A Most Dangerous Profession

chapter 3





A letter from Robert Hurst to his solicitor on the first anniversary of his marriage.


Enclosed you will find payment for researching the questions I had regarding my unfortunate marriage. While there are options available to release me from it, all of them seem likely to result in public embarrassment.

I do not find that acceptable.

Therefore, I’ve decided not to pursue any action at the moment. My “wife,” after tricking me into giving her my name, has since blessed me with her absence. If I must be saddled with such a scheming gypsy, at least she has the good sense to stay far, far away.

Thick fog hung over the degenerate alleys and narrow dockside streets of Edinburgh, as if to hide their shame. Dampness clung to the cobblestone, trailing up walls and wisping against Moira’s skin like clammy, ghostly fingers.

She tried to shake the gloominess from her mind, but the dank mist suited her feelings exactly. It had been over a week since her run-in with Robert Hurst, yet those few moments had changed something, made her vulnerable in a way she hated. Without even trying, he’d made her feel as weak-kneed as a new bride. Moira was many things, but weak was not one of them. And right now, she had to be stronger than she’d ever been before.

Robert was still here in Scotland, trying to discover her direction. He’d never find it, though.

She was always thorough in hiding her trail.

She tugged her hood over her head, hiding her face in the shadows, and paused on a corner to squint into the mist. She’d already gotten lost once; she couldn’t afford to do so again.

From an alleyway came the sound of raucous, drunken laughter as two men stumbled into the street. One of them noticed her and made a comment that sent his companion into guffaws of laughter. She ignored them and hurried on, her head down.

She turned a corner and pulled her cloak tighter as she stepped around a ragged figure crumpled on the ground, reeking of gin and unwashed flesh. She paused and looked at the poor figure. Did the man or woman—it was difficult to tell among the rags and matted hair—need assistance? Had they been attacked and perhaps left for dead? There were thieves and worse about.

She slipped her hand to the small pistol strapped to her waist under her cloak. It was a lovely pistol with delicate scrolling etched along the grip, the barrel slender and short. The pistol was so small that it was of use at only very close range. Still, she was more than proficient in its use and had found it more than sufficient for protection. With a careful glance into the shadows, Moira bent to shake the bony shoulder.

The figure stirred, revealing a woman’s dirty face.

Moira knelt beside her. “Are you well, missus?”

The woman blinked rapidly and then coughed loudly. “Och, I jus’ falled.” She waved Moira on, as if annoyed to have been awakened, then tucked herself into a tighter ball in the middle of the walk.

Moira returned her pistol to its sheath and continued on her way. As she reached the corner, the huge clock that overshadowed the square tolled, deep and melodious.

I’m late! God, no! Her heart thudded sickly in her throat as she dashed down the street to the churchyard. Beside the low iron gate sat a large black coach, malevolent in the mist. Moira pressed a hand to her chest, her heart beating with a lonely, deep ache.

I must be calm. I must control this situation and stay strong.

Hands fisted at her sides, she walked across the courtyard. As she approached the coach, she pushed back her hood and smoothed her hair. The mist parted and the coachman yelled for her to halt.

The crest seemed to leer down at her, a red sun overlaid by a stag wearing a circlet of white heather. She hated that crest, yet longed to see it with all of her heart.

The coachman climbed down from his seat past two burly footmen, and went to the door. He knocked briskly upon the curtained panel. A moment later, it swung open and a man stepped out.

George Aniston was dressed like the veriest dandy; his blond locks combed just so, his cravat an impressive size and set with a glittering ruby, his knitted trousers striped in the current fashion.

His petulant scowl made him look half his age. “You’re late.”

“The mist confused me. If I could have come by carriage—”

“You know the rules.” His voice was as youthful as his figure, his face as smooth as a schoolboy’s. When she’d first met him, she’d made the mistake of thinking him weak, foolish, and lacking in capabilities.

She’d only made that mistake once.

“So the box wasn’t there, was it?” he asked.

“You don’t look surprised.” Of course, he already knew it wasn’t there. She hid the bite of disappointment. Knowledge was power, but with Aniston she could never get ahead. He always knew. It was one of the things that made him so dangerous.

“After you left town, I received word that the artifact I seek was sold to a collector in the highlands.”

“So Bancroft never had it.” Anger simmered through her. “You sent me on a wild-goose chase.”

He shrugged. “I can send you on any sort of a chase I wish. I own you.”

No, you don’t. No one owns me. Ever. She burned to rage at him, but there was more at stake than her pride. She said in a tight voice, “I could have done more good elsewhere.”

