CHAPTER 27
Michael stepped into the unlit bedroom on the second floor of number 5. The three tall twelve-paned sash windows gave enough moonlight to sufficiently illuminate the large elaborate bedroom. There by the tall window Row stood looking through the spyglass.
“Any new development?” Michael said, tossing his greatcoat on the floral settee nearby.
Row turned to face him. “You look like hell,” Row said.
Michael gave no reply.
“It’s been quiet. Want a look?”
Rubbing his stubbled chin, Michael approached the window. Looking through the spyglass, he saw the exquisite facade of Tomkin’s townhouse. The sash windows above the master bedroom with its curtains drawn did not even flicker. No movement.
“Servants are still inside but I suspect they are all sleeping by now.”
“A good opportunity to take a look around,” Michael said, still looking through the spyglass. Through the crack of the thick curtains, he saw a faint flicker of candle light appear and disappear, but nothing else. “Someone’s inside, but I can’t tell who the hell it is. I’m going to check it out.”
“Be careful,” Row said.
Michael nodded, swiftly retreated from the room, down the stairwell, and exited through the rear of the house that funneled out to the back street.
Pulling up his coat collar, he swiftly walked past the silent street and inspected the perimeter and the nearly empty streets. Looking for any movement or anything that caught his eye, he walked past the front facade of Tomkin’s townhouse again.
When done, he quickly made his way to the mews. As he approached, he carefully studied the batten door that led to the service room and mews. From the corner of this eye, he noticed something strange. The cover to the coal chute was ajar. Leaning forward, he pushed it open and looked into the dark pit. Stairs.
He pulled the knife from his boot, and slowly descended the stairs and into the dark tunnel. A whiff of a faint burnt smell reached him—gunpowder.
As he entered deep into the dark tunnel, Michael heard a faint grunt, then again, as if someone was in pain. As he neared, a faint light revealed a shadow flickering in the tunnel.
“If you came back to finish the job—”
He stopped dead in his tracks. The man’s voice was very familiar. “Hansford?”
Lord Hansford looked at him, blood everywhere. Quickly, he made his way to the injured man.
“Good God, man, it’s good to see you. The bastard shot me in the leg and took Miss Willoughby with him.”
“How long ago?”
“I’d say about ten minutes ago, but I fear it’s too late. The bastard is gone by now.”
Damn it. Disappointment ensued. For now, Hansford needed a doctor and fast before he bled to death.
* * *
Three hours later, sleep deprived and tired, Michael arrived at his townhouse in Mayfair. He always kept a skeleton crew at his townhouse in London. Before he reached the top step of his front door his Indian butler, Bali, opened the door.
“Welcome home, Sir,” Bali said and stepped aside.
“How is Lord Hansford?” Michael asked as Bali took his grimy greatcoat and inspected it. “Be easy on me now, I haven’t slept or changed in days.”
“I can see that, sir.” Bali’s brows quirked. “Would you like me to order a bath?”
“No time. Is the doctor here?” Michael walked to the parlor where Hansford was resting, Bali trailing behind him.
“Yes. He arrived an hour ago.”
“Good,” Michael stopped at the parlor door. “Have breakfast brought to Lord Hansford in the parlor. I don’t want him moved just now. Have the maid ready the guest room sometime today. Oh, and please have breakfast prepared for the doctor as well since he most likely hasn’t had time to break his fast.”
“Very well, sir. And will you be taking breakfast as well?”
In the last twenty-four hours, he could think of nothing but Emma and getting her to safety. Since he wasn’t certain what the day was going to bring for him, he’d better take time to eat something while he had the chance. “Yes, but just black coffee and eggs. I’ll be in my study.”
“Of course,” Bali replied, then quickly walked away to take charge of his duties.
Michael intended to find out what Hansford knew. For now, Row was still watching the house just in case the traitor decided to come back. As he entered the parlor, the doctor stepped out to meet him at the threshold.
“Oh, good, you’re here,” the doctor noted as he pulled off the spectacles perched on his nose. “Is there a place we can talk?”
Michael nodded. “This way,” Michael escorted the doctor to his study down the hall.
