The Lady Chosen

  Jeremy was the hardest to easily disguise; his slender length and clear-cut, well-defined features screamed “well-bred.” In the end, Tristan took him with him back to Green Street. They returned half an hour later as two rough-looking navvies; Leonora had to look twice before she recognized her brother.

  He grinned. “This is almost worth being locked in the closet.”

  Tristan frowned at him. “This is no joke.”

  “No. Of course not.” Jeremy tried to look suitably chastened, and failed miserably.

  They bade Jonathon, unhappy but resigned to missing out on all the fun, farewell, promising to tell him all when they returned, then went to the club to check on Charles and Duke.

  Duke was exceedingly nervous, but Charles had him in hand. They each had defined roles to play; Duke knew his—had had it explained to him in painstaking detail—but even more important, he’d been told very clearly what Charles’s role was. They were all sure that come what may, knowing what Charles would do if he didn’t behave as instructed would be enough to ensure Duke’s continued cooperation.

  Charles and Duke would be the last to leave for St. James’s Park. The meeting was scheduled for three o’clock, close by Queen Anne’s Gate. It was just after two when Tristan handed Leonora into a hackney, waved Jeremy in, then followed.

  They left the hackney at the nearer end of the park. As they strolled onto the lawns, they separated, Tristan going ahead, striding easily, stopping now and then as if looking for a friend. Leonora followed a few yards behind, an empty trug hung over her arm—a flowerseller heading home at the end of a good day. Behind her, Jeremy slouched along, apparently sulking to himself and paying little attention to anyone.

  Eventually Tristan reached the entrance known as Queen Anne’s Gate. He slouched against the bole of a nearby tree and settled somewhat grumpily to wait. As per his instructions, Leonora angled deeper into the park. A wrought-iron bench sat beside the path wending in from Queen Anne’s Gate; she sank onto it, stretched her legs out before her, balancing the empty trug against them, and fixed her gaze on the vista before her, of the treed lawns leading down to the lake.

  On the next wrought-iron bench along the path sat an old, white-haired man weighed down by a veritable mountain of mismatched coats and scarves. Humphrey. Closer to the lake, but in line with the gate, Leonora could just see the old plaid cap Deverell had pulled low over his face; he was slumped down against the trunk of a tree, apparently asleep.

  Without seeming to notice anyone, Jeremy slouched past; he made his way out of the gate, crossed the road, then stopped to peer into the window of a tailor’s shop.

  Leonora swung her legs and her trug slightly, and wondered how long they would have to wait.

  It was a fine day, not sunny, but pleasant enough for there to be many others loitering, enjoying the lawns and the lake. Enough, at least, for their little band to be entirely unremarkable.

  Duke had been able to describe his foreigner in only the most cursory terms; as Tristan had somewhat acidly commented, the majority of foreign gentlemen of Germanic extraction presently in London would fit his bill. Nevertheless, Leonora kept her eyes wide, scanning the strollers who passed before her, as an idle flowerseller with no more work for the day might do.

  She saw a gentleman coming along the path from the direction of the lake. He was fastidiously turned out in a grey suit; he wore a grey hat and carried a cane, held rigidly in one hand. There was something about him that caught her eye, tweaked her memory, something odd about the way he moved…then she recalled Duke’s landlady’s description of his foreign visitor. A poker strapped to his spine.

  This had to be their man.

  He passed by her, then stepped to the verge, just short of where Tristan lounged, his gaze fixed on the gate, one hand tapping his thigh impatiently. The man pulled out his watch, checked it.

  Leonora stared at Tristan; she was sure he hadn’t seen the man. Angling her head as if she’d just noticed him, she paused as if debating with herself, then rose and sauntered, hips swinging in time with her trug, to his side.

  He glanced at her, straightened as she came up beside him.

  His gaze flicked beyond her, noted the man, then returned to her face.

  She smiled, nudged him with her shoulder, angling closer, doing her best to mimic the encounters she’d occasionally witnessed in the park. “Pretend I’m suggesting a little dalliance to enliven the day.”