“Perhaps. I sent you to fetch a different onyx box almost a month ago. If I remember correctly, you failed at that small service, too.”

He called making her an accessory to blackmail a “small service,” and she feared that to him, it was nothing more.

She met his gaze evenly. “Don’t blame me for that. You didn’t tell me Miss Beauchamp had William Hurst with her.”

The heavy lids drooped over the icy blue eyes. “I didn’t expect that development. Still, I would have thought that for someone with your . . . skills, a little surprise like that wouldn’t have been insurmountable. And then there was the time you told me that you’d found one of the boxes in a collection in Edinburgh, but then found you were mistaken.” His gaze narrowed. “I still find that tale difficult to believe.”

“It wasn’t the same style of box. It was gold and onyx, but far too large.” She met his gaze steadily though it cost her dearly. She hadn’t dared tell him the truth–that she’d had one of his precious boxes in her grasp and it had disappeared from her lodgings. Of course, now she knew what had happened, but at the time she’d had no good explanation as to why the box had gone missing and couldn’t risk him thinking that she’d sold it, or worse, and so she’d lied.

“Do you or do you not wish to end this debt between us?”

“Debt?” Her voice was sharp and bitter. “You stole from me; I don’t owe you anything!”

His mouth tightened and before she could say another word, he was before her, his words hissing through his teeth. “Don’t you ever speak to me like that again. I own you, worthless fool that you are, and I won’t take such disrespectful behavior!”

She yearned to use her pistol but she dared not. Not only because of the footmen, who were obviously just paid thugs, but also because Aniston was right. She was completely at his mercy. She couldn’t afford to allow her emotions to lead her into making a mistake. The man was mad and seemed to be sliding further and further into it.

So she would do anything, say anything, pretend anything, steal anything that he asked. But in the end, she would win.

She nodded. “I’m sorry. I was irritated at being sent on a pointless mission.”

He eyed her narrowly but finally nodded, satisfied with her contrite expression. “That’s better. You seem to forget that I hold what’s most precious to you in the palm of my hand.” He held out his bare hand, the skin eerily white in the mist. “Do you want me to finish this?” He closed his hand tightly, as if crushing the very air.

She swallowed convulsively. “I want to finish this so that we’re both satisfied. But you must understand this: the loss of the onyx box was not my fault. I did what I said I would do. But not only was Captain Hurst there, but his brother as well and—”

“Hold. His brother? Which one?”

She cursed her slip of tongue. This is why I mustn’t get angry. I lose my concentration and make mistakes. “Robert Hurst. It seems that every time you send me to fetch an onyx box, I run into him.”

Aniston appeared intrigued. “Ah! He was at Bancroft’s sale, too?”

“Of course he was there; some of the artifacts were quite impressive.”

“Did he mention the onyx box?”

“Yes. He was hoping to find another there, as were we.”

Aniston nodded slowly. “Interesting. Very interesting.”

“I was most unhappy to see him. He is a significant force.”

Aniston murmured, “Yes, he is.” He rubbed his chin. “So the Hursts are still pursuing the onyx boxes.”

“It seems so. Just how many are there?”

“Three.”

Damn it. He always knows. She wet her dry lips. “So Hurst has one, and this unknown buyer has the other. Where’s the third?”

“I haven’t found it yet, but I will.”

Ah ha! He doesn’t know that the Hursts have already recovered it. Though she wasn’t certain how the information was useful, it soothed her to know that Aniston wasn’t as all-powerful as she’d thought him to be.

Aniston turned his cool gaze upon her now. “Leave the final box to me. I will discover its location soon enough. Meanwhile, you will fetch the one that was recently purchased by this buyer.”

“So you know who has it?”

“Sir Lachlan Ross. I have a carriage waiting to take you first thing in the morn—”

“No.”

Aniston’s mouth tightened and Moira hurried to add, “Please. I just returned and it’s been weeks since I—“ Her hands curled into fists. “Aniston, you promised I could see her when I returned.”

Aniston’s gaze narrowed. “But you were not successful.”

“You know it wasn’t my fault.”

He pursed his lips but then gestured toward his coach. “Fine. You may see her.”

Moira’s heart thudded hard. “She—she’s here?”

He nodded to his coachman, who rapped upon the door panel. It opened and a sharp-faced woman climbed from the carriage, pausing to say sharply to someone inside, “I said put that down and come!”

Moira’s world spun slowly, the beat of her heart so loud it drowned out all thoughts. A small foot appeared in the doorway, followed by a tousle-headed child of five years of age. The girl had long dark hair and blue eyes surrounded by thick lashes. She had a cherubic face, round with rosy lips and a snub nose.

