"It might not have been an assignation." Lena curled her arms around Adele's waist and rested her chin on her shoulder. "Will doesn't know what it was. There were other people there—"
"He told me he was seeing to business," she snarled, leaning back into Lena's embrace. "Matters to do with running the country."
"Well, at least you know." Lena kissed her cheek. "I'm sorry."
"I'm not." Adele broke away from her, pressing a hand to her forehead. "At least I haven't completely humiliated myself by attempting to use some of your seduction techniques upon him." She shook her head. It could have been worse. "Though perhaps you might be able to teach me to shoot a pistol?"
"I hope you're joking."
"Of course."
Perhaps.
"What are you going to do?" Lena asked.
Adele paced across the grass. The not knowing was the worst part. Perhaps this Gemma Townsend was another woman in her husband's life. But what if she wasn't? What was he doing there? Why did he seem so familiar with the house?
And why the hell had Will called it a merry chase?
"Did he know Will was following him?" she asked, banking her anger into hot little coals in the grate of her soul.
"I doubt it."
"And yet, he took a circuitous route to his destination as if he believed he might be followed."
Lena nodded. "He was definitely trying to give someone the slip. He went into one of his clubs and then slipped out the back fifteen minutes later and into a waiting hackney. If Will wasn't on the rooftop, he'd have missed it."
Hmm. Adele's pacing slowed. Hardcastle Lane, she'd said.
"Did you happen to have the precise address?"
Lena's eyes narrowed. "Just what are you planning?"
"I think it's time to demand some answers," she replied grimly.
She'd been expecting a raven-haired beauty to answer, but as the door to 45 Hardcastle Lane jerked open, Adele came face-to-face with an impeccable butler.
Who blinked at her.
"I'm sorry, my....?"
"I am here to see my husband," she said, lowering her dripping parasol and taking a step up onto the lintel as if to enter. Rain darkened the skies behind her, but it suited her mood.
The butler didn't move. "Your husband...?"
"I'm told he visits here," Adele said boldly. "You may know him as Malloryn."
She might as well have set fire to his well-ironed tails. The butler's gaze suddenly focused on her intently, as if he hadn't recognized her before, and she could have sworn a line of sweat sprang up down his spine. His eyes had that look.
"Your husband," the man repeated stupidly.
"I know he was here last night," Adele growled, taking the chance to duck under his arm and into the entry. "And I know the lady of the house is a rather remarkable brunette."
There was no sign of anyone else, but what did she expect? A lady's petticoat draped over the armchair in the parlor? A pair of stockings hanging from the light fixture?
"Y-Your Grace." The butler stopped just short of grabbing her, his hands twitching in midair. "You cannot— You can't just—"
"I'm not supposed to be here?" she asked icily, turning on him with a hint of the wrath boiling in her veins. "Oh, I daresay I'm not. Malloryn would prefer me tucked up at home with no idea what he's up to at night. Where is he?"
A scalded sound echoed in his throat, and he looked beside himself. "It's not.... You can't.... He's not here."
"You're lying."
"I'm not!" He tried to usher her toward the door without actually laying hands on her. "If you'll just wait a moment, I'll, ah, I'll send for your carriage and—"
"I am not going anywhere until I see Malloryn." Adele stepped right up into his face. She was done with being toyed with. "So either you fetch him or I will."
Chapter 10
The message reached Malloryn at his club, just as he was about to corner Barrons about cancelling the queen's celebrations completely. He'd need Barrons's vote if he had any hope of pushing this through council, for the queen was determined to keep her parade and her ball despite the dangers.
Urgent assistance required. Intruder apprehended at HQ.
It stopped him in his tracks.
Herbert's impeccable handwriting held an unusual flourish, as if he'd either been in a hurry, or somewhat flustered. He'd even sent the message with an errant newspaper boy, which was a breach in security protocols.
Herbert was never flustered.
He was unflappable in any situation, and yet the note seemed to disprove that theory.
Herbert was in a flap.
Malloryn demanded his coat and scarf and headed for the door with sharp, rapping strides. It had to be Balfour. The snake had finally reared his head. Or maybe Byrnes had had some luck tracking Jelena, despite the fact he and Lady Peregrine had lost the trail yesterday. Summoning a hack, he gave terse directions to Covent Garden, where he slipped into the morass of people on the street. A brief detour through a house advertising "French Lessons" in the window, and then a hurried set through a series of alleys, and he was entirely certain he'd lost any tail that might have been given him.
Ten minutes later he was standing out the front of 45 Hardcastle Lane.
The entire Company of Rogues awaited him in the foyer, and Ava was kneeling beside Herbert, who sat with his head bowed on the bottom step of the staircase, a cool rag draped over the back of his neck. Gemma's skirts swished as she paced, and the second he entered, relief broke over her expression like a sunrise.
"What happened?" he demanded.
Movement shifted upstairs, sharp heels rapping on the floor of his study. Malloryn's gaze shot upwards, then he took in Herbert's face—the way his butler couldn't quite meet his eyes. There was a faint trace of foreign perfume in the hallway, something that smelled like...
...a woman?
Malloryn shrugged out of his coat, handing it to Charlie as his mind raced. "You said there was an emergency."
They all looked at him, no doubt gauging his temper accurately by the looks on their faces.
Then Byrnes snorted, a slight laugh escaping him. "There was a break-in. We've managed to contain the perpetrator—your wife—in the study."