Stephanie Laurens - A Gentleman's Honor

“I don’t know exactly what will happen, or when.” Tony met the boys’ eyes, then glanced briefly at Adriana.

“It’s possible nothing at all might occur—we might catch whoever it is before he takes the next step.”

He didn’t believe that for a moment; Alicia’s slight frown suggested she didn’t either.

Returning his attention to the boys, he reiterated, “But you can’t be too careful—I want you all to be on guard, and not panic if there is some development. I, and others, won’t be far away.”

The boys, eyes wide, nodded solemnly.

Jenkins came in at that moment; Alicia forced a smile and spoke with him regarding the boys’ lessons, then looked at her brothers. “Up you go.”

Tony reinforced her command with a look. The boys finished their milk; he inclined his head as they bobbed bows before taking themselves off.

Letting his gaze drift past Adriana, he looked at Alicia. “If I could speak with you for a moment?”

She blinked, glanced at Adriana, and rose. “Yes, of course. If you’ll come into the drawing room?”

Rising, he took his leave of Adriana, who seemed totally at ease over his unorthodox presence, then followed her across the front hall. She paused by the drawing room door; he waved her in and followed, closing the door behind them.

She stopped and faced him; halting before her, he met her gaze. “Regardless of what I just said, I fully expect something to happen.” He grimaced, let her see his unease. “I just don’t know what, or exactly when.”

She studied his face, then said, “Thank you for speaking with them. We’ll be on guard now.”

“My men outside gave me a decent description of this clerk, but there must be thousands like him in London—I don’t expect to be able to trace him, let alone his employer.” He paused, wondered if she’d see his next maneuver for the revelation it was—decided he didn’t care.

“With your leave, I’ll send another footman—he’ll arrive within the hour. Maggs tells me there’s room in the attics—I want him—Maggs—free to follow any other strange visitors who come to call.”

She blinked. A frown grew in her eyes. “We have Jenkins. I’m sure he can cope—”

“Your brothers.” Ruthlessly he fell back on the one argument he knew would overcome her resistance. “I’d rather Jenkins concentrated on keeping watch over them, and I don’t want you and Adriana left without some degree of male support.”

She held his gaze, evaluating, realizing he’d left her no option. Her lips tightened, but only fractionally. “Very well. If you truly think it necessary.”

“I do.” Absolutely, definitely necessary; if he thought he could get her to agree, he’d have half a dozen men about her. “I’ll be staying in London—Gervase should be back from Devon, and with luck Jack Hendon might have something to report.”

“If you learn anything, you will send word, won’t you?”

He smiled, a flash of teeth and resolution. “I’ll bring any news myself.” He studied her eyes. “If anything happens, Scully, the new footman, or Maggs, will get word to those watching—they’ll find me. I’ll come as soon as I can.”

For an instant, her expression remained serious, sober, the reality of the threat, the potential but unknown difficulty she and her family might have to face—that he and she both felt sure they would face—dulling the gold and green, then a smile softened her eyes. “Thank you.” Putting a reassuring hand on his arm, she held his gaze. “We’ll manage.”

Her “we” included him; that was clear in her eyes, in her inclusive smile.

His expression eased. He hesitated, then bent his head. Cradling her face in one palm, he kissed her, briefly yet… the link between them was now so strong, even that brief caress communicated volumes.

Raising his head, he stepped back. Saluted her. “Au revoir.”

Tony returned to Upper Brook Street to discover messages from Jack Hendon and Gervase Tregarth awaiting him. Both expected to have firm information by noon; Gervase suggested they meet at the Bastion Club. Tony sat at his desk and dashed off a note to Jack, giving him directions and a brief explanation—enough to whet his appetite.

After that he sat and mentally reviewed all he knew thus far. Action was clearly imminent; why plant incriminating evidence if not to expose it? How, by whom, and precisely when he didn’t know, but he could and did clear everything on his desk, all matters that might need his attention over the next few days.

Summoning Hungerford, he gave orders that would ensure, not only that his houses and estate would continue on an even keel were he to be otherwise engaged for a week or so, but also that the various members of his extended staff, some of whom did not fit any common description, were apprised of his intentions, and thus would hold themselves ready to act on whatever orders he flung their way.

At a quarter to twelve, he headed for the Bastion Club.

Climbing the stairs to the first floor, he heard Jack, already in the meeting room, questioning, clearly intrigued by the club and its genesis. He pricked up his ears as other voices answered—Christian, Charles, and Tristan were there, regaling Jack with the benefits of the club, especially as applied to unmarried gentlemen of their ilk.

“I’m already leg-shackled,” Jack confessed, as Tony appeared in the doorway.

“To a spitfire, what’s more.” Tony entered, smiling.

Jack raised his wineglass. “I’ll tell her you said that.”

“Do.” Unperturbed, Tony took a seat opposite and grinned at Jack. “She’ll forgive me.”

Jack mock-scowled. “I’m not so silly as to encourage her.”

Quick footsteps on the stairs heralded Gervase. He strode in quickly, brown curls windblown, the light of the hunt in his eyes. Every man about the table recognized the signs.

Christian, Charles, and Tristan exchanged glances. Christian made as if to rise. “We’ll leave you…”

Tony waved him back. “If you have the time, I’d value any insight you might have on these matters. For our sins, we’re all sufficiently connected with Dalziel, and Jack worked for Whitley.”

Gervase drew out a chair and sat. “Right, then.” He looked at Tony. “Who do you want to hear from first?”

“Jack’s been checking the specific ships.” Tony looked across the table. “Let’s start there.”

Jack nodded. “I concentrated on the sixteen vessels listed in Ruskin’s notes that we know were taken. Thus far, I’ve only been able to get a general picture of their cargoes—asking too many specific questions would attract too much interest.”

“Were they carrying anything in common?” Christian asked.

“Yes, and no. I’ve got word on six of the sixteen, and each was carrying general cargo—furniture, foodstuffs, raw products. No evidence of any peculiar item common to all ships.”

“Six,” Tony mused. “If there’s nothing in common between six, then chances are that’s not the distinguishing factor.”

Jack hesitated, then went on, “All the ships are still registered—there’s no hint of any insurance fraud. On top of that, all the ships I’ve got information on were owned by various lines, their cargoes by a variety of merchants. There’s no common link.”

Tony frowned. “But if you think of what’s lost when a ship is taken as a prize, rather than sunk…” He met Jack’s eyes. “The lines buy back their ships—it’s the cargo that’s lost irretrievably.”

“To this side of the Channel.” Charles looked at Jack.

“But aren’t cargoes insured?”

His gaze locked with Tony’s, Jack shook his head. “Not in such circumstances. Cargoes are insured against loss through the vessel being lost, but they aren’t covered if the goods are seized during wartime.”