Chapter 13
Dover was seventy miles from London, two days on the road. A public coach would grind its way down and take three. However, in this private well-sprung vehicle, they need not concern themselves with other people’s timetables.
After a night at an inn where he was treated like a god, Andrew had a taste of true luxury. Sitting in the gently rocking vehicle with a basket of fresh provisions sitting next to him and a hot brick under the metal holder at his feet, he decided this was very much the way he wanted to travel forever.
If it weren’t for the anxiety gnawing at his stomach, he could be perfectly happy.
The carriage swept around a bend and passed a few houses straggled along the road, the beginning of the great port of Dover. Andrew had not visited before, never having found the need to, so he watched with interest. Outlying villas like the ones on the outskirts of London came next, and then the buildings became more closely packed.
The carriage bowled into the town and along the road before the sea. A forest of masts greeted Andrew, their sails furled, pennants flying. The Port of London could not have offered a more varied throng. While a few passersby paused to glance at the vehicle, most ignored it. They could see no crest on the doors, and the footmen were not arrayed in colorful livery. He was nobody of note, and he liked it that way.
The horses took the steep climb into the town easily, better than Andrew would have, he had to admit. A room had been bespoken for him at an inn situated in the High Street. That turned out to be a broad, modern thoroughfare containing a goodly collection of stone houses and shops.
Anticipation of the coming adventure giving him an added impetus, Andrew climbed down the steps when the footman let them down for him and strode into the inn. The same footman, the aptly named Bull, followed hard on his heels. He made no comment, although having a man follow his footsteps would become irksome, if he had to put up with it for more than a few days.
The landlord greeted him, all clean apron and clasped hands. “Sir, we have a room ready for you.”
“Good.” Expecting a small, cramped, worn room, Andrew followed him upstairs to a spacious chamber filled with well-cared for antiques. The four-poster bed was unlike anything he had ever slept in, and he had more room here than in his own bedroom at home.
As soon as the innkeeper had gone, Andrew rounded on Bull. “Whose idea was this?”
The man’s thick eyebrows rose, and he took a heavy step back. “What? I’m sorry, sir, I’m not sure what you mean.”
“If I’m not mistaken, this is the best bedroom. Weren’t we supposed to be traveling quietly? Why not travel with six liveried servants and crests displayed?” If he asked for a modest room now, he’d draw even more attention to himself. “I can only pray nobody makes inquiries about visitors in the town. We are hunting spies!” He slapped his clenched fist down on his open palm. “What do you think spies do?” He took care not to raise his voice, but he longed to let rip, roar his anger. He’d traveled two days for this?
“Sir, there are plenty of inns in town, some grander than this.” Although red in the face, Bull only bowed his head. He must have been accustomed to petulant aristocrats.
“I see.” Andrew glanced out of the window at the glorious view of the harbor. “Who was sent to bespeak a room?”
“Smith, sir.”
The other burly footman had ridden ahead. They were serving their masters the best way they knew. It had probably not occurred to him to ask for a smaller, less notable chamber.
“Never mind.”
They had ordered the best room in the house because that was what they always did. He would never have done so. Yet another difference between his life and Darius’s and another reason for them to remain apart, if he needed one.
Sadly, he did need another reason. He had enough to build a wall strong enough to prevent him climbing it.
“Very well.” He had been told to take the two footmen into his confidence, so he would. “I am to meet Bartolini later this evening. You will guide me to the place and keep me safe, or so I understand.”
Smith nodded. “We are here to take your orders, sir.”
“You’ve been told this is a matter of national importance. If necessary, we will let Bartolini go, as long as we have the list. But we must secure that and ensure he hasn’t done something as foolish as memorizing it.”
“Lord Darius told us to capture the man, sir.”
“If we can do it without imperiling the list. Let me hand him the money and secure the list before we move to take him. Got that?”
Smith bowed his head. “Yes, sir. Lord Darius did tell me you’re in charge of this, and we are to take our orders from you.”
Skilled though he was, Andrew couldn’t interpret Smith’s expression. He had no idea if the man approved of the orders, but he did not care. As long as they did what they came here for, he would never have to see this man or his counterpart again.
