Five

The same night in London…

Reinhard Wolf handed his hat to the chambermaid. Her blue eyes reflected in the gilt mirror, flitting nervously at the shadows. Avo waited in an alcove, his cheroot a glowing orange circle at his mouth, unkempt black hair falling loose about his shoulders.

“Your report, Avo.”

A weathered hand reached for the cheroot. “Do you not think it best to wait, Captain?”

The dark-haired maid reached for the black frock coat sliding off his shoulders. Eyes downcast, she played mute as good servants did, her plush lips wobbling. Avo had that effect on women. The Frisian had probably threatened to snap her neck, should she breathe one word of what was said in this house, but it was Reinhard’s house. The maid was safe.

“No. Tell me now,” Reinhard said, plucking off his black leather glove one finger at a time.

“A crate of Charleville muskets arrived. Fifty of them from our Portuguese friend.” Avo took a deep drag of his cheroot.

“Are these muskets in working order?”

Smoke clouded the Frisian’s head. “All are newly manufactured. I tested them myself. If your blond liefdesgrot were here, she would find them impeccable.”

“Any saltpeter?” Reinhard dropped his glove into the maid’s palm.

“Twenty pounds in an old cask once used for brandy. A clever disguise. The brandy-soaked wood masks any smell.”

“And has our Englisch friend delivered the lead?”

“I don’t know.” The chair creaked from Avo standing up. “He waited for you in the study, but he could not stay long.”

Reinhard yanked off his second glove. “You left him alone in there?”

“Relax, Captain. No one can read your letters.”

The letters were written in Old Prussian. The language had become extinct, a perfect code for the Brotherhood of Silesia, but the study was Reinhard’s private sanctum. Papers of a more personal nature sat on his desk. Avo knew this.

“Did he leave a message?” Reinhard asked, handing the second glove to the maid before she disappeared, a hush of starched skirts.

“On your desk, next to your letters.”

Reinhard swiped an invisible speck of dust off his sleeve. Avo’s insolence had grown tiresome, made worse since Genevieve ran away. “You know my rules, Thade. Abide by them, or return to Königsberg and explain yourself to the baron.”

Avo’s molars clamped the cheroot. The Frisian would never leave. They’d both stood before the baron and sworn a blood oath to King Frederick of Prussia, their soldier king. They were on a mission for the Brotherhood. Plucked from an Amsterdam gutter decades ago, Thade had grown up under the tutelage of a Prussian lieutenant who once served the baron. Avo never wore a uniform, never clubbed his hair, yet he wore impeccable gray suits tailored to his wiry frame.

His fanaticism for their cause delighted those in high places, but for Reinhard, Avo was a menace, a rabid dog he had to leash. He was sure the Frisian had contemplated killing him. Violence was Avo’s favorite language.

The dog needed a reminder of his place. “Fetch the letter, Thade. I’ll read it in my bedchamber.”

Avo flicked ash on the marble floor, his gaze sliding to the maid idling near a plant pedestal. “Yes, Captain.”

Reinhard stood stiffly, waiting for the slam of boots to fade. Knots in his shoulders wrenched tighter. He ran a finger under his collar, stretching his neck to one side.

“Forgive me, sir.” The maid flitted around the pedestal. “Herr Thade told me he would stay in the study with your guest.”

“Learn from this. All guests go to the drawing room.” He grimaced, loosening the neckcloth. “Where is Alston?”

“The butler took ill. I told him I would see to your needs.”

“Extinguish these candles. This hall is too bright.”

The petite maid lifted a brass candlesnuffer off a hook hidden by the door. Pushing up on her toes, her black hem rose, showing neat ankles as she snuffed one candle after another.

Eyes shut, he rubbed the back of his neck. He should’ve left for Prussia a fortnight ago. His work among the Englisch was done, save finding one elusive dark-eyed, amber-haired prize. Genevieve was most unusual, a woman with a backbone in a world of simpering ladies. Few women of Prussia’s Junker class could measure up to her. Talented hands repaired guns by day and teased his body at night.

Their sex was heady, addicting.

A soft hand touched him. “I could take care of the ache in your neck, sir.”

He grunted. It was all the encouragement he’d give. She was bold, her fingers pushing his hand away to massage his nape. Stiff skirts draped his leg. Tension melted. Her near-black hair tempted him to run his fingers through it, to let pins fall to the floor. He’d coil one hand in the dark length, bend the maid over, and test what flesh hid beneath starched skirts.

Heat pooled at his spine. The maid stood on tiptoe, pressing her breast against him. Her small fruit rose and fell with her breathing, brushing his sleeve. Both hands fisted at his sides, an urge building to spend himself in warm, feminine flesh.

The maid bit her plump bottom lip, her lacy mobcap bobbing as she rubbed harder against him. Had she worn the cap while sucking off other men she’d served? Genevieve never wore mobcaps, and she hated pins in her hair.

“Do you want me to turn down your bed and wait for you, sir?”

His head jerked sideways, her question a cold splash. He had no taste for timid mice. Genevieve would’ve told him to turn down the bed and wait for her. It was her sultry voice he wanted to hear on the pillow beside him.

“It’s late,” he said, pushing away her hand. “Seek your own bed.”

The maid fled the entry, a flurry of black bombazine skirts. Avo rounded the corner, a slip of foolscap in his hand. The cheroot was gone. He’d tarried in the study to finish it—yet another act of defiance.

The Frisian craned his neck to follow the maid’s exit. “You should lie with her. Then you will forget the blond liefdesgrot.”

Reinhard slammed his fist hard into the Frisian’s jaw. Bone smashed bone. Blood spurted a thin red arc. Avo landed in a sprawl, the message floating to the marble floor. Reinhard clenched and unclenched his hand, the pain ebbing from his knuckles. The Frisian sat up and tested his jaw, his black eyes widening with grudging respect.

Yes, violence was Avo’s favorite language.

Surprise and strategy was Reinhard’s.

He planted his boot on the blood-splattered paper. “You will never call her that again.”

“Yes, Captain.” The Frisian wiped a hand across his mouth.

Next time—if there was a next time—Avo would pay dearly for his mistake.

Reinhard retrieved the message under his boot and walked coldly around Avo, reading the list of ships and guns and quantities of lead. Unquestioning obedience was his requirement. Avo was learning. So would Genevieve.

He took the stairs two at a time, not bothering to look back as he issued orders. “Tomorrow you will return to the mantua-makers on Birchin Lane and start your search for Genevieve there. Find her, and we leave.”