The child’s expression darkened on seeing Aniston. But when her gaze flickered past him to Moira, it was as if the sun had broken through the clouds.

“Mama!” The small child jerked her hand free from the nurse’s as she ran forward.

“Och!” the nurse exclaimed, stomping forward. “You little brat, come back here!”

But Moira was faster. With a sob, she reached Rowena and scooped her little body up, enveloping the child in her arms.

Aniston lifted an indifferent hand to the nurse. “Let them have their moment. After all, they get so few.”

Moira buried her face in the girl’s neck as the child burst into tears and wailed, “I-I w-want t-to g-go h-home!”

“So do I, sweetheart.” Moira held her daughter close, rubbing her cheek against the child’s silky hair and kissing every inch of the dear, dear face.

She would have given her life to take Rowena home with her right now, and for a wild moment, she thought about picking up the child and running into the mist. But she’d tried that once, and she—and Rowena—had paid horribly.

Moira caught Aniston’s cold gaze over Rowena’s head and realized that the coachman was standing to one side, pistol already drawn.

Swallowing hard, Moira set the child back on the ground and stooped before her. The little face was tear streaked, the eyes red-rimmed as she hiccupped, “M-Mama, p-please t-take m-me with y-you.”

Moira’s heart ached even more. But she couldn’t afford weakness right now. These few moments may be all she has to support her until I can come for her. Moira brushed Rowena’s hair from her forehead and said in a calm voice, “Not this time, sweetheart, but soon. Very soon.”

“B-b-but I d-d-on’t want to go b-b-back! Miss Kimble hitted me and—”

Moira pulled the child closer, looking over her head at the nurse. “You hit her?”

The nurse looked uneasy and glanced at Aniston. He shrugged and dusted imaginary lint from his sleeve.

Seeing him so unmoved, the nurse sniffed and said in a cocky voice, “I dinna hit the lass when she’s quiet, but some days she’s whiny and willna listen weel, so I pop her upon the head and—”

Moira straightened.

The nurse squeaked and took two hurried steps behind Aniston.

He frowned and tugged his cloak closer. “Pray watch where you’re walking, foolish woman. I don’t want your dirt upon my good cloak.”

“She had better watch more than that,” Moira said furiously. Rowena’s thin body trembled, her small hands clinging so tightly around Moira’s leg that she couldn’t have moved if she’d wanted to.

Moira fixed her gaze on the nurse. “If this child comes to any harm under your care, there is no one in this world who will protect you. Not this cretin”—she jerked her head toward Aniston—“not the constable, not the devil himself.”

The nurse paled and glanced at Aniston, who said in an amused voice, “She is most likely telling the truth about that. She has certain abilities.” His cruel gaze then narrowed on Moira. “Of course, she can’t do anything right now, can she?”

Moira met his gaze steadily. “We two are almost finished.”

“We will end this when I say so, and not before.”

There was nothing more to be said. Heart heavy, Moira gave Rowena a hug and then gently disentangled the child’s arms. “Ah, sweetling, I am so glad to see you.” She pulled out a handkerchief and wiped her daughter’s face. “Are you well?”

Rowena nodded, hiccupping. “I-I am learning to read.”

Moira’s heart ached. She’d wished to teach the child to read; it was yet another thing stolen from them. “Who is teaching you to read?”

“Mrs. Kimble. When she’s not mad, she likes a good story.”

Surprised, Moira looked at the nurse, who turned red and mumbled, “She’s a bright ’un and takes to readin’ faster than me own bairns ever did.”

“Thank you,” Moira said quietly. “Thank you very much.”

After a surprised moment, the woman’s hard face softened. “Ye’re welcome. I will make sure I dinna smack her head, but ’twasn’t done in spite.”

“I appreciate that, but ’tis best if it isn’t done at all.” Moira kissed Rowena’s cheek. “We will be together soon. I promise.”

“But you said last time—”

“I know. Something changed, sweetheart. I need to leave just one more time—”

“Noooo!” Tears spilled down her cheeks again, but Rowena’s face was set with determination. “Please, Mama, take me with you. I will be good and I won’t make any noise and—”

Moira swooped the girl to her. “Sweetling, you are a good child. I can’t take you with me because it will be much too dangerous. But I promise that this will be the last time.” She met Aniston’s gaze. “I swear it.”

Aniston’s cold smile did nothing to ease her fear.

Collecting herself, Moira stood, Rowena held tightly against her. At her movement, the coachman cocked his pistol.

She turned her full scorn upon him. “Put that down. It could accidentally go off, and then where would your master be? God knows I wouldn’t do his bidding unless forced.”