“We are to meet Bartolini in a courtyard. I dislike that. I would rather meet him somewhere more public.”
Smith nodded. “I agree, sir, but we do not have any contact with the man before the meeting. Bull has gone to find the place and will report back.”
Sighing, Andrew moved away to find his nightshirt and shaving gear and to shake out his spare shirt. “We may as well eat. We’ll need sustenance.”
* * * *
Night fell early at this time of year. Sitting by the wide window in his bedroom, Andrew watched the sun sinking over the horizon. This was a larger and better appointed room than at his home. Perhaps he should spend more time looking for a larger house after all. He could afford it.
That was, if the hemorrhage of clients halted soon. When he got back, he would discover how much damage the caricature had done to him. Who would have thought a mere drawing could cause so much damage?
Would he take it back? Yes, and he had done so, but he had to face the truth. The caricature would not have happened if there was not some truth in the story. He cared for Darius, and while he thought he’d done a good job of concealing it, someone had noticed. Several “someones,” most likely at the ball. Should he turn his back and deny everything?
He still had no answer to that. For his daughter’s sake and for his livelihood, he should. Do the right thing, face reality, all the spine-stiffening words he’d told himself since he’d discovered his partiality.
Yet he was tired, so tired of hiding what he was, of denying his desires. Darius was not the only man he had felt a tendre for over the years, but he was the least resistible.
A knock at the door alerted him to the time. He rose and dragged his greatcoat off the chair, taking care to button it. Hefting the loaded pistols from the bedside table, he tested their weight and then tucked them in his pockets, one in each to keep his balance steady. His skill lay in words, not violence, but he needed to appear fully armed and dangerous for this encounter. He didn’t feel dangerous at all, but he could put on a good show. That was, after all, his job.
After pulling on his gloves and finding his hat, he was ready. As ready as he would get, anyway.
When he opened the door to his room, he found two ruffians waiting for him, their clothes dark, shabby, and nondescript. Totally unlike their neat footman attire. They left the inn, passing by the tap room raucous with laughter and shouting, the gust of beer and tobacco overwhelming in its intensity.
Outside, the smell changed to that of the sea. Salt-laden fresh air blended with aromas of tar, rotting fish, and other scents Andrew could not identify. Andrew huddled inside his greatcoat as the wind cut through him. London, set in a valley, crammed with humanity, all burning coal and timber fires never grew this chilly. He liked it. It helped to brace him against the ordeal to come. He set his jaw, but his throat and stomach tensed, making him wish he had not eaten so heartily earlier.
Darius and the two footmen would take this in their stride, he was sure.
“Thought I’d pop ’im,” Smith muttered. “Got my nightstick in my pocket.”
After he had dismissed the possibility of innuendo, Andrew inferred the man was talking about a cudgel. “Only if we have to. Last resort,” he said.
Smith growled, but his “Yes, sir,” signaled obedience.
“Don’t like this yard,” Bull put in. “Dark, lonely, not near anywhere. Our orders are to look after you, sir. Get the list, pay the man, and then we’ll take ’im if we can. Then we go. I’ve got a watchman looking the other way while we use his lockup.”
“Good. That will be useful.” Andrew had vaguely considered tying their prisoner up and making him spend the night in the carriage, guarded by Smith or Bull. A lockup would serve the purpose much better. “How much did you have to pay him?”
“Not a lot. Master gave me some guineas for expenses.”
Darius had thought of everything.
If they took Bartolini, it would be a straightforward, clean arrest. Andrew would have to endure the man in the carriage with him, but if he wanted, he could travel on the box with the coachman. He might do that, despite the cold. He stamped his feet against the growing chill. At least it wasn’t raining.
Recalling what he’d done before appearing at Bow Street, Andrew took a few deep breaths and clenched his fists, relaxing them deliberately to dissipate some of his tension. A little was good. It kept him on edge, alert, but too much blunted his resolve and his reactions.