“Well…,” Michael said impatiently, shutting the door. “What is the prognosis?”
The doctor precariously gazed at him. “I don’t suppose you are going to tell me how he managed to get shot in the leg and ended up in your home?”
Michael ignored his observation. “The prognosis, doctor?”
The doctor sighed. “Very well, then. I have managed to clean the wound and patch him, but he has lost a lot of blood. He will require supervision around the clock for at least a few days.”
“Fine,” Michael said. “I will arrange for someone to keep an eye on him.”
The doctor shook his head. “I know Hansford well. It’s highly unlikely he is going to listen to my advice. You mustn’t allow him to ignore my counsel.”
“I won’t.” Michael knew the basics. He’d taken multiple shots during the war and played a field medic on multiple occasions when skilled surgeons and doctors were scarce in the battlefields, which was too often. “I’ll call on you if there is any change.” The doctor opened his mouth to interject and Michael cut in, “I will tie him to the bed if I have to. He will get the rest he requires. You have my word.”
“Undisturbed,” the doctor added. “I will come by tomorrow to check on him and clean out his wound, if need be.”
“Of course,” Michael said. There came a knock at his door. “Come.”
“Sir,” Bali said. “Breakfast will be served in thirty minutes. Lord Hansford wishes to speak with you now.”
The doctor shook his head. “Keep it short, if possible. He needs to rest.” The doctor stepped out of Michael’s study and headed toward the foyer.
“Won’t you stay for breakfast?” Michael asked the doctor who was already heading toward the front door. The doctor declined, and when Bali handed him his greatcoat, he quickly took his leave. With a heavy sigh, Michael turned his heels and headed for the parlor where Hansford wished to speak with him. Entering the parlor, Hansford looked rather pale, even by an Englishman’s standard.
“Did you find her?” Hansford asked. “Did you find, Miss Willoughby?”
Michael shook his head, the sickening knot getting tighter in his heart at the knowledge that Tomkin was holding her captive.
“I am sorry about Geoffrey,” Hansford said. “As you may already know, he and I were working together for the past year. It was hard for him to keep secrets from you, I think. Very hard, but he had strict orders from the Regent.”
Michael nodded. Hansford shifted and tried to sit up, but winced. “Easy,” Michael said.
“I’m getting too old for this, Michael.” Hansford leaned back on the couch.
“You were shot and you lost a lot of blood,” Michael assured him. “You will be fine. Why don’t you start from the beginning?”
Rubbing his face, Hansford faced Michael. “After the bloody war ended, Geoffrey and I heard rumors of sleeper spies in England. This news concerned the Home Office, but when there were rumors of Napoleon’s plan to escape, the Foreign Office sent several top agents to Elba to watch the former emperor’s movements. We got lucky when the Foreign Office intercepted a letter Napoleon sent to a bakery in Marseille. No name. The letter was in code. That’s when we contacted Geoffrey to decipher it for us. It was actually a poem about a young boy who rose from the ashes to deliver a message to his people, that the sinner will burn and the One shall liberate his people.”
“I assume the One is Napoleon and this boy is the spy in England?”
Hansford nodded. “Napoleon, we believe, plans an escape from Elba, but we don’t know exactly when or how he plans to accomplish this.”
“Tomkin took a trip to Marseille on a diplomatic mission not too long ago.”
“Yes, we know,” Hansford said. “He was nowhere near the vicinity of the bakery. And the owner knew nothing about the letter. The information we have thus far tells us the baker isn’t involved.”
Michael chimed in, “He could have easily hired someone to retrieve the letter for him.”
“We believe that’s what he did.” Hansford shifted and winced. “As I was saying, Tomkin invited Geoffrey for dinner when he returned from Marseille and encouraged him to court Miss Willoughby.”
“I see,” Michael recalled how happy Geoffrey had been when the wedding date was set.
Lord Hansford observed him. “Is anything wrong?”
“No, go on,” Michael said, his tone curt.
“While they were conversing in his study, Geoffrey noticed a letter written in French under Tomkin’s ledger, but he thought nothing of it. After all, a letter written in French wasn’t unusual, but he told me something didn’t feel quite right about it. Needless to say, he broke into Tomkin’s study and found the letter he’d seen earlier.”