  He grinned at her, slowly, showing his teeth, but his eyes remained cold. “What do you think you’re doing?”

  “That’s the man over there, and any minute Duke and Charles will arrive. I’m giving us a perfectly reasonable reason for following the man when he leaves, together.”

  His lips remained curved; he slid one arm about her waist and pulled her closer, bending his head to whisper in her ear, “You are not coming with me.”

  She smiled into his eyes, patted his chest. “Unless the man goes into the stews, and that hardly seems likely, I am.”

  He narrowed his eyes at her; she smiled more brightly, but met his gaze directly. “I’ve been a part of this drama from the beginning. I think I should be a part of its end.”

  The words gave Tristan pause. And then fate stepped in and took the decision from him.

  The bell towers of London’s churches tolled the hour—three clangs, echoed and repeated in multiple keys—and Duke came striding swiftly along the pavement and turned in at Queen Anne’s Gate.

  Charles, in the guise of a tavern brawler, came sauntering along a little way behind, timing his approach.

  Duke halted, saw his man, and marched toward him. He looked neither right nor left; Tristan suspected Charles had drilled him until he was so focused on what he had to do, so desperate to get it right, that paying attention to anything else was presently beyond him.

  The wind was in the right quarter; it wafted Duke’s words to them.

  “Do you have my vowels?”

  The demand took the foreigner aback, but he recovered swiftly. “I might have. Have you got the formula?”

  “I know where it is, and can get it for you in less than a minute, if you have my vowels to give me in return.”

  Through narrowing eyes, the foreign gentleman searched Duke’s pale face, then he shrugged, and reached into his coat pocket.

  Tristan tensed, saw Charles lengthen his stride; they both relaxed a fraction when the man drew out a small packet of papers.

  He held them up for Duke to see. “Now,” he said, his voice cold and crisply accented, “the formula, if you please.”

  Charles, until then apparently about to stroll past, changed direction and with one step joined the pair. “I have it here.”

  The foreigner started. Charles grinned, wholly evil. “Don’t mind me—I’m just here to make sure my friend Mr. Martinbury comes to no harm. So”—he nodded at the papers, glanced at Duke—“they all there then?”

  Duke reached for the vowels.

  The foreigner drew them back. “The formula?”

  With a sigh, Charles pulled out the copy of the altered formula Humphrey and Jeremy had prepared and made to look suitably aged. He unfolded it, held it up where the foreigner could see it but not quite read it. “Why don’t I just hold it here, then as soon as Martinbury has checked over his vowels, you can have it.”

  The foreigner was clearly unhappy, but had little choice; Charles was intimidating enough in civilized garb—in his present guise, he exuded aggression.

  Duke took the vowels, quickly checked, then looked at Charles and nodded. “Yes.” His voice was weak. “They’re all here.”

  “Right then.” With a nasty grin, Charles handed the formula to the foreigner.

  He seized it, pored over it. “This is the right formula?”

  “That’s what you wanted—that’s what you’ve got. Now,” Charles continued, “if you’re done, my friend and I have other business to see to.”

  He saluted the foreigner, a parody of a gestur
e; taking Duke’s arm, he turned. They marched straight out of the gate. Charles hailed a hackney, bundled a now trembling Duke in, and climbed in after him.

  Tristan watched the carriage rumble off. The foreigner looked up, watched it go, then carefully, almost reverently, folded the formula and slipped it into his inner coat pocket. That done, he adjusted his grip on his cane, straightened his back, pivoted on his heel, and walked stiffly back toward the lake.

  “Come on.” His arm around Leonora, Tristan straightened away from the tree and started off in the man’s wake.

  They passed Humphrey; he didn’t look up but Tristan saw that he’d produced a sketch pad and pencil and was rapidly drawing, a somewhat incongruous sight.

  The foreigner didn’t look back; he seemed to have swallowed their little charade. They’d hoped he would head straight back to his office rather than into any of the less salubrious areas not far from the park. The direction he was taking looked promising. Most of the foreign embassies were located in the area north of St. James’s Park, in the vicinity of St. James’s Palace.

