Queen (Regency Refuge 3) (16 page)

Isabel bit back a smile at the look of horror on Owen's face. Tobias was right. Wonderful as Owen was, he wasn't cut out to work in the field. He'd never make it without backup.

She gave him a light tap under the table, and he schooled his features.

Phineas, reeking of cheap alcohol and other offensive odors, leaned in close and said in a quiet, drunken slur, "Anybody know what happened on the ship after we left?"

Isabel frowned. He wasn't the same Phineas, but she disliked him anyway. "My contact says Lady Rutherford did all but put the captain and quartermaster in the stocks. She's hired investigators to search for us, but all they have are scattered and inaccurate descriptions of the trio on the ship."

Owen bit his lip in the most distracting way before saying, "Do they think we've stolen for profit or that we're heading to London with it?"

Isabel shook her head. "No word, but by the time Lady Rutherford finished haranguing the men on the
Âne Hurlants
, some gave faulty descriptions on purpose. A few of the men even claimed to have overheard where we were going, but they all named different places. We're now somewhere between Glasgow and Spain, or possibly on our way to America."

Phineas slurped loudly at his drink. "You're both booked on the mail coach heading to London. It leaves in an hour."

Owen didn't like being told what to do. "Our horses."

Phineas spoke in a drunken slur. "You can come back for them. The mission comes first."

Isabel volunteered. "I'll see that the horses are taken care of. Let me do that, and then I'll meet you at the mail coach before departure. We'll be brothers for this trip."

Owen squirmed.

Was he worried about
Despiadado
or about trying to act her brother?

He hesitated a moment longer before nodding his acquiescence. "I'll be there."

Phineas leaned heavily on the table. "Make sure the box holds what it's supposed to. Then pack the contents in the suitcase with whatever clothes you can find so it feels the same as any other over-packed heavy piece of luggage."

Owen nodded, reached his hand under the table, and pulled out the bag. "I'll see you both at the mail coach."

Isabel and Phineas left seconds after him, slipping away while the barmaid had her back to them. Once they made it into the sunlight, Isabel shed her limp and Phineas gave up his drunken stupor. No one who'd seen them in the pub would recognize them now. Even without a change in clothes, the different bearing made them into entirely new people.

With the sun high overhead, Phineas and Isabel sauntered down the raised foot-way at the edge of the road as if they had not a care in the world.

"I need to take care of something." Isabel hoped to rid herself of Phineas so she could visit Red and Maggie.

"If Red hadn't tossed me that sword, our departure from the
Âne Hurlants
might have ended quite differently."

Isabel's head whipped around as she scowled at Phineas. "What did you say?"

Despite her hurried steps, he had no problem keeping pace with her. "I've worked with Red before. A long time ago, but I recognized him. I know you, too."

It took every ounce of Isabel's concentration to keep herself in character while what she truly wanted to do was swing a fist at the man beside her. She didn't appreciate his poking and prodding at things she'd rather be left alone.

The quiet rumble of his voice continued. "I can tell you how I got the name, if you'd like."

Isabel stumbled, and he roughly righted her again, the way a man would a boy, not the way he would assist a woman. Phineas was good. She had to give him that. In every situation they'd come across so far, he'd played his part to perfection.

"Fine. Explain yourself." She bit the words out, working hard to control the turning of her stomach and the racing of her heart. How dare he bring up memories that still made her ill?

"I was a new agent working a foreign assignment, not much more than busy work meant to test my loyalty and commitment to the job. My brother — the man you knew as Phineas Kitteridge — was killed on assignment. Revenge consumed me, and I had the temper and arrogance to back it up. Nobody would talk, nothing more than whispers here and there. Once I learned the rest of the team had died while you and Red had been allowed to leave for America, I exploded at Tobias and accused him of protecting my brother's murderer."

They continued to weave their way through streets and alleys as Isabel led them toward the cottage she shared with Red and Maggie.

"Tobias told me the whole story then, and I still didn't believe him. That's when he offered me the deal."

Isabel glanced at him. "Deal?"

