“We’re delighted to have you back, my lord. All will, of course, be in readiness here. If you require any further assistance, please inform me.”
Jack smiled his charming smile; he was about to turn away when he thought to ask, “Who else is here at present? Crowhurst?”
“I regret the earl returned to Cornwall yesterday, my lord. But Viscount Paignton returned to us last week. I believe he intends to remain for some weeks. And the marquess is in town. He frequently drops by of an evening.”
Jack saluted and turned away. So Deverell was about, and Christian Allardyce, Marquess of Dearne, was also on hand. Excellent support, should he require it, and he’d certainly pick their brains and use their contacts, too.
He was still smiling when he reached the carriage. Clarice sat back, studying his face as he climbed in and sat opposite her.
“You look…expectant.”
His smile deepened. “Just the scent of prey on the wind.”
She snorted and looked out of the window as the carriage lurched once again into motion. Jack noted she was watching the facades now, no longer absorbed in James’s predicament. A slight frown creased her brow.
“So where are we headed?” he asked.
“I gave the coachman directions.” After a moment, she realized she hadn’t answered him and glanced at him. “To Benedict’s Hotel in Brook Street.”
Jack blinked. He’d assumed when she’d mentioned putting up at a hotel that she’d meant Grillons, that bastion of all things proper; he couldn’t have risked visiting her there. Benedict’s was another matter entirely. From what he’d heard, it was an extremely exclusive establishment catering only to the highest echelons of the aristocracy. It didn’t have rooms; it had suites.
When the carriage pulled up before the elegant facade in Brook Street, and he escorted Clarice inside, it was immediately apparent by the subtle-yet-obsequious welcome that she was a known and honored guest.
“We’ve held your usual rooms for you, my lady.” The dapper concierge relegated his desk to an underling and came to conduct Clarice upward himself. “Naturally, anything—anything at all—that I or my staff can do to assist you during your stay, we’ll be only too delighted to do.”
Leading the way up the main stairs, as wide as in any ducal residence, the concierge went to a door just along the sumptuous gallery, inserted a key, then threw the door wide. He bowed Clarice in.
Strolling at her heels, Jack paused to glance around, taking note of the side stairs visible at the end of one corridor. His gaze returned to the concierge’s face and found it encouragingly blank; the staff at Benedict’s clearly knew who paid their piper. With a slight smile, Jack inclined his head and moved past the concierge into the room.
It was a luxurious suite, the first room a large, well-appointed sitting room, the bedroom leading off it via an ornate arch. A gilt-framed mirror filled the wall above the marble mantelpiece; gilt sconces in the form of cupids hung on the walls. Despite their fine fabrics, both chaise and chairs looked well stuffed and inviting, and all the woodwork glowed. Two long windows looked out onto Brook Street; Jack moved across to glance out as Clarice swept into the bedroom, directing the footmen who had arrived with her trunk.
Like a well-trained butler, the concierge harried the footmen out, then bowed and departed. Jack turned as Clarice came to join him. She met his eyes, then looked out at the street. “Now we’re here, what next?”
He followed her gaze; it was midafternoon, and Brook Street was awash with carriages ferrying matrons from one afternoon tea to another. “There’s not much we can accomplish in what’s left of today. Unless you want to approach your family?”
“Late afternoon is hardly a good time to call unexpectedly, not during the Season. Everyone will be rushing to get ready for their evening’s engagements.”
He nodded. “I’m hoping for some word from my ex-commander. I told him I’d be at the club from tonight. I should be there in case he contacts me.” He would also meet Deverell there and alert him to their likely need for his services.
Clarice faced him. “Perhaps an early night would be best, then we can commence our campaign refreshed in the morning.”
He studied her dark eyes, wondered if she, like he, was considering ways and means…but he’d yet to reconnoiter, to confirm that he could come and go from her room without risking scandal, that the hotel was as accommodating as it appeared. “That probably will be best.”