“What did it say?”
“Be ready. War is coming.” Hansford paused and grimaced.
“Would you like me to summon the doctor?”
“No,” Hansford said. “Might I have some Scotch to ease the pain?”
“Of course.” Michael walked over to the corner of the room and pulled on the pull cord, then joined him again.
Several seconds later, Bali knocked once and entered the room. “A glass of scotch please.” With that Bali went to fetch the drink.
Hansford continued on. “Geoffrey was ordered to uncover what Tomkin was up to and to continue courting Emma. That’s when I was assigned to work with him on the case. A week before he was killed Tomkin said he had a special assignment for Geoffrey. One that would prove his loyalty. That’s the last I saw Geoffrey.”
Michael recalled the night his friend was murdered and how uneasy he’d been when the cull showed up in the alley.
Hanford continued, “When I heard he was murdered, I tried to call on you but I was told you left the country with Miss Willoughby.”
“We were assigned together to travel to Tibet. It was a scheme. I discovered there were two assassins on our tails.”
“How fortunate your skills kept you alive.”
“If I’d done my job, everyone would be safe.”
“You are much too hard on yourself,” Hansford noted.
“How much does the Regent know?”
“Everything I’ve told you. He has at least three agents on him at all times disguised as his entourage. Even I don’t know all of them. Since Geoffrey’s death, I’ve been in hiding, just to be on the safe side. This is a precarious time, Michael. Our enemy is near. Wellington is on high alert.”
Michael rubbed his chin, still sore from the brawl with his twin and all the fighting over the last several days. “Do you know where he may be hiding Emma?”
Hansford shook his head. “Until today, I assumed Emma was his accomplice.”
“I am guilty of that as well,” he admitted with regret. “But let me assure you she is innocent.” A deep unaccustomed pain pricked him in his heart. No doubt, he’d treated her with much distain, not to mention accusing her of spying. By God, he didn’t deserve her.
“I fear,” Hansford said, “that madman will take her down with him.”
“Not if I can help it,” Michael said, standing. “Get some—”
Knock, knock, knock.
Michael looked in the direction of the door and stood. “Come in.”
His butler entered holding a silver tray with a glass of scotch. He set it down on the coffee table for the guest. “Lord Chatham and Lord Blackthorn are requesting your audience, sir.”
Why the bloody hell are they here? They are supposed to be at Chatham Hall until the Season starts and that was not for two more weeks.
“Do you wish me to send them away, sir?”
This wasn’t the best time to entertain his brother and his friend. Damn it. But he couldn’t very well ignore their call because it would look doubly suspicious and his twin was already questioning his motives. “No,” Michael said. “Have them wait for me in the library.”
“Very well.” Bali quietly closed the door behind him.
“If you need anything, Bali will take good care of you.”
Hansford sighed. “Just find her before that son of a bitch does any more harm.”
“I will,” Michael said, then quietly left the room.
Michael closed the door and walked to the library, but halted by the closed door. He wasn’t in the mood for a scolding today, or another altercation. Blast. He shoved the door open and entered the library. Blackthorn was leaning on the mantle near the fireplace. His brother was pacing, but instantly halted upon seeing Michael. “I did not expect to see you both so soon.”
“Yes, well, I am required to attend the masquerade ball tomorrow evening. I would have come alone, but Blackthorn here,” William said, glaring at him, “insisted on coming along.”
“Good,” Michael said. “If that is all, I am needed elsewhere. Breakfast will be—”
“Wait just one minute. Clearly, Blackthorn isn’t telling me the truth.” Lord Chatham glared at Blackthorn. “What the hell is going on here?”
Michael glanced at Blackthorn, but he gave no signal. Hmm, this was a problem, indeed.
“If I didn’t know any better,” William started. “I’d think you were all involved in some sinister plot to overthrow the Crown.”
“Don’t look at me. I’m staying out of this one,” Blackthorn said, tightening his lips.
“I insist you tell me what is going on here,” William ordered.
