Chapter Eleven
A few days later, someone pounded on the door of Adam’s rooms in the Albany. A minute later, his valet tapped on the door of his bedchamber.
“A Mr. Dayton to see you, sir. Shall I send him away?”
Dayton was supposed to be watching Boiselle that morning. What was he doing here? “Let him in.”
Quickly throwing on some clothing, Adam went into his drawing room, where Dayton stood near the window. The necessity of knowing everything that happened around him was common in a spy.
“What news do you bring?” Adam asked.
“That man from the theatre, Billups, went in to Boiselle’s home this morning, and returned after five minutes.”
“Was Boiselle at home?”
“Yes. He left fifteen minutes after Billups.”
“Where did he go?”
“I don’t know, my lord. Harrison took the watch and I came here.”
“Good work,” Adam said. “Go get some rest. I’m sure you must be tired after the long night.”
“Thank you, my lord.”
So, Billups was involved, just as Adam suspected. Donning his cravat and slipping his arms into the coat his valet held for him, he went directly to Boiselle’s home.
Harrison swept the street in front of a building a short distance down the road, close enough for a clear view of any comings and goings. Adam nodded as he walked past, then waited around the corner for the man to join him.
“Has he returned home?” Adam asked without preamble when Harrison approached.
“No sir. The best I can tell, the place should be empty.”
Perfect. As unlikely as it was that Boiselle left a note lying in the open, Adam could hope for a large piece in the fireplace, or an entire paper torn into pieces in a wastebasket. He glanced up and down the street before approaching the entry door and knocking.
No one answered. Boiselle must not have any servants, which was a boon for Adam. He picked the lock and let himself in.
The single room had a cot in one corner, a cupboard with a wash bowl, a table and a chair. Clothing hung on the wall near the bed. On the table were papers, and a wrapper from some food bought from a street vendor. Adam thumbed through the papers, finding nothing. He then moved to the pockets of the coat on the wall. Again nothing.
He’d expected as much, but he wasn’t giving up yet. He opened the cupboard, where Boiselle’s smallclothes were neatly folded, but nothing was out of place there, either.
He returned to the table, studying the papers, deciding whether to take them just in case. Then he noticed a mark on the food wrapper. Picking it up, he found writing—a series of numbers but no letters.
Excited, his heart raced. He took a turn around the room in search of more food wrappers, but found none.
Suddenly Adam heard footsteps on the stairs outside the room. He had nowhere to hide, and there was only a small window looking out on the alley, and he was to floors about street level. With no other choice, he forced open the window and looked for a way down.
The decorative cross timbers of the Tudor-style exterior offered the only support for his decent, so, hanging from the window ledge, he felt with his feet for the narrow footholds, having to turn his boot sideways to support himself. As soon as he was close enough, he dropped to the cobblestones. Noticing the open window above him, he realized that whether it had been Boiselle had been on the staircase or someone else, the man would know someone had been there.
Going straight to Thorn’s house, Adam didn’t care how early it was, and whether his brother would be up. He entered without knocking, as usual, and went straight to the study. His brother sat behind the desk, a coffee cup in his hand. He spoke without looking up. “You found something?”
“Yes.” He explained about Billups arrival and the son departure of Boiselle thereafter, while laying the wrapper on the desk.
Thorn grimaced. “What’s this?”
“I don’t know. Numbers. I have no idea if they’re important, but I couldn’t risk not bringing it to you.”
“Thank you.” Thorn motioned to the seat opposite him. “Now, I thought we agreed you weren’t continuing this case.”
“When Dayton shows up on my doorstep with information, I’m not going to ignore it.”
“I’m not asking you to. Come to me. Send word to one of the others. What would you have done if Boiselle returned while you were inside?”
He’d have done the same thing as if he’d been caught by any suspected spy. He’d fight, run, and remove himself from the case. Since he hadn’t been spotted, none of that was necessary. “I won’t do anything that can be handed off to someone else, all right?”
Thorn nodded, his pursed lips saying he didn’t believe a word of the proclamation. Changing the subject, he asked, “Where do you and Miss Watson stand?”
“We don’t. I haven’t said anything more than that I can’t marry now, so if her father won’t wait, she needs to find another man.”
“You certainly aren’t romantic. I can’t believe we share the same parents.”
“You inherited all those qualities, leaving nothing for me.” That was Adam’s standard response to any claim Thorn made of being better at something.
Chuckling, Thorn nodded. “This time I’ll agree.”
Returning to the matter of Boiselle, Adam asked, “What are you doing about Billups? Do you have men watching him?”
“No. I haven’t heard him mentioned before this. Do you recommend surveillance?”
“I do. He was often in and out of Boiselle’s dressing room, giving him plenty of opportunity to pass or retrieve messages. I often wondered if he was looking for something he didn’t find, given his repeated visits in one evening.”
“If the man works at the theatre, couldn’t there be an innocent reason for doing so?”
He’d considered that, but Billups had a way about him that made Adam’s suspicions rise. “I don’t think so.”
“I’ll assign someone to watch him, then.”