Revealed (13 page)

Marcus really did not have time to pause or patience to discuss the necessities of quill and ink, and so instead, pointing to Sterling’s door, said, “Is he in?”

“Yes, he is,” Leslie replied, as he sorted Sterling’s correspondence into piles. “Now, if you are going to exceed two jars of ink a month, please fill out a request for more, don’t just take another pot from the stores. I don’t care that you need it, I just need to know who’s taken it—”

“I put in that request three days ago, Leslie. Now, is he alone?” Marcus interrupted, again indicating Sterling’s office.

“He went in alone,” Leslie replied and, unable to be deterred from his intended subject, continued, “and if you put in that requisition, I have not received it. Also, your desk. May I please request that you attempt to maintain some standard of organization—”

“No.” Marcus said abruptly.

“No?” Leslie squeaked.

“We’ve been over this, Leslie. It is in order—my order. And in this manner I can tell if anyone has been rifling my desk.”

“Oh,” Leslie replied, obviously thinking over messiness as a security measure. “But everyone else—my word!”

Unfortunately for Leslie, Marcus had finished the conversation. Feeling his business with Fieldstone to be of the utmost urgency, Marcus discovered he had the capacity to knock Leslie rudely to one side and barge through the section chief’s door. And as such, he did so.

Closing the door behind him and lowering its shades, Marcus had barely turned around as he said, “Sir, I need to speak with the director—on personal business.”

Sterling sat behind his wide desk, a cigar poised at his lips. At one time, Sterling was likely a trim, athletic man with a healthy tan and a full head of hair, but a decade inside this building and a fondness for his cook’s rich dinners and a brandy afterwards had left him doughy, balding, and in the middle of his life. Now he wore a startled expression as he blinked at Marcus, before laying the cigar down in the tray before him.

Folding his hands over his growing stomach, Sterling spoke. “What personal business?”

“Yes, what personal business?” came a voice from Marcus’s behind left.

Turning, and admonishing himself for not checking his corners (where had his battle-readiness gone?) Marcus laid eyes on Lord Fieldstone, squeezed into a deep leather chair in the corner, companionably puffing on a cigar.

“Oh, sir—as I said, it’s—it’s personal.” Marcus stammered. Both men kept their seats, eagerly looking to Marcus in anticipation. “I . . . I found a vase. I think it must be ancient, and since you are such an avid collector . . .” He hoped his lie did not sound so implausible. But the skeptical look he received from Sterling told him otherwise.

Fieldstone, however, raised an eyebrow. “Did you bring it with you? I could take a look, if you like.”

“Uh, no. It’s still at the shop. Are you free? Perhaps you could accompany me. The shop’s purveyor is, I fear, trying to get more than it’s worth.”

“Worth.” Sterling’s voice came from between cigar puffs. “Do you expect me to believe you barreled Leslie over for a vase?” He looked genuinely saddened as he said, “You’re chasing a new theory, aren’t you?”

Marcus’s eyes flicked to Fieldstone in the corner, who sighed and shook his head. “I simply asked Sterling here for his opinion on how his section had transitioned from wartime to peace. He’s been most enlightening.”

“You’re not the only one who boxes at shadows,” Sterling said with grave sincerity, “but you certainly do so more than most.”

At Fieldstone’s questioning look, Sterling continued. “There was an incident at Vauxhall in the fall—also the demand for extra plainclothesmen to patrol the docks in February. Hell, just last month, you took an old woman into custody because you mistook her for a Frenchman in disguise!”

“I had reason to suspect that a ship bearing French enemies was going to dock in February, and to be fair, that old woman
was
a Frenchman in disguise.” Marcus replied, holding his posture at attention.

“Monsieur Valéry was going to a fancy dress ball as one of Macbeth’s witches, and that’s besides the point,” Sterling replied. “Worth, we don’t have French enemies anymore! You cannot go through life always suspicious.”

Marcus knew he had to hold his ground, even as he felt it slipping out from under him.

“Sir, I must remind you that I am paid to be suspicious; and previous incidents aside, this time, the threat is very real. I just came from my informant, who—”

“Oh? What is the threat?” Sterling asked. “Who is the threat toward? How do they plan to carry out their deeds?”