He nodded. "My brother and I had similar appearances. And I'd seen him before whilst he'd played the role of Phineas, so I had an idea of the mannerisms. Tobias let me step into the role of Phineas Kitteridge. It took several months of pretending to be my brother before I was able to put the pieces together."

Isabel and Phineas flattened themselves up against a wall as a wagon managed to barely squeeze through the alley.

"He wasn't selling secrets, but he was working as a mercenary of sorts. My brother," he choked the word out, "was paid handsomely to thwart the War Department on certain assignments. He even took his team on an assignment not sanctioned by Tobias. You went on a mercenary job he'd accepted and never even knew it."

Isabel's stomach clenched again. She pulled in long draughts of air through her nose, trying to calm the queasiness.

"By the time I was able to tell Tobias what my brother had been up to, I'd become recognizable as Phineas Kitteridge. Tobias asked me to continue playing the part. Under strict supervision, of course. Phineas is a money-hungry reprobate of questionable morals who can make anything happen for a price. The War Department benefits from having someone so deeply embedded among the criminal element in England."

After a lengthy pause, Isabel found her breath. "Do you have other identities?"

He answered with a quick shake of his head. "I have several, and they're each a closely guarded secret."

"I never knew your brother's real name."

"And you shan't know mine. Sorry. That's the way of things, but you deserved to understand why I took on the identity."

Isabel glanced around. "This is where we need to part ways."

He nodded, his face relaxed, but his eyes burning with intensity. "I'll keep an eye on Lady Rutherford and send word through Tobias if there's anything to report."

"Do you ever find you play the part so well you forget who you are inside?"

Phineas made a derisive sound deep in his throat. "I had to give myself up a long time ago. A small price, really."

"I don't understand."

He glanced off into the distance before making eye contact again. Isabel stepped back as the emotion in his eyes hit her with a physical force.

"I guess you could call it penance for all my brother did, for the agents who lost their lives because of him, for the atrocities that occurred because he was paid to look the other way."

She wanted to reach out to him but was certain the touch wouldn't be welcome, especially between the two men they were portraying. "I'm sorry. I never…"

He cut her off. With a jaunty toss of his head, the dock worker beside her laughed as if he'd just been told a joke not fit for a lady's ears. "You've nothing to be sorry for, and if you've ever a need for help with any kind of unlawful activity, seek me out. Or rather, seek out Phineas. He's a master of all things illegal, illicit, and immoral."

Phineas was gone before she could say anything else. Not that she'd had any idea what to say. He shouldn't feel the need to pay for his brother's crimes, but even so, she understood. She was fiercely protective of Red and Maggie, in part because of her guilt over Star and Robert and the way in which they'd died. But penance? She wasn't sure.

Though their situations differed, she and Phineas were both doing the same thing. They made their life choices because they wanted to atone for crimes someone else had committed. For the first time, Isabel realized how little sense it made. Protecting the people she loved because she loved them was one thing. Doing so out of misplaced guilt because her former team leader had turned out to be evil? No. That didn't make sense at all.

Isabel contemplated the place where the new Phineas had disappeared.

This new Phineas didn't need to punish himself for his brother's crimes. She needed to find a way to tell him. Hopefully he would listen.

Isabel shook off the reverie and hurried toward the cottage. Red and Maggie were waiting inside for her.

"Oh, thank goodness! I've been worried to tears!" Isabel welcomed Maggie's embrace.

Squaring her shoulders, she regarded the family she'd pieced together for herself. "Owen and I will be traveling on the mail coach. The two of you are going to need to bring our horses and come to London. There are too many people involved now for this to go smoothly. With an entire Parliamentary committee expecting a report from Owen, word will leak, and he'll be in danger."

"And you? You'll be in danger, too, don't you think?" Red's voice was gruff.

Isabel shook her head. "Only if I'm with him."

He frowned and crossed his arms. "Which you will be, of course."

Isabel leaned up on her tiptoes and kissed Red's hairy cheek. "Somebody's got to watch his back."

Maggie busied herself packing clothes into two small bags for her and Red.

