At the sound of a trumpet, Jason looked out Parnell’s office window and was caught by the colorful display made by the mounted King’s Life Guard in their red tunics and white-plumed helmets and the Blues and Royals in their blue tunics and red-plumed helmets. Mounted on their immaculately groomed horses with breastplates shining in the sun, they assembled on the north side of the Horse Guards enclosure.

Parnell leaned back in his chair and formed a steeple with his fingers. “We still have the problem of this threat to the country’s security. We can leave the murder of the footman for Bow Street to deal with. The government cannot be seen to spend more time and waste resources on what might be the fanciful notions of a footman now deceased, but it appears that we must get to the bottom of Smythe’s letter in case there is any substance to the threat.

“I find it impossible to suspect Lord Kinsey of being involved. Smythe may have heard about the threat elsewhere.”

“I’d be happy to continue with the investigation, but outside of Kinsey House, I have nothing to go on.” Jason flicked a gaze at Parnell’s shrewd eyes. He saw no reason to explain that he owed it to Bart. Parnell was a hardnosed member of the War Office, where everyone was seen to be expendable for the right cause and, sometimes, the wrong one. He must always have his eye to the bigger picture, the security and protection of England.

“Then continue on.” The spymaster cocked an eyebrow. “No woman involved in this who you feel you should rescue is there?”

Jason tightened his jaw, as the heavy weight of responsibility settled over his shoulders. “Yes, several, as a matter of fact, and two young males. Lord Kinsey is away in the East.”

Parnell gave him a wry glance then picked up a sheath of papers. “Send Bartlett in on your way out. And keep me informed.”

Leaving Whitehall, Jason made his way to Mr. Belvedere’s home in Curzon Street. A solidly built man in his fifties, he was a member of the Royal College of Surgeons, who Jason considered to be a cut above the self-serving quacks and sawbones he’d dealt with in the past.

Belvedere pushed the tonic bottle across the desk to Jason. “I’ve tested this. Arsenic. There was enough to prostrate Smyth while slowly killing him. I might have suspected poisoning, but other symptoms masked it. The patient had not told me he was taking a tonic. I would certainly have advised him to stop. God knows what these unscrupulous, so-called herbalists add to their medicines they peddle to desperate people. I became suspicious at the amount of hair Smyth was losing, but it was too late then.”

Jason’s hand tensed around the bottle.

“It wouldn’t have helped the poor fellow much if he had stopped. I ordered an autopsy on Mr. Smyth. He had a cancerous tumor of the stomach and only a few months to live.”

“Thank you.” Jason drew in a breath to ease his tight chest. “I’ll take the bottle with me and pay this herbalist a visit.”

“You won’t stop these people, though. Once they’ve found a way to fleece the public they don’t let up.”

“Unless they’re placed behind bars,” Jason said bitterly as rage rampaged through him.

“Quite so, but there’s no law to enforce it, sadly. One day perhaps.”

Jason pocketed the bottle and walked home. Should the poisoning prove to be deliberate, it would have to be handed over to Bow Street for evidence. Tonight, he had other fish to fry in a certain gambling establishment. And he would go armed.

Entering the house, he was informed that Charlie was escorting Miss Groton and her aunt to a concert while Lizzie was dining with the baron. Events were moving forward without him. He buried a sense of disquiet and ran upstairs to change.

Some hours later, Jason walked into the inner sanctum of the gaming hell in a narrow lane in St. James’s. Men and a scattering of women, some ladies and some not, clustered around the tables where the dice game hazard, backgammon, and card games were in play. Two crystal chandeliers cast their heated light over the heads of the gamblers. The windowless rooms were designed to fleece the “pigeons”—those who lost fortunes in the smoky, stale atmosphere, disorientated, and cut off from the outside world. A roar went up as a young lord staggered away, declaring he would shoot himself, after losing his estate in a game of vingt-et-un.

It took Jason little time to locate Fred Pomfret, roaming the tables, a cheroot in his hand. Charlie had described the big, hefty man perfectly, his mean face, broken nose, and mane of red hair. He saw Jason and ambled over to him, no doubt judging him to be a plump pigeon and keen to relieve him of his blunt.

“I should like a word with you, Pomfret, somewhere quiet.”

Pomfret’s eyes narrowed. “I don’t believe we’ve met, Mr.…?”

“Peyton.” Jason handed him his card.

Pomfret nodded. “Our best French champagne is on offer to those who fought for England, Captain. Require a stake? We can do that too.”

“Just lead the way to your office, Pomfret.”

With a cautious frown, Pomfret turned and led Jason to a small room. When Pomfret jerked his thumb at the cashier, the man rose and left.

“Now, Captain. What can I do for you?” he asked, adopting a conciliatory tone. “Some young relative of yours got himself into trouble? We aren’t nursemaids ’ere.”

Jason pulled his coat back to reveal the pistol tucked into his waistband. “The matter concerns a Miss Groton.”

Pomfret’s frowning gaze roamed from the gun to Jason’s face. “We don’t allow firearms in ’ere. What about ’er?”

“I am here to collect her father’s IOUs.”

“You intend to pay his debt?”

“No, I do not. Miss Groton has no way of paying her father’s gambling debts, as you well know, and nor should she,” he said with quiet menace, tamping down the desire to take his fists to the man. “What I will promise is not to make you significantly more nervous.”

Pomfret rose on his toes. “I am not afraid of you, milord. I ’ave many good friends in this business.”

“Including your partner in this club, Lord Saville?”

Pomfret scowled. “’im too.”