  Tristan released Leonora, then took her hand, glanced down at her. “We’re out for a night of entertainment—we’ve decided to look in at one of the halls around Piccadilly.”

  She opened her eyes wide. “I’ve never been to one—I take it I should treat the prospect with enthusiam?”

  “Precisely.” He couldn’t help but grin at her delight—nothing to do with any music hall but the result of pure excitement.

  They passed Deverell, who’d got to his feet and was brushing himself down preparatory to joining them in following their quarry.

  Tristan was an expert at trailing people through cities and crowds; so, too, was Deverell. They’d both worked primarily in the larger French cities; the best methods of the chase were second nature.

  Jeremy would collect Humphrey and they’d return to Montrose Place to await developments; Charles would be there ahead of them with Duke. It was Charles’s job to hold the fort until they returned with the last, vital piece of information.

  Their quarry crossed the bridge over the lake and continued on toward the environs of St. James’s Palace.

  “Follow my lead in all things,” Tristan murmured, his eyes on the man’s back.

  Just as he’d expected, the man paused just before the gate leading out of the park and bent down as if to ease a stone from his shoe.

  Sliding his arm around Leonora, Tristan tickled her; she giggled, squirmed. Laughing, he settled her familiarly against him, and continued straight past the man without so much as a look.

  Breathless, Leonora leaned close as they continued on. “Was he checking?”

  “Yes. We’ll stop a little way along and argue about which way to go so he can pass us again.”

  They did; Leonora thought they put on a creditable performance of a pair of lower-class lovers debating the merits of music halls.

  When the man was once more ahead of them, striding along, Tristan grasped her hand, and they followed, now rather more briskly as if they’d made up their minds.

  The area surrounding St. James’s Palace was riddled with tiny lanes and interconnecting alleyways and yards. The man turned into the labyrinth, striding along confidently.

  “This won’t work. Let’s leave him to Deverell and go on to Pall Mall. We’ll pick him up there.”

  Leonora felt a certain wrench as they left the man’s trail, continuing straight on where he had turned left. A few houses along, she glanced back, and saw Deverell turn off in the man’s wake.

  They reached Pall Mall and turned left, ambling very slowly, scanning the openings of the lanes ahead. They didn’t have long to wait before their quarry emerged, striding along even more quickly.

  “He’s in a hurry.”

  “He’s excited,” she said, and felt certain it was true.

  “Perhaps.”

  Tristan led her on; they switched with Deverell again in the streets south of Piccadilly, then joined the crowds enjoying an evening stroll along that major thoroughfare.

  “This is where we might lose him. Keep your eyes peeled.”

  She did, scanning the throng bustling along in the fine evening.

  “There’s Deverell.” Tristan stopped, nudged her so she looked in the right direction. Deverell had just stepped into Pall Mall; he was looking about him. “Damn!” Tristan straightened. “We’ve lost him.” He started openly searching the crowds before them. “Where the devil did he go?”

  Leonora stepped closer to the buildings, looked along the narrow gap the crowds left. She caught a flash of grey, then it was gone.

  “There!” She grabbed Tristan’s arm, pointed ahead. “Two streets up.”

  They pushed through, tacked, ran—reached the corner and rounded it, then slowed.

  Their quarry—she hadn’t been wrong—was almost at the end of the short street.

  They hurried along, then the man turned right and disappeared from view. Tristan signaled to Deverell, who started running along the street after the man. “Down the alley.” Tristan pushed her toward the mouth of a narrow lane.

  It cut straight across to the next street running parallel to the one they’d been on. They hurried along it, Tristan gripping her hand, steadying her when she slipped.

  They reached the other street and turned up it, strolling once more, catching their breaths. The opening where the street the man had turned down joined the one they were now on lay ahead to their left; they watched it as they walked, waiting for him to reappear.

  He didn’t.

  They reached the corner and looked down the short street. Deverell stood leaning against a railing at the other end.

  Of the man they’d been following there was absolutely no sign.