“Very well.” She hesitated, then placed a hand on his chest and stretched up. She’d intended to kiss his cheek but he turned his head and his lips met hers.
His arms slid around her; he drew her to him, against him, and let the kiss slide into that realm of heated sensuality they both craved. When he raised his head, they were both breathing more rapidly; her eyes were darker, softly glowing with stirred passion as she pushed back and eased out of his arms.
“I’ll…” To his delight, she had to blink to refocus her wits. “I’ll call on my brother in the morning. Best to catch him before he goes out.”
“I’ll call here at noon. We can discuss our outcomes to that point and plan our next foray over luncheon.”
She nodded graciously, softly smiling. “Until tomorrow, then.”
He stepped back, bowed elegantly, and left her while he could.
Circling the gallery, he took the secondary stairs down, and confirmed that they led to a small foyer with a door giving onto a narrow side street. He checked the lock; it posed no barrier to one such as he. Hands in his greatcoat pockets, he strolled through the ground floor, committing the layout to memory, then exited the building by the front door, inclining his head to the concierge as he passed that worthy’s desk.
Benedict’s was, indeed, an excellent hotel.
On the pavement, Jack halted and took stock. He had no doubt Dalziel would interpret the events thus far as he had. His ex-commander would be in touch as soon as was practicable; he didn’t need to chase him. However, bearding the Bishop of London would necessarily need to wait until after Dalziel and Jack had discussed matters. There was little he could do until then.
Frowning, he let himself consider the pounding gradually building in his skull. He’d been steadfastly ignoring it for the past hour. Experience suggested it wouldn’t go away, not for the rest of the day, and, indeed, would likely become worse. What bothered him most was that the pounding hadn’t been this bad for weeks.
Pringle’s surgery was in Wigmore Street, only two blocks away. Jack turned his feet in that direction. At this hour, the surgeon would be in; he could use a little reassurance.
“You’ve made excellent progress!” Pringle turned away from Jack, propped on the edge of Pringle’s desk and still blinking owlishly in the aftermath of the magnesium flare Pringle had used to check his pupils.
“I’m really most impressed.” Pringle started putting away the numerous devices he’d used to test Jack’s responses. “Whatever you’ve been doing has been just the ticket. I would never have imagined you’d be this much improved in, what? Just over two weeks?”
Jack nodded, and massaged his temple. “But it’s back. Why?”
“You’ve just arrived in town. Did you ride?”
Jack shook his head. “Carriage. Two days on the road.”
“Well, there you are.” Pringle started polishing other implements; he’d seen Jack immediately his last patient had left. “A jolting carriage over that distance would give anyone a sore head—in your case, a pounding one. Just don’t do it again until you’re fully recovered. To ease the ache, I’d suggest doing whatever it is you’ve been doing recently. It’s clear that works for you.”
Jack frowned more direfully. “I haven’t been doing anything—anything medicinal—at least not that I’m aware of.”
“Ah, yes.” Pringle squinted at a scalpel, then polished harder. “Take it from me, you’ve definitely been doing something medicinal, but I agree you might not have realized how effective some activities c
an be. For instance, Turkish baths, or certain herbal ointments, or even perfumes, although you probably haven’t been using those.” With a grin, Pringle continued to recite common habits that were known to alleviate head pain.
Jack listened, eliminating all; most seemed as likely as the perfumes.
Until Pringle airily concluded, “And then there’s the old standby, sexual release.”
Jack blinked. “That works?”
“An ancient remedy, doesn’t work for all head pain, and works best when indulged in before the pain actually sets in. I’ve always imagined it works by way of some pressure-release mechanism.”
Jack was rapidly thinking back, aligning his interludes with Boadicea and the recent absence of his headaches. “How fascinating.” He realized Pringle was watching him, an amused light in his eye. Jack grinned; he straightened from the desk, then winced as his head throbbed. “Thank you.” He extended his hand to Pringle. “For your excellent advice.”
Pringle grinned back and shook Jack’s hand. “A few more weeks of rest interspersed with your patent remedy, and I predict your headaches will be consigned to your past.”
Jack left the surgery and turned his feet toward Montrose Place. As he had no recourse to his patent remedy that evening, he’d have to make do with fresh air. He wondered what Clarice would say to their interludes qualifying as medicinal acts.
The thought of her reaction brought a smile to his face, and made him forget his throbbing head for the short while it took him to reach the club.
The headache hit with a vengeance in the early evening. Surrendering to the savage pain, to the nauseating sensations every time he tried to move, to the excruciating agony when he tried to think, Jack retired to his room and his bed before Deverell returned.
It was more important that he be alert and functioning in the morning; consulting Deverell could wait. As Jack crawled under the cool sheets and laid his head on the pillow, he prayed Dalziel wouldn’t send for him that evening.
Dalziel didn’t. He did, however, appear downstairs before Jack had had breakfast the next morning. Despite the comfortable bed and his best intentions, he hadn’t slept well, but at least his headache had subsided to a level at which he could listen and talk. Muttering beneath his breath over the early hour—it wasn’t even nine o’clock—Jack followed Gasthorpe down to the first floor; Gasthorpe had conducted his unnerving guest to the library. Jack paused, eyeing the door. “Bring coffee. As soon as you can.”
Gasthorpe bowed. “Immediately, my lord.”
Jack opened the door and went in. Closing it, he took a moment to study the tall figure standing before the long windows overlooking the back garden. Dalziel—they had yet to ferret out his real name—shared many characteristics with the men he’d commanded. He was much the same height as Jack, with a similar, fractionally leaner, build. Finer build, finer bone structure, finer, more austere features—that was really all that separated him physically from his men. In menace, however, Dalziel had them all trumped. In his presence, anyone with the slightest ability to sense danger was inevitably on full alert.
Releasing the doorknob, Jack let the latch click and watched Dalziel turn from the window to face him. As if he hadn’t, until then, been aware Jack was there.
Jack inwardly scoffed. Put simply, Dalziel was the most dangerous man he’d ever met. His ex-commander was the ultimate epitome of the predatory warrior lords the Normans had left scattered throughout England.
“Good morning. I won’t ask what’s brought you here.” Jack waved Dalziel to an armchair and subsided into its mate, fighting to keep any hint of his headache from his face.
“Indeed.” Dalziel’s tone stated he wasn’t the least happy about the matter in question. His dark eyes examined Jack’s face. “I greatly fear that your friend, James Altwood, has become embroiled, entirely innocently, in a scheme to discredit me.”
“You?” Jack frowned. This was Dalziel; it would be a waste of time to question his statement; if he said that was so, it was. “What scheme? And how did James come to be drawn into it?”
Dalziel steepled his fingers; his gaze fixed beyond Jack. “At this point, I can only speculate, but I imagine the scheme has come about because, as I’m sure you and the other members here are aware, I’ve been searching for one last traitor, who for various reasons, none unfortunately within the realm of hard fact, I believe remains undetected, unrepentant, and unpunished, buried within the higher echelons of power.”
A knock preceded Gasthorpe carrying a tray.
Dalziel waited until the coffee had been dispensed and Gasthorpe had left, then met Jack’s gaze. “Just what connections this man might have, and what type of power he wields, whether simply that of money, or alternatively status or governmental position, I don’t know. However, I’ve tripped over too many inconsistencies over the past years not to suspect he exists. Unfortunately, to date, that’s all I have—my suspicions.”
Jack narrowed his eyes, sipped. “So you believe this scheme has come about because he, whoever he is, doesn’t appreciate your entertaining such suspicions?”
Dalziel nodded. “An apt enough way to put it.”
“But at present, this scheme—its existence, just like that of your last traitor’s—is pure conjecture on your part?”
Dalziel’s lips twisted in a very wry grimace. “Precisely. What I believe has occurred is that, knowing I’m still searching for him, the real traitor set out—initially at least—to give me a scapegoat, someone I might confuse for him, remove, and so deem my job done.”