The man in question, meanwhile, reached for the small blackboard and scribbled something on it. He handed it to Isabel, who read it before glancing up at him in question.

"It used to be a safe place to meet. I can't guarantee it still is, but we've got to have some sort of meeting point in London. If we can't find you there, I'll seek out Tobias."

Isabel nodded, memorized the directions, then wiped the blackboard clean. "I'm off, then. You two travel safe, and I'll make contact with you in London as soon as I'm able."

The trip to London sped by despite the length and tedium. Traveling by mail coach was neither as quick nor as comfortable as riding their own mounts.

They told no one when they arrived. Owen secured a room at a boarding house. Isabel claimed she had a place to stay but wouldn't disclose the location to him. Her and her secrets.

Before they parted ways, Owen also managed to get his hands on some fresh clothes for both of them. Isabel had asked for men's clothes again, and he'd obliged, but he'd also purchased a dress. It wasn't anything too highborn, but she would be splendid in it. Isabel was stunning no matter what she wore.

Owen had never thought he'd see the day where he warmed at the feel of a young boy falling asleep against his side in a mail coach. She wasn't actually a young boy, of course, but the situation had been nonetheless disconcerting. It had been pure agony to treat her the way he would a brother. He would have enjoyed the ride more had there been no other passengers in the coach. That, however, hadn't turned out to be the case, and they'd had to keep the ruse up the entire time. Torture, pure and simple.

Now here he was, two days before Christmas, and scheduled to present what he'd found to the committee. Isabel believed what he had to report would be explosive. He'd disagreed, believing that by giving his report, he would be able to prevent the situation from ever becoming explosive. She'd simply clucked her tongue.

Owen had thought himself beyond surprise where Isabel was concerned, especially after seeing her in action on the ship and in the pub in Bristol. Yet she continued to shock him. He loved the way she could keep the most demure look on her face while debating knife-throwing techniques in a tone of voice that sounded as if she discussed a garden party.

He still hadn't asked her about whether or not she'd had someone planted on the ship. The part of Owen that dreaded the conversation had won out thus far. He didn't want to hear her say that she didn't trust him to keep her safe, that she'd needed extra assurances that their plan would succeed. So he'd avoided the conversation rather than confront it like the man he wanted to be. Self-doubt gnawed at him.
There's a good reason you don't think you're worthy of her.

With a shake of his head, Owen tried to get his mind focused on the task at hand.

He took a deep breath and approached the grand entrance of Westminster. Owen reined his wandering thoughts in. He would have time enough later to be distracted by Isabel.

****

Owen was shown into a different meeting room and was left there with his own imagination and the package he carried. It took almost an hour before anybody else showed up, but one by one, the Members of Parliament began filtering into the room, distaste etched into their faces. Did they feel he was beneath them? Or did they simply not approve of the work he did? Florid Face marched in, closed and locked the door behind him, and slipped the key into a pocket in his vest.

Owen didn't remember that from last time. What's a man supposed to think upon getting locked into a room with people who possess the authority to rid him of his livelihood?

Fewer men were present this time. The group had been cut by almost half but still included members of the House of Lords and the House of Commons.

Owen swallowed.

The powerful men in the room did not appear to appreciate their confinement any more than he did. Two wore bored expressions, but the rest were visibly unhappy. Owen counted their expressions and put them on an imaginary scale and weighed the frowns against the scowls.

Florid Face nodded to Owen. "Please begin."

One of the scowling men asked, "Is the earl not to join us, then?"

Florid Face ignored the question and said to Owen, "We took what you said under advisement and decided we should select one member of the House of Lords to be a Parliamentary liaison for the Agency of the Foreign Constabulary. The earl in question doesn't yet wish for his involvement to become public knowledge."

Owen nodded, keeping his thoughts to himself. There was no such thing as a secret in Westminster. Instead, he said, "I'm sure whoever you've selected will do an outstanding job."

The corner of Florid Face's mouth twitched. "Please tell us what you learned."

"My team and I took possession of the package arriving on the
Âne Hurlants
."

"And how exactly did you
take possession
?" That came from one of the scowlers.

"I'm not sure I understand the question." Owen got the distinct impression the entire meeting was designed to be a trap of some sort.

"It's a simple enough question, boy." The speaker, his words dripping with derision, wasn't finished. "Did you tell the captain of the ship you represented the English government and believed something of grave national concern was on his ship? Did you tell him you wished to take possession?"

Owen's mind raced. Why the attack? They knew what he'd gone back to Bristol to do. They'd sanctioned it themselves. "Of course not, my lord. Part of what we are trained to do is be invisible. Going about announcing ourselves would be counterproductive. Wouldn't you agree?"

This time a frowner demanded, "So how did you get the package, then? Did you sneak on board and steal it?"

Florid Face's expression seemed set in stone. He refused to turn and acknowledge the men who spoke up, instead keeping his eyes on Owen, who began to squirm under the weight of what was quickly becoming an inquisition rather than an interview.

Owen cleared his throat. "I will be happy to answer your mission-specific questions once I have finished sharing my findings with you."

The scowler sputtered.

Florid Face's mouth twitched again. "Please, Mr. Loring, tell us what you discovered."

With a nod, Owen picked up the case and placed it on a table between him and the committee. He worked the reluctant latch until it opened. As he lifted the lid, the men in the room gasped.

Owen left the gold in the case but pulled out the documents. "The gold comes with two sets of origination papers. One testifies the gold was discovered in Columbia District." He held up two sheaves of paper. "The other set testifies to the gold's origination in Russian America near the town of Kikiktagruk."

He had no idea whether or not he was correctly pronouncing the town's name. Even his previous service to a Russian prince couldn't help him with this one. The town might be in the Russian territory, but its name wasn't Russian in origin. He was thankful none of the Members of Parliament — scowling or otherwise — knew any better.

"In addition, I have a letter written to Lord Rutherford confirming his suspicion that someone in the British government was to receive this gold as payment for services in swaying any possible treaty with the Americans about the Columbia District. Unfortunately, the documents refer to previous correspondence in which the topic must have been discussed in more detail. From this letter, it's not possible to know whether the person was to be bribed to help the treaty along or to sabotage it. Regardless, someone in the government — perhaps even in Parliament — expected to receive this gold in exchange for making sure Parliament comes to a specific conclusion about the Columbia District."

All but one of the men in the room appeared outraged. Even the two who had previously been bored leaned forward, ire on their faces, a cry for justice on their lips. The calm in the storm — Florid Face himself — asked, "What do you propose we do with this new knowledge?"

That was the part Owen had been dreading. The patriot in him wanted to solve the problem. The long-term thinker, though — the part of him that couldn't help but see beyond this single situation — knew better. "You are the men of Parliament. You are to determine which course the Agency of the Foreign Constabulary will travel." Distaste grew on the men's faces, and Owen doubted it was not for his message, but rather for the gall with which he delivered it.

"The position in which you find yourselves is one of your own choosing." Owen's voice grew in strength. "Your job is to now determine what to do with this intelligence. You must give out assignments and tell people what they must investigate. Shall an agent be dispatched to the colonies to dig for answers? Should people here in London be assigned to ferret out the truth about who was to receive the bribe? This is what you must decide, for that is the role into which you have placed yourselves. I did my duty. I completed the task at hand and delivered the information to you. It is now your duty to determine how to proceed with the knowledge I have brought you."

One of the frowners sputtered into the deafening silence that followed Owen's words. The minute he finally managed to pull his sputters together into words, he demanded, "You would presume to tell us how to fulfill our duty to the Crown?"

Owen bowed his head with deference. "I do no such thing, my lord, and my most sincere apologies if that is how it sounded."

Florid Face turned to his compatriots. "Well? What shall we do, then?"

A different frowner spoke up. "Have you heard from Mendax yet? What does he have to say?"

Mendax? What did he have to do with any of this? Unless he was the earl in question…

Owen hid his smile. Parliament might know him as Rupert Birmingham, Earl of Mendax, but to Owen he had a different name. Jackal, perfect man to lead the agency.