  Deverell pushed away from the railing and walked toward them; it only took a few minutes for him to reach them.

  He looked grim. “He’d disappeared by the time I got here.”

  Leonora sagged. “So it’s a dead end—we’ve lost him.”

  “No,” Tristan said. “Not quite. Wait here.”

  He left her with Deverell and crossed the road to where a streetsweeper stood leaning on his broom midway down the short street. Reaching under his scruffy coat, Tristan located a sovereign; he held it between his fingers where the sweeper could see it as he lounged on the rails beside him.

  “The gent in grey who went into the house across the way. Know his name?”

  The sweep eyed him suspiciously, but the glimmer of gold spoke loudly. “Don’t rightly know his name. Stiff-rumped sort he is. ’Ave ’eard the doorman call him Count something-unpronounceable-beginning-wif-an-eff.”

  Tristan nodded. “That’ll do.” He dropped the coin into the sweep’s palm.

  Strolling back to Leonora and Deverell, he made no effort to keep his self-satisfied smile from his lips.

  “Well?” Predictably, it was the light of his life who prompted him.

  He grinned. “The man in grey is known to the doorman of the house in the middle of the row as ‘Count something-unpronounceable-beginning-wif-an-eff.’”

  Leonora frowned at him, then looked past him at the house in question. Then she narrowed her eyes at him. “And?”

  His smile broadened; it felt amazingly good. “The house is Hapsburg House.”

  At seven o’clock that evening, Tristan ushered Leonora into the anteroom of Dalziel’s office, secreted in the depths of Whitehall.

  “Let’s see how long he keeps us waiting.”

  Leonora settled her skirts on the wooden bench Tristan had handed her to. “I would have assumed he’d be punctual.”

  Sitting beside her, Tristan smiled wryly. “Nothing to do with punctuality.”

  She studied his face. “Ah. One of those strange games men play.”

  He said nothing, simply smiled and leaned back.

  They only had to wait five minutes.

  The door opened; a darkly elegant man appeared. He saw them. A momentary hiatus ensued, then,
with a graceful gesture, he invited them in.

  Tristan rose, drawing her to her feet beside him, setting her hand on his sleeve. He led her in, halting before the desk and the chairs set before it.

  After closing the door, Dalziel joined them. “Miss Carling, I presume.”

  “Indeed.” She gave him her hand, met his gaze—as penetrating as Tristan’s—coolly. “I’m pleased to make your acquaintance.”

  Dalziel’s gaze flicked to Tristan’s face; his thin lips were not quite straight when he inclined his head and waved them to the chairs.

  Rounding the desk, he sat. “So—who was behind the incidents in Montrose Place?”

  “A Count something-unpronounceable-beginning-wif-an-eff.”

  Unimpressed, Dalziel raised his brows.

  Tristan smiled his chilly smile. “The Count is known at Hapsburg House.”

  “Ah.”

  “And—” From his pocket, Tristan withdrew the sketch Humphrey had, to everyone’s surprise, made of the Count. “This should help in identifying him—it’s a remarkable likeness.”

  Dalziel took it, studied it, then nodded. “Excellent. And he accepted the false formula?”

  “As far as we could tell. He handed over Martinbury’s vowels in exchange.”

  “Good. And Martinbury is on his way north?”

  “Not yet, but he will be. He appears genuinely appalled by his cousin’s injuries and will escort him back to York once he—Jonathon—is fit enough to travel. Until then, they’ll remain at our club.”

  “And St. Austell and Deverell?”

  “Both have been neglecting their own affairs. Pressing matters necessitated their return to their own hearths.”

  “Indeed?” One laconic brow rose, then Dalziel turned his dark gaze on Leonora. “I’ve made inquiries among government ranks, and there’s considerable interest in your late cousin’s formula, Miss Carling. I’ve been asked to inform your uncle that certain gentlemen would like to call on him at his earliest convenience. It would, of course, be helpful if their visit could take place before the Martinburys leave London.”

  She inclined her head. “I’ll convey that message to my uncle. Perhaps your gentlemen could send a messenger tomorrow to set a time?”