All this for a simple exchange, but he couldn’t help it. The purse of gold coins weighed down his breeches pocket, much as the pistols in his greatcoat dragged him down. He was not used to this town or this situation. He had faced murderers before but not like this.
After passing a couple of taverns, their doors open, filled with laughing, shouting clientele, Smith stopped before a narrow alleyway between two houses. They were no longer in a well-lit, comfortable part of town. Instead, the houses were smaller, their facades streaked with soot, gaps in the plaster work revealing the crumbling bricks beneath. Not quite a rookery, though. The shops had shutters closing their frontages, not iron bars. The horse dung was swept into the middle of the road, ready for the night soil men.
Smith simply jerked his head. “It’s not that bad,” he murmured, and led the way.
The alley barely took Andrew’s breadth, and his two companions had to shuffle their way in. Andrew didn’t like this one bit, but he clamped his jaws together and carried on. Ten paces from the road took them into a small courtyard, lit only by the half moon and starlight. The clear night proved fortunate in that case.
The courtyard was a smallish space formed from the backs of four houses. No larger than fifteen feet square, with another alley opposite them offering another way out.
A shadow detached itself from one corner. Smith strolled to the other side of the alleyway, where another passageway led away. Houses framed the courtyard, mean but like the ones facing the road on the respectable side of the poverty line.
Bartolini stepped forward. His neat society demeanor had melted away, replaced by a dark coat that had seen better days and a pair of breeches tucked into scuffed boots. Despite the evening chill, he wore no heavy overcoat against the chill and no gloves on his hands.
“Did you bring it?”
Andrew didn’t move. “Possibly. Did you bring the paper?”
The two men behind Andrew stood perfectly still when Bartolini opened his coat and groped inside, coming out with a folded piece of parchment. Stepping forward, Andrew took it and deliberately stepped back before unfolding it.
He glanced down the list of names. “Tell me who is on this list.”
Bartolini shrugged. “I never looked. If I open it, I know. If I know, they will kill me. I do my job, collect my money, and leave. Which is what I intend to do now.”
The trouble was Andrew didn’t believe him. The man shifted from foot to foot, gazing down at the packed earth beneath his feet. Everywhere but at Andrew’s face.
“Look at me.” He wasn’t deluded enough to think that a trained spy could not meet his eyes and lie, but he knew what signs to look for. “Now tell me some names on this list.”
Bartolini blinked and slid his gaze past Andrew once more. It was no use. They’d have to take him and question him later. “I might have let you go, had you told me the truth or made a better job of doing so.”
He glanced at the two men. They stepped forward. Bartolini lunged, leaping for the far alleyway, but Bull merely moved to one side and blocked his exit, catching him in his arms.
Bartolini sobbed, “Let me go! It is not me you want. I swear it!”
A smooth voice behind him said, “Green apples aren’t easy to come by at this time of year.”
* * * *
“My father sent me,” Mr. Court said when Andrew spun around to face him. “I am to collect the paper and take it back to London. The code words are to reassure you.”
Andrew regarded him with suspicion. Court had an unsavory reputation, but then many people did, and they remained patriotic. He knew the code words.
Handing over the paper did not sit well with him. At the very least he wanted to keep hold of it until he knew more. He needed time. “Do you have proof? Written orders or some such?”
Court scoffed. “Of course not.” He glanced at Bartolini. “You can let him go now.”
“I’d rather not,” Andrew said mildly.
Court’s thin mouth curled. “Fancy some fun, do you? I can’t blame you. If you want that kind of thing, he’s a pretty boy. It’s not for me. I did hear rumors about you.”
“Did you?” The caricature. He would not bother to refute or admit it. He had no way of proving anything, any more than Court had any way of proving his claim. “You listen to rumor and innuendo? Or do you create it?”
Court shrugged. “I do not have to like you or what you do. It’s an abomination.”
“So is defiling your hostess’s house with whores and debauchery.”
“She deserved it. She refused my perfectly civil offer to marry her. You’d think a dried-up spinster like that would be grateful for some attention from a real man.”