“Perhaps another time. I have to leave—”
“On urgent business, again? Yes, I heard that excuse before. Now why don’t you tell me the truth for once in your life?”
Michael raked his hand though his hair. He didn’t need this now. “I think it’s best if you stay out of this.” Michael glared at Blackthorn.
“I beg to differ. I thought you and I had an understanding yesterday, but now this?” William’s mouth thinned, as if thinking what he’d say next. “I can’t tell you how to live your life, but if you wish to be part of ours, then you’d best start talking. Otherwise, you will no longer be welcomed at Chatham Hall.”
The three men said nothing for several seconds, until Blackthorn chimed in, “His lordship has a point.”
Blast it all. “You are not to repeat what I am about to tell you to anyone. Swear by it.”
“I do.” Lord Chatham nodded.
“I am an agent for the Home Office.”
William’s expression froze, digesting the new information given to him. “An agent? You mean…a spy?”
“If you want to call it that,” Blackthorn chimed in.
“And you…,” he said to Blackthorn. “Are you…a….”
“I am, well, if you want to get technical, I am a code breaker. Michael is a field agent.”
“A field agent?” William said. “What the hell does that mean?”
“What Blackthorn means is that we do what is necessary to protect king and country.”
“What is necessary…,” he repeated, as if that helped to understand. “And is Miss Willoughby this thing you speak of?”
Michael nodded.
“So then you aren’t engaged to her?”
“No,” Michael said.
“I see,” William said thoughtfully. “Where is she now?”
“We are in the middle of an important investigation. I’ll be more than willing to answer your questions later. That is all I can say for now.”
“Why do I get the sense that she may be in danger?” Chatham said.
Michael said nothing.
“How can you allow her to be in harm’s way?”
“She is a trained spy,” Michael said.
“We have to find—”
“No,” Michael and Blackthorn simultaneously said.
“It’s too dangerous,” Michael said. “You have an obligation. Attend the ball, and I will speak with you when this is all over.”
“Yes, the ball,” he said, thinking. “Of course, the ball. I wouldn’t want to offend the host. Shaw’s honoring the Regent and Wellington tomorrow evening.”
“Shaw?” Michael’s intrigue piqued at the mention of honoring the two very important figures. He’d heard the name Shaw before. In fact, Michael discovered last night that Tomkin had one of the waiters deliver a note to Mr. Shaw. He’d planned on investigating the matter after he spoke with Hansford, but perhaps he was in God’s good grace. “Who is he?”
“A wealthy banker in London. His family has made a fortune in the East Indies and his family has a talent for numbers, so naturally they decided to expand their empire into banking. To be honest, he reminds me of a leech. He is a social climber who annoys most of Society, a nabob he is, so we tolerate him.”
“Yes, I’ve heard of him. He has a large estate just on the outskirts of London. Doesn’t he have a French grandfather?” Blackthorn glanced at Michael.
“Yes, I believe so,” William noted. “What does that have to do with the ball?”
“Nothing,” Michael said “Nothing at all.”
“I expect you to be present when I return. You and I have much to discuss,” William said. “Blackthorn, aren’t you coming?”
“You go ahead, I’ll join you later,” Blackthorn said.
“Suit yourself.”
When William took his leave, Blackthorn and Michael joined Hansford in the parlor. After a quick introduction and explanation of the situation to Blackthorn, the three men proceeded to plan out their next move.
“Yesterday, Tomkin had asked one of the waiters to deliver a message to Shaw from a friend at the club. I had planned on investigating the matter after I spoke with you. I will need to survey Shaw’s estate,” Michael informed them.
“Be careful,” Hansford said. “He can be one nasty son of a bitch if he catches you on his property. He’ll let the world know about it, too.”
“Perhaps we can persuade him to tell us how he is involved. Or face the noose?”
“Or maybe we don’t need to,” Michael chimed. He discovered there were two French diplomats arriving today when he broke into the shipping company to check the manifest. Important guests, diplomats, or royalty visiting London usually stayed at Pulteney’s Hotel in Piccadilly. Michael took no time to inform Hansford and Blackthorn what he’d discovered.
“Gentleman,” Michael went on, “I have a plan….”