nursemaid who’s barely literate,” she muttered vilely. “He’s useless when it comes to property law.”
“I’d rather dig latrines,” Alex retorted, just loud enough for the warders to hear.
“That will no doubt be arranged once the general hears of your recalcitrance,” she said imperiously, turning back to the warders. “But no matter. I have the two of you here now. Stop waving your damn sticks around and let’s get started.”
The shorter warder drew himself up to his full, if limited, height. “We need to see your orders,” he said. “You can’t be here without them.”
Angelique glared at him and then at Alex from behind the stack of documents in her arms. “Did you not inform them why we were here?”
“I tried.” Alex shrugged mutinously and sent an apologetic look toward the warders. “They need to see the paperwork.”
The warder cleared his throat. “Otherwise we are required to escort you to the Wakefield Tower until such time as we can verify—”
“For the love of all that is holy. Saints save me from you military sorts and all your damn rules and orders.” She extracted a hand from under the stack and jammed it into her coat pocket. The tower of papers in her arms leaned precariously. “I’ve got the orders from the general right here,” she grumbled, yanking a slip of paper from her pocket somewhat awkwardly. “Just let me— Bloody hell!” The stack of papers that had been listing suddenly slid sideways, and Angelique threw out her hands to catch them. She was instantly enveloped in a blizzard of loose documents, the chaos made even thicker by the choking cloud of dust that erupted around them.
Alex buried his nose in his sleeve, coughing, and he could hear the two warders curse even as they stumbled back, sneezing violently. It took a few long minutes for the dust to subside, and when it did, Angelique was standing over a massive mess of paper scattered in a wide arc around her, her hands on her hips, looking utterly furious. Her eyes bored into the men standing in front of her, brimming with accusation. “Now look at this mess,” she grumbled. “You want your orders, you’re going to have to help me find them.”
The men were staring at her in dismay but made no move toward her.
Alex dropped to his knees and picked up the nearest document. Scanned the first few lines. It appeared to be a document detailing the guardianship of an infant born in 1674. He made a show of squinting at the heading. “Test-test-a-men—” He stopped, bringing the paper closer to his face. “Testamen-ta—”
“Testamentary,” Angelique snapped behind him, and heaved a tortured sigh. She leaned over and yanked the paper from his hand. “It’s not relevant. We’re looking for a deed, a record of tax, or a document of entail of property, Lavoie,” she growled. “And now we’re looking for the general’s orders too.” She looked up at the two warders. “General Sheaffe will hear about this, no question, and he’s not going to be happy with the delay. He is not a patient man at the best of times.”
Alex scooped up another armful of papers and shook them out, as if preparing himself to read. Another choking cloud of dust rose. The warders retreated back from the door another step. The taller one was looking at Alex with an almost sympathetic expression.
“Perhaps we’ll just come back a bit later,” the taller one suggested, looking at his partner. “When you’ve sorted this out a bit and found the orders.”
The other warder sheathed his sword. “Yes. I think that would be best.”
Angelique made a noise of exasperated dismissal. “Do whatever you need to do.” She bent over Alex’s shoulder. “No, not there,” she said irritably. “Pleadings in this pile. Depositions here. Anything older than 1720 in that pile. Think you can manage to keep that straight?”
“Yes,” said Alex, and listened to the sound of the warders retreating.