Andrew tried hard not to allow his personal dislike—no, make that detestation—of the man to get in the way of the job he was supposed to be doing here. But he could not. Nor would he hand the list over to him.
“And the caricature?” He might as well hear the worst.
Court shrugged. “Your lover spoiled my fun. Why should I not spoil his?”
Andrew had no inclination to deny that Darius was his lover, especially to someone like this. “Even though it could send him to the gallows?”
“Oh, it won’t. His family would take care of him. Maybe he’d end in Rome with his perverted cousin.”
“A son of the Duke of Kirkburton,” Andrew reminded him mildly. Paying for the print and caricature merely for petty revenge struck him as somewhat extreme. Especially when— “Are you short of money?”
“Isn’t everybody?” he shot back but then bit his lip and glanced away.
He had not meant to say that. Why not?
“I’m not.” Or he was not at the moment, though when he got back to London, he did not know what he would find waiting for him. The gold still weighed down his pocket. It did not belong to him, though he could use it on this mission.
“Then you can give me some, can’t you?” Court taunted, sneered. Someone with that attitude would not consider anything sacred. Even a list that could result in the deaths of so many people.
A movement behind them took Court’s attention, his gaze going past Andrew to the two footmen and their prisoner. In the next breath, he’d lifted his pistol and fired.
The sound rocketed around the small space, the ringing in Andrew’s ears like a welcome to hell. He spun around.
The two footmen sprawled on the floor, both spattered with blood, their eyes glinting in the moonlight, their jaws dropping. Between them, the bloodied body of Bartolini lay, crumpled and most definitely dead.
Taking a step back, Andrew fumbled for his weapon, but he was not fast enough. With the smoking pistol still in one hand, Court clapped another to Andrew’s forehead.
A strange calm settled over Andrew, as Court visibly swallowed, his Adam’s apple moving up and down in his throat. He’d pulled back the hammer. The stink of black powder singed Andrew’s nostrils.
“Drop your weapons on the ground,” Court said.
Andrew had very little choice, except to take his time. His hands surprisingly steady, he pretended to fumble until Court pressed the barrel firmer into his skull. “We don’t have all night.”
Somewhere, a church clock chimed the half hour. That would make the time half past ten. Would he see eleven?
If Smith and Bull had not stepped forward to take Bartolini’s arms, Court would not have taken them by surprise. But the two men were heavily armed, much more than Andrew.
Court nodded to the men. “You two do the same or your master is a dead man.”
Plucking the pistols from his pocket, Andrew dropped them to the ground and held his arms out from his sides. “Do you want to kill me too? I won’t be so easy.”
“I’ll think of something. Bartolini tried to escape. I had no choice but to shoot him.”
Two men stepped out from the shadows. In that moment, Andrew understood Court meant to kill him and the two footmen. A fool, no doubt, but a fool with friends.
“I have witnesses.” Court sounded harsh, his voice tight.
Could Andrew use that tension against him? A moment’s reflection persuaded him of the folly of taking that course. All he could think was that he regretted with all his heart never knowing Darius in the true sense of the word, in the most intimate way possible. He’d been a fool, giving up his happiness for fear.
He was afraid now. His mind raced. There must be a way out, there had to be. Keep talking, that was the first thing. “Unlike that poor unfortunate, I will be missed. Questions will be asked.”
“I will not be here to listen. I was never here.”
Of course he was. They were ambushed and murdered by persons unknown. That was what would be said. Court could claim to be anywhere. Dissipated in a whorehouse, or in the country, obeying his father’s edict.
Or did General Court know? Was his son doing this with his approval?
“So you plan to sell the list twice?”
Court ground the gun harder against Andrew’s head, but Andrew didn’t try to back away. Court was trying to overwhelm him, make him tremble with fear. Even though Andrew was aware his hands shook, he would not give the man the pleasure of knowing. He clenched his fists, balling them tight to still the movement.
That was what he would do. He was not entirely unprepared. He’d always been good with his hands. One moment’s distraction and he could get that weapon away and plant a facer on his enemy.
“Bartolini already paid you for the list. Do you need money that badly? Badly enough to murder for it?”
“Yes.”