“And retire?”
Dalziel inclined his head. “For all of us, the war is past, and it’s time we returned to the civilian world and our responsibilities therein. This traitor thinks to appease me by feeding me some other prey in his stead.”
“So he looked around for a suitable scapegoat…and found James.” Jack instantly saw why James had been chosen.
“Indeed. James Altwood was an inspired choice. He had access to, gathered, and studied information potentially damaging to the military cause, information Napoleon and his generals would indeed have paid a high price for. I haven’t seen the substance of the allegations, however, as we both know”—Dalziel smiled at Jack, a smile that didn’t reach his eyes—“James Altwood is no traitor.”
Dalziel paused, then went on, “I never asked whether you, against my orders, had divulged your status and mission to Altwood, but when your father died and Altwood came straight to me to get a message to you, it was fairly clear he knew more than enough to, were he a spy, ensure your disappearance.” Dalziel shrugged. “As you’re here hale and whole, Altwood is no traitor, especially given your watch on Elba. Of all my agents, you would have been the most vital to nullify when Napoleon was planning his return. You’re still alive because they never knew you existed, because James Altwood isn’t a traitor. No traitor, no matter how fond of you, would have omitted, in the circumstances, to mention you. Fortunes have been made for less.”
Setting aside his cup, Dalziel continued, “That, however, was a series of telling facts the real traitor didn’t know. If it is he behind this, then he discovered Altwood, and then realized the potential, how very sensational a charge of treason against Altwood would be, and how even more sensational the failure of such a trial would be, and how such an outcome would reflect on whoever was so unwise as to instigate the prosecution of Altwood.”
“You.” Eyes still narrowed, Jack followed the argument. “The real traitor thought you’d leap on James, get him by the throat, and drag him before the courts—and then…”
“Once the case failed, and the real traitor would ensure it would, and in the most spectacular fashion, that would render any future charge I might make against anyone not just ineffective but laughable.”
“He’d essentially nullify you, at least with respect to bringing traitors to justice.”
“Indeed.” Dalziel frowned. “However, before we get too ahead of ourselves, none of what I’ve just t
old you is provable fact. As far as James Altwood passing secrets to the French, I can report that there is no evidence whatever, not an iota, to support such a contention, nothing beyond the purely circumstantial fact that Altwood had access to sensitive information and the ability to comprehend that intelligence.”
Dalziel met Jack’s eyes. “That, of course, would be known to many. On the face of it, there’s nothing to say that this charge against Altwood hasn’t arisen from some petty jealousy or need to make trouble. It may not even be directed at Altwood, but at his superiors, or at clerical scholars in general. There’s no reason per se that the situation has to be a scheme by any traitor, yet one reason my instincts are pressing me in that direction is that it’s just too pat that it’s Altwood involved. Not only is he a renowned scholar, a long time Fellow of Balliol, but a clerical scholar very well regarded by his bishop and by the Church heirarchy. Bad enough, were I to get involved, but on top of that, he is an Altwood, albeit it, as I heard it, something of a black sheep. That’s by the by. To all the ton, all the government, he’s still an Altwood. If the family comes to his support, as I fully expect they will, then anyone seeking to prosecute him is going to have a very messy battle on his hands.”
Jack could only agree. The cold-blooded calculation behind such a scheme, if indeed it was a ploy of the last traitor to discredit Dalziel, was breathtaking. Tony Blake and Charles St. Austell had advised the other Bastion Club members of Dalziel’s continuing search for a deeply buried traitor. Some might consider such perseverance an unhealthy obsession; Jack wasn’t of that number, nor were the other club members. They all knew Dalziel; his instincts, his ability to read intelligence, and the orders that had flowed from that, sometimes apparently counter to safety, had kept them all alive for many long years behind enemy lines. If Dalziel believed a traitor was still free, they’d back his judgment.
“So the charges against James could be a traitor’s scheme to discredit you, or alternately something more innocent—for instance, a jealous rival’s plot.”