Aniston flicked a finger and the coachman, red with anger, disarmed the pistol.

“I’ve had enough drama for one day,” Aniston said. “It’s time for Rowena to leave now.” He turned to the nurse. “Take her.”

The nurse gingerly approached Moira. “I’ll put her in the coach now, mistress.”

Moira bent down and hugged her daughter once more. “Be very brave,” she whispered in Rowena’s ear. “And read well for Mrs. Kimble. The next time I see you, you can show me all you’ve learned.”

Through sniffles, Rowena nodded.

It took every ounce of strength Moira had to make herself reach down and peel her daughter’s fingers from her own. With the release of each small finger, Moira’s heart broke a bit more.

She gently pressed Rowena’s hand into the nurse’s with a beseeching look. “Treat her well,” she whispered. “If you do, you will be compensated beyond your wildest dreams.”

The nurse’s face lit up and she said in a low voice, “I’ll treat her as if she were me own bairn.”

“No, you will treat her like my daughter, something you will never forget.”

The woman said in a grudging tone, “Fine, then. I’ll no’ hit her.”

It wasn’t much of a promise, but it was all Moira had. She watched as Rowena was placed back into the carriage, the nurse following.

Moira turned to Aniston. “This is the final errand I run for you,” she snapped. “Once this is done, I want Rowena back. If you don’t—”

“Pray don’t bother me with your empty threats. I decide when this is over, not you. Find the box, Moira, and I will consider letting that be your final task.” Aniston’s gaze flickered over her. “My carriage will fetch you in the morning to begin the journey.”

“How am I to get this box from Ross?”

Aniston looked amused. “You are the expert on procuring things, not I. You’ll find a way to get the box. I’m sure of it.”

“Then I need more information. Who this man is, where he lives, how to reach him—”

“The coachman will know the route to Balnagown Castle. It’s in the highlands. It will take a week and a half to reach there, perhaps longer. What else do you need to know?”

“Why did Ross purchase the box? Does he know its value?”

“I don’t think so. He bought it for his private collection. He has a very large one, from what I’ve heard, and fancies himself an expert.”

“Is he?”

“He thinks so, but I don’t believe you’d consider him so. You know so much more about antiquities than other people.” There was grudging respect in Aniston’s voice.

“What more do you know of him?”

“He’s wealthy, unmarried, and childless. They say he has a very fine stable. And he’s been in two duels in the last year.” Aniston shrugged. “I know nothing else.”

Moira frowned. “Two duels? What were they over? Gaming debts?”

“Other men’s wives.”

“Both times?”

“Yes.”

Finally, something she could use. “I’ll leave in the morning. I’m staying at the George.”

“I know where you’re staying,” he returned coolly before he turned and walked toward the carriage. As one of the footmen opened the door, Aniston paused. “One more thing: if you fail to bring me the box this time, I won’t be as patient as I’ve been in the past.”

“I won’t fail—providing your information is better than what you gave me on Bancroft and Miss Beauchamp.”

Aniston’s mouth thinned. “Just find the damn box.” He climbed inside his coach, and the door closed smartly behind him.

Moira watched, her jaw clenched. She’d fetch Aniston’s damned box—but he wouldn’t get it until he’d released Rowena.

The coachman hied the horses and the coach lumbered forward, swallowed by the mist before the sound of the creaking wheels had faded.

A sob caught in Moira’s throat, but she swallowed it and lifted her chin. She would find a way to win Rowena back. And once the child was safe, Moira would follow her blood legacy and finish this game. Aniston might think he held all the cards, but she’d only begun to play.

When this ends, not even God will be able to help George Aniston.





CHAPTER 4


A letter to Robert Hurst from his sister Triona Hurst MacLean upon his going to Eton to study as a youth.


Father told me you weren’t taking your studies as seriously as he’d hoped, but then that’s not surprising. He’s a difficult taskmaster; no one could fulfill his hopes with their studies and still have time for things like food and sleep.

Father may worry about you, but I don’t. I know of no one more driven than you. Considering you’re but a lad of sixteen, that’s a serious statement indeed. It makes me wonder where you’ll end up once you’re a man grown. The world has no boundaries for someone who savors success and is willing to work for it.

Robert stretched out his legs and admired the reflection of the flames in the gloss of his boots. “I wondered when you’d return.”

The man who stood before him on the thick library rug merely grinned. He was a small man with wizened features and shrewd blue eyes. His back was visibly crooked, yet he moved with an unusually quick walk. “Ye said not t’ bother ye until we had some information, so I waited until we was certain.”

“So you found her?”

“Aye. Ye said she had a taste fer luxury and so she does. She’s at the George, sir.”