“But I happen to know, Pomfret, that you are new to London. Finding your feet as it were. And Lord Saville, who is a member of my club, wishes to keep a low profile regarding his connection to this gambling hell. If your name, linked to his, ends up in the newspapers, that will upset him, and you’ll be out on your backside if you’re lucky, or dead in some alley if you’re not. Surely even Miss Groton isn’t worth that. Pretty as she is.”

A tick formed in Pomfret’s jaw as silence fell.

“Come, Pomfret. Mr. Groton could not owe you much. He was not a rich man. And it appears you have done well tonight.” Jason held out his hand, aware that the prize was not money but Miss Groton. “The vowels if you will.”

Pomfret swiveled and went to open a cupboard. Withdrawing a box, he rifled through it and returned with the signed IOUs. “Take ’em. You peers think you can rule it over everyone.”

“You work for a peer, Pomfret,” Jason reminded him, relieving him of the scraps of paper. “If any more of these turn up, I won’t be so polite next time. And I, too, have some very good friends.”

 

***

Helen discovered the French lady’s maid, Eloise, in her mother’s boudoir, attending to one of her mother’s hats. With brisk neat stitches, she attached a satin rose to a silk bonnet.

At the mention of Bart, Eloise bowed her head over her work with a deep sigh. “Je suis vraiment désolée.”

“Can you remember anything unusual Bart might have said before he became ill?” Helen asked.

Her black eyes grew wide. “Oui. Bart believed that something ’e knew would improve ’is situation.”

“What was that?”

“I do not know. But he was insistent. After I teased him, he said when he became rich he would ask me to marry him.” She shrugged her narrow shoulders. “I can get my way with most things, Lady Helen.” She smoothed her mobcap in the mirror. “But he would not tell me this.”

Frustrated, Helen left the room. It would be difficult to believe anything Eloise said. It wasn’t that she told lies, but she was given to dramatics.

Downstairs in the servants’ quarters, Jeremy had just returned from running a message. Helen drew him aside. “Did Bart say or do anything that surprised you in the weeks before he died?”

The tall footman flushed and shuffled his feet. “No, Lady Helen.”

“You won’t be in any trouble, Jeremy. But I need to know.”

He scratched his head. “Just that he asked me to watch out for him while he went into the library. The family was out. I knew it was wrong, Lady Helen, but he was insistent.”

“When was this?”

“A few weeks ago, now.”

“What was he looking for?”

“Refused to say. Said it was better if I didn’t know.”

“Did he remove anything from the library?”

“I didn’t see it if he did, but when he put his hand on my shoulder to thank me, he was shaking like one of Cook’s jellies. Went straight up to his room. Said he had a letter to write.”

“Think carefully, Jeremy. Is there anything else you can tell me?”

“Bart asked me to deliver the letter for him, as it was my afternoon off.”

“Where did you take it?”

Jeremy’s gaze darted away from hers. “Whitehall, Lady Helen. Fair put the wind up me, it did.”

“It’s good that you told me. But you have no reason to worry. That will be all, thank you, Jeremy.”

After the footman hurried away to return to his duties, Helen, worried about the reason Bart felt it necessary to write to the government, made her way to the kitchen. But it made Peyton’s explanation more believable. Surprised at the extent of her relief, she entered the kitchen. The kitchen maids bobbed a welcome, but as she was often here discussing recipes with Cook, they continued with their work. Jinx, the young kitchen boy, greeted her, pausing from his task of peeling potatoes at the big scrubbed wooden table. As Cook was in the larder taking an inventory, Helen slipped into a chair.

“Are you fully recovered, Jinx?”

His narrow face was still pale beneath his freckles. “Yes, thank you, Lady Helen.”

“Do you remember anything you and Bart might have shared? A drink or a sweetmeat, some food, which could have made you sick?”

“No, we just ate the meals Cook prepared for us as we always do.”

“No one else felt ill?”

“They didn’t say so, Lady Helen.”

“And there was nothing you and Bart shared? Think, Jinx.”

“Only a spoonful of Bart’s tonic, if that is what you mean. He said it would cure my cold. Tasted something awful and I spat most of it out.”

Her heart thudding, Helen rose from the table. “Please ask Mrs. Chance to advise me if you feel ill again.”

Deep in thought, she returned to the upper floor. The information she’d gained posed more questions than answers. Why would anyone want to poison Bart? Perhaps he had known he was in danger when he’d written to the government requesting his captain’s help. In what capacity did Lord Peyton work for the government? Could he be a spy? She drew in a breath at the fluttery feeling in her belly. How little they knew about him.

In the unoccupied library, she hurried over to her father’s desk. His secretary had a small office at the rear of the house but spent most of his days here in her father’s absence. Her father preferred to work in the library. He liked to roam about studying his antiquities. Helped a man to think, he said.

She searched the desk, but it proved a waste of time. So many papers and portfolios, some written in foreign languages, and she had no idea what she was looking for, except those two words, which were unlikely to leap out at her.

She turned as the door opened. “May I assist you, Lady Helen?” Mr. Thorburn blinked behind his glasses. He reminded her of a friendly animal in a storybook she read to Alexander. With a smile, he crossed to where she stood behind the desk.

Thorburn had been her father’s faithful and discreet secretary for several years. Helen thought to ask him if he knew anything about electric fish. But remembering Peyton’s advice to be discreet, she turned back to the desk. “Just a new pen, thank you, Mr. Thorburn.” She picked one up and, smiling, left the room.

Out in the corridor, she paused to consider what she’d learned. It seemed unlikely that the tonic had been accidentally poisoned unless a mistake had been made by the herbalist. Why would anyone deliberately tamper with it with the intention of harming Bart? But there was that letter to the government he’d written, she reminded herself, which pointed to something more sinister. She was eager to pass on to Lord Peyton what she’d learned. But thinking of his perceptive green eyes, she expected he already knew it.