“I . . . I do not yet know, sir, but I—”

“Damn it, Worth!” Fieldstone stood up from his chair. “You can’t expect action on so little information.” Then he paused, flicked a glance to Sterling. “The desk—it doesn’t suit you anymore, does it? Maybe it never did.”

Having received the silent message from Fieldstone, Sterling stood and moved to the door, saying nothing, leaving them alone. After the door closed behind him, Fieldstone said in solemn tones, “I’ll make certain you get your full pension.”

Marcus felt himself go very pale, then flushed with checked fury. But he kept his voice and his temper under control.

“Sir. My contact is dead. His throat slit.” He handed Fieldstone a card. “This is the constable who took the report.” And then, leaning close, his voice low, his back straight, his eyes locked with the Lord Fieldstone’s, “The list came from this very section.”

“Because the ink was the same? The drop of wax?” Fieldstone whispered, his expression sad. “Or do you suspect your coworkers because they have blithely disregarded you?”

“Sir, I—” Marcus tried, but Fieldstone held up a hand.

“It has to be very aggravating, not being believed, time and again. It makes trust difficult, and unfortunately here, trust is necessary.”

“What are you saying?” he asked warily.

“You no longer trust anyone, and they in turn will not trust you.” Fieldstone replied in hushed tones. “The Blue Raven is retired. Perhaps Marcus Worth should retire as well.”

There was nothing more to be said. Marcus, too shocked to feel other than numb, clicked his heels, bowed sharply to Fieldstone, and opened the door.

There, Sterling very nonchalantly stood very close to the doorjamb, obviously trying desperately to not look like he was listening.

Marcus refused to meet eyes with Sterling or Leslie, who had just come in from the hall, or any of the other men diligently doing nothing at their desks, as he passed them and turned out of the Security office’s door.

Did everyone think him gone round the bend? He passed Crawley in the hall and caught his eye. Crawley, always one of the more logical if mundane members of the section, looked away sheepishly, confirming that it was known what would happen today.

Marcus wanted to scream. It was true what Fieldstone had said; the war had been hard on him. But he knew for a fact it had been harder on others. He was too used to being suspicious—and had been embarrassed by it in the past—to not acknowledge that it could color his judgment.

But he knew in his gut he was right.

Shaking with rage as he exited Whitehall, Marcus surveyed his options. There were few people left to trust, even fewer resources available to him. The desk no longer suited him. Perhaps it never had, really.

It had begun to rain, a soft drizzle that coated London in gray. People on the street shrugged deeper into their greatcoats, huddled in packs underneath frail parasols meant for sunshine but suddenly tested to prove their mettle. They congregated under eaves and awnings, waiting for this slightest of inconveniences to pass. Suddenly, the soft gray drizzle opened up to a punishing downpour. People ducked into open buildings or dodged their way to the street to hail an available hack but never finding one.

Marcus let the rain pound down on him, wash over him, clean his mind. With Johnny Dicks dead, Marcus couldn’t track the man from whom Dicks had stolen the list. Dicks’s friend had disappeared, too, likely dead, in his estimation. Without Fieldstone’s trust and assistance, he could not investigate anyone from his department. Make that former department.

He had to find proof, to get Fieldstone to listen to him.

He briefly considered consulting his brother, but he rejected the idea immediately. It would kill him, Marcus knew, to find that the whole Blue Raven mess had started up again. Best to endanger as few people as possible.

A sudden flash entered his mind: a lithe body, pressing up against him in a most delightful manner. Shining hair, angelically golden in the moonlight. Lush lips, parting and offering him a deal with the devil.

Marcus shook his head. He’d be damned if he took Phillippa Benning up on her insane proposal. He’d be exposing himself to extreme scrutiny, not to mention involving her in a business far more dangerous than a dizzy social butterfly could possibly imagine or he could hope she’d take seriously. If he told Phillippa Benning the extent of what he suspected, she’d probably gossip about it over tea, like it was the plot of her latest favorite novel, and then go purchase a new bonnet.

But worse than that, she was an innocent in this business. She could get hurt.