Robert smiled now. Aha, Moira. I know you too well. “Good work, Stewart.”

“Thank ye, sir. She is using the name of Mrs. Randolph. Och, and she’s turned into a brunette, sir. I almost didna recognize her, except she smiled at the porter and—” Stewart’s face reddened.

“I quite understand.” Moira MacAllister wasn’t the sort of woman one forgot. It wasn’t just that she was beautiful, though she was, spectacularly so. It was the combination of her looks, her spirit, and her vibrancy. One never forgot how she looked, but more important, one never forgot how she made you feel. Just one smile could grab your soul . . . and she would extract it if you weren’t careful.

Fortunately, Robert was careful. He wasn’t as immune as he wished—the way she’d affected him at Bancroft’s sale proved that—but that had been a momentary lapse. He was protected by years of outrage at her perfidy and lies. “Ask Leeds to watch Mrs. Randolph this evening. I have information that she won’t leave until the morning, anyway.”

Stewart blinked. “But, sir, I can—”

“Mr. Stewart, you are one of the few men I trust with my most clandestine efforts. However, this is no ordinary woman. She charms like a cobra and she’s managed to escape more than once by using that charm. I won’t have that happening again.”

“Sir, I can assure you that I’m no’ likely to become a slave to a woman, beautiful or no’.”

“I’m gratified to hear that. But where this particular woman is concerned, I’ll take no chances. Take Leeds to the inn and make sure he sees her before you leave, so he knows whom he is to watch. Then you are to return here to prepare for a journey tomorrow.”

“Yes, sir,” Stewart replied stiffly. “Will there be anything else?”

Robert eyed his offended servant and said softly, “Yes, you can cease being so dramatic.”

Stewart flushed and bowed. “Yes, sir. I’ll take Leeds to the inn right now.”

“And tell him I may visit our little thief before the night is out. I have some questions that need answers and I must start my journey come morning.”

“Aye, sir. Am I to come with ye?”

“Yes. You’ll be playing the part of my groom. Leeds will be a footman. I shall take two more footmen and an undergroom, as well.”

“Very good, sir. If I might be so bold, is Buffoon a-comin’, too?”

Robert sighed. “Stewart, I’ve told you many times that my valet’s name is ‘Buffon,’ which is a highly regarded French name.”

“Beggin’ yer pardon, sir, but I dinna care wha’ the French think.”

Robert hid a grin. “Why do you ask about Buffon?”

“It just seems tha’ whenever we bring yer valet along, we end up in more mischief than usual,” Stewart said in a distinctly morose voice.

“You think him bad luck?”

“Aye. I also think he’s a whey-faced, weak-kneed, poufy-shirted fool.”

“Pray don’t hold back,” Robert said politely. “You can tell me what you really think of my valet.”

Stewart broke into a reluctant grin. “Sorry fer bein’ so forward, sir, but that valet o’ yers is nothin’ but a Frenchified piece o’ lace.”

“I know. That’s why I take him with me.”

Stewart blinked. “I beg yer pardon?”

“People judge one by one’s servants. When they see Buffon they assume that I, too, am a whey-faced, weak-kneed, poufy-shirted fool. That ruse has helped me on more than one occasion.”

“I ne’er thought o’ tha’.”

“Which is why I will ask you to do less thinking and more doing.” Robert waved a hand toward the door. “Off with you, Stewart. And tell Leeds to keep a sharp eye on Mrs. Randolph. She has been known to disappear from locked rooms.”

“Och, sir, have no fear. Leeds is as good at watchin’ as I am.” Stewart gave a smart bow and left the study.

Robert regarded the closed door for a long time before he rose and went to his desk. There, he sat and, using a key hidden under an inkwell, unlocked a drawer and pulled out a leather folio holding a thick stack of papers. The dispatches told the exact locations of Miss Moira MacAllister, as well as whom she spoke to, for how long, and—where they could—what about.

The first report was from two months before Robert had met her years ago. The last one had been added late last night.

Robert closed the folio and sat back in his chair. He’d never worked so hard to keep up with anyone in his life—not for personal, nor professional reasons.

Yet despite the many papers in the thick folio, he knew a lot of information was missing. “You’re hiding something, Moira MacAllister, I could feel it in your voice. Whatever it is, I’ll find out.”

Leeds was already retired for the night, but at Stewart’s slight prod, the ex-soldier was wideawake in an instant. He donned his street clothes and pulled a cap low over his broad face, then they rode to the inn.

The George was one of the best inns in Edinburgh, with over eighteen guest rooms furnished with the best of everything.

Leeds looked about the inn yