The middle-aged man—tending to portly, brown-haired, brown-eyed, the sort of man who would pass largely unremarked by most—had caught Christopher’s eye and opined, “I don’t think that’s at all likely, any more than you do, but we all know better than to waste breath arguing with Powell, especially not when he’s got Castlereagh behind him.”
Fredericks had handed Christopher a glass of whiskey. “You’ve grown too damned valuable to the firm, my friend. In the circumstances, they’re not going to let you venture anywhere without protection.”
Christopher had snorted and downed the whiskey. He’d savored the glow, then asked, “Have you given Drummond the description of the man you saw?”
Fredericks had nodded. “I’d swear he has a military background, possibly even still serving, but beyond the word of the street sweeper, I don’t know that he was French.”
“Was the boy sure it was French the fellow muttered and not some other language?” Drummond had raised the glass he’d held and sipped.
“He was. Apparently, there are émigrés living near the boy’s home, and he’s familiar with the language—enough to be sure.”
“Well”—Christopher had carefully set down his glass on a side table—“all we can do is keep our eyes peeled for the man, but if by chance he does follow us into the country, it sounds as if he’ll stand out like the proverbial sore thumb.”
With nothing more to be said, Christopher had informed Drummond of the hour at which he wished to depart, causing Drummond to shudder, but he hadn’t otherwise complained. Adhering to his orders, Christopher hadn’t mentioned where he intended to go, and neither Fredericks nor Drummond had asked. The three of them had retired to their beds, with Drummond taking the spare room Christopher kept prepared to accommodate Foreign Office agents on temporary furlough, those he and Fredericks knew.
Now, Christopher reached the curricle and climbed to the seat, then accepted the reins from Drummond. He waited until the heavy man had hauled himself up to the perch behind the seat, then flicked the reins, setting the blacks trotting.
With London still slumbering, they made good time to Vauxhall Bridge. After clattering across, Christopher turned his horses’ heads sharply right and sent them pacing smartly down the Wandsworth Road. The day looked set to be overcast, with gray clouds obliterating any hint of blue, but there was no scent of rain on the nevertheless chilly breeze.
Finally, Drummond stirred and asked, “So where are we headed, then?”
“To my mother’s dower house in a tiny village by the name of Little Moseley, by way of Guildford, Winchester, and Romsey.” After a moment, Christopher added, “I didn’t see anyone watching us or even taking note of our passing.”
“No more did I,” Drummond rumbled. “No doubt everyone who can is still sleeping.”
Christopher grinned at Drummond’s aggrieved tone; clearly, the man was not an early riser.
“He’s what?” Stunned, Marion stared at Gordon Carter, a friend of her brother’s she’d persuaded to help her.
A sharp breeze flicked the dangling ends of the ribbons of her bonnet into her face—almost as if the elements were laughing at her. About them, only a few hardy souls had braved the dismal afternoon to stroll on the lawns leading down to the Serpentine.
Gordon raked a hand through his hair and repeated, “Gone. He’s not there. He should be at his desk, but he isn’t, and no one knows where or why he’s gone or when he’s expected back.” He paused, then added, “Given it’s you—or rather, Robbie—who’s asking, I did a little nosing around. It seems Osbaldestone was called into a private meeting with the Foreign Secretary yesterday afternoon. Powell attended as well, but no one else, and everyone’s being terribly tight-lipped over what the meeting was about, but the gist of it is that Osbaldestone came out after the meeting, issued various orders to his underlings—essentially putting his desk in order—then he left the building and hasn’t come back.”
Marion struggled to keep the depth of her consternation from showing, with mixed success.
Gordon sighed. “Before you ask, I checked at his house, and he’s not there, either. His housekeeper was in, and she said she thought he left before dawn in his curricle with another man, who had stayed overnight.”
Marion drew in a deep, deep breath, then released it on a muted yet explosive “Damn!”
Realizing she’d shocked Gordon, she explained, “He attended Lady Selkirk’s soirée yesterday evening. I was there, but he proved difficult to pin down. In retrospect, I should have tried harder.” Even if it had meant chasing him down the street.
Clearly, she’d made a strategic error in following her brother’s, the count’s, and her own assumption that approaching Christopher in a social setting would be the easiest and least-remarkable way of making contact. She should have had the sense to send a note via Carter to pave the way for such a social encounter, and now, it seemed, she’d missed her chance.
Yet she couldn’t fail; Robbie, let alone everyone else, was counting on her.
She glanced at Gordon. “Do you have any idea where Osbaldestone has gone?”
Gordon grimaced. “Not the faintest. I asked around, and no one seems to have the slightest inkling. It’s a complete mystery.” He paused, then lowering his voice, added, “Everyone assumes that, for reasons unknown, he’s been ordered into hiding. He’s rather central to the war effort, you know.”
She blinked. “He is?”
Gordon nodded. “He’s…well, I’ve heard people say he’s a master intelligencer, that he operates a network more widespread and comprehensive than that of any of our enemies—or our allies, come to that. He’s the sort of fellow the higher-ups are inclined to protect at any cost.”
She frowned. “I see.” She wondered whether Robbie had known that. She doubted it, for it seemed that Christopher’s true position in the firm was shaping up as a very real hurdle.
After a moment, she asked, “Do you know who the man who left with him is?”
“Not exactly, but I suspect he’s one of ours, ordered to stick to Osbaldestone’s side.”
“A guard?”
“That would be my guess.” Gordon reached into his pocket and drew out the letter Marion had given him that morning. He held it out. “In the circumstances, I didn’t think you’d want this lying on Osbaldestone’s desk until he got back. Given the season, that might not be until the new year.”
She grimaced and took the letter. “That was sound thinking. Thank you for attempting to deliver this and for learning all you have.” Where that left her…
“I wish I could have been more help.” Gordon glanced around, confirming that there was hardly anyone about. He turned back to her and studied her face. “So how are you going to get Robbie’s message to Osbaldestone now?”
She allowed her frustration to show. “To be perfectly honest, I really don’t know.”
Chapter 2
Therese, Lady Osbaldestone, sat in her favorite wing chair in her private parlor, her gaze resting fondly on the bent heads of three of her grandchildren. Jamie, George, and Lottie had bowled up to the manor two days before, and now, the trio were clustered on the rug before the fire, playing a game of spillikins in rather desultory fashion, much as if their mood matched the weather—overcast and damp.