No, he thought, plodding along in the downpour, he would have to try a new tack. Go back to the East End, see if he could track Johnny Dicks’s last days, see where his path crossed with anyone from the Security section or with the Frenchman.

The ghost.

Dicks told him what the Frenchy had said about a pigeon when he exited the Bull and Whisker, and it was a bucket of cold water to his face.

The sudden heavy downpour let up just as abruptly as it had begun, the clouds parted, and suddenly sunlight shone on the wet cobblestones, making the city seem fresh-scrubbed and clean. Marcus rounded the corner, crossing the invisible line into Mayfair, and was immediately surrounded by that world of fashion and sophistication that Phillippa Benning existed in. The world that would flock to those events on the list.

Marcus did a quick mental check. The first event on the list, the Whitford Banquet, was four days away.

He would retrace Johnny Dicks’s steps. He would find some way into the Whitford Banquet. He would hunt the ghost. He would
not
take up Phillippa Benning on her devil’s deal.

Because it was dangerous. Because it was lunacy.

Certainly not because that devil was far too tempting for his peace of mind.

“
I
T’S going to a fabulous affair, Nora, don’t doubt it.” Phillippa
I
said airily, as she paraded down Bond Street in her new plum-colored walking costume, with lavender suede gloves and a silk bonnet. Bitsy panted, companionably held in the crook of Phillippa’s arm. Totty, on her other side, blinked blearily into the afternoon sun, flushed from the exertion of following Phillippa from store to store to store to . . . the entire length of Bond Street, New and Old.

“I would never doubt it!” Nora exclaimed, hurrying to soothe any feathers she may have ruffled. “But did not Lady Cambridge give a party with a similar cloak-and-dagger theme during the little season?”

“Hah!” Totty guffawed. “Not one the likes of which Phillippa is going to have! Lady Cambridge will find herself shamefaced for even attempting to throw an event similar to, albeit before, the Benning Ball.”

Phillippa blinked a moment, for Totty had not strung such a number of words together all afternoon, but it looked like the afternoon’s exercise was doing some good, leaching out last night’s excess. “Quite,” she finally replied, taking Totty’s arm and smiling at that good lady. Far be it from her to admit it out loud, but she had a decided fondness for her companion, even more so when she trudged half of London with her, her complaining moderate, as they searched for the perfect color table linens for her ball.

“Totty is correct, Nora; no one is going to remember Lady Cambridge’s little ball after they see mine.”

And indeed, if she managed to get the ingredients she required, it would be The Event of the Season. Unfortunately, her last encounter with Mr. Marcus Worth, the man who was to be the centerpiece of the affair, did not go as well as hoped, but that did not give Phillippa cause to abandon it. Men tended to come around to her way of thinking.

Pausing in front of the next shop’s windows, which featured bolts of fabric in every available hue, Phillippa’s mind turned to the details of that last encounter with Mr. Worth.

He had kissed her. Really kissed her. To be fair, men had tried in the past to steal kisses from her, and occasionally she allowed them to succeed. And when she did engage in that intimate contact of lips that the opposite sex seemed to enjoy so much, Phillippa was always the one who had control of the situation. Her husband, Alistair, used to write passable poetry about plucking down the moon for a kiss from her lips. She’d suspected he cribbed from Shakespeare. And Broughton seemed ready to dance attendance on her for the mere possibility of where a kiss could lead.

But when Mr. Worth was involved, it seemed she had no control whatsoever.

There had been a moment—nay, a full minute—when it was she who was kissing him. He had set off a spark of intensity in the deep center of her being that caused her to veritably
nestle
into his embrace. That is, if he
had
embraced her. Phillippa had the blush-inducing memory of being the one to embrace him.

She could have turned that to her advantage, of course. She could have used what she’d felt, and was certain he must have felt, too—after all, he did initiate the encounter—to get him to do as she bade, allow her to continue with her schemes for the Benning Ball, assured of his cooperation.

But instead, she’d slapped him.

Which, when looked at objectively, was actually his fault. If he hadn’t, er, stirred her, she would not have been so unsettled as to forget herself and turn back into offended prim propriety.