Florid Face gave a single brisk nod. "He has agreed to fulfil the role as requested, but without oversight by this committee."

A volley of derogatory remarks from two of the scowlers.

Owen's fondness for the frowners was growing. Perhaps they frowned so much because they took the proceedings seriously and understood what was at stake. The scowlers, by comparison, seemed hotheaded and short-sighted.

Florid Face held up a hand, and silence fell. "The earl will answer to a committee of three — myself and two other men to be chosen from the group in this room." He glanced over his shoulder at Owen. "Perhaps we should let Mr. Loring go before we begin nominations."

Owen was rooted to the spot. He had the documents to think about, and the case of gold. Those were things he would normally pass on to Tobias. Leaving them with these men filled his midsection with an uncomfortable burning.

Florid Face waved him forward. "Do you not wish to leave, Mr. Loring?"

He bit his lower lip. "Am I to take the case with me or leave it here? And these documents?"

A single nod of acknowledgement. "A gentleman waits outside the door to take the case into his possession. He will deliver it into the appropriate hands."

Owen bit his tongue. Could the man out there be trusted? What about Florid Face? Owen had no choice. He couldn't ask the questions. He'd only moments ago told them he had done his part and now it was their problem. He placed the papers back into the case and worked the still-stubborn latch closed. With practiced ease, he bowed to the men. "Thank you, my lords and gentlemen, for allowing me to speak with you today." Then he lifted the case and walked toward the door.

Florid Face met him, the key already in the keyhole. A whispered, "Well done," reached Owen's ears as he slipped out of the room. He twisted around to look, wondering if he'd heard right, but he was greeted with the solid slab of mahogany that comprised the door. A glance around revealed a number of people walking hither and yon, with one person leaning casually against a wall.

Owen stared for a minute before stepping toward the man. "I find myself at a loss for how I should address you in this particular situation. I've known you by a few names, but I must admit 'my lord' may not tumble gracefully from my lips."

Rupert straightened his cravat, gripped his cane, and headed deeper into the labyrinth of Westminster Hall. "Come."

With the case tucked under his arm, Owen strolled beside one of the few men of the
ton
whom he trusted. A good while later, they arrived at a door. Rupert unlocked it and stepped through. He motioned toward a desk. "Put the case there."

Once Owen had done that, his old friend said in a discreet voice, "I have but a minute. In these halls I wear the mantle of the Earl of Mendax. It's not of my choosing, but at this time it seems to be to our advantage. I've been asked to oversee the work of the Agency, and I've accepted the charge. We cannot be friends here. Duty forbids it. When I have the honor of greeting you in the privacy of my own home, it can be different."

"I thought you retired."

A half smile tugged at Rupert's lips. "My wife encouraged me to reconsider."

Owen nodded, not at all surprised. "Where do I report for my next assignment?"

"Tobias, same as always. He and the two other divisional heads will report to me, and I will facilitate communication between them. I believe we can salvage the work we do and prove its worth to Parliament. Now you must leave. If you're in here for too long, word will get back and my loyalties will be questioned."

"You play a dangerous game, then?"

Rupert nodded. "Parliament has a traitor. Someone was supposed to receive that gold, and there's a good chance whoever it was is going to end up on the committee I'll be reporting to. Government is tricky, and trust is fluid here. I will play my part, but I will do so with care."

"That explains the animosity."

Rupert's eyebrow lifted.

"They were eager to find fault with everything I did."

"It's to be expected," Rupert said with a half-nod. "They've been slow to understand the import of what they did when they abolished the War Department. Add to that the threat of another possible traitor in Parliament when the minister's grave has barely cooled. As threatened as they feel right now, you're lucky they didn't tear you limb from limb."

What Rupert said made sense, but Owen still tugged at his cravat as he moved toward the door. He would not be volunteering to appear before another Parliament committee any time soon. Owen opened it the barest of distance as he nodded farewell to his friend. "Very well, my lord. And best wishes to you in your new endeavor." Then he stepped through the door and closed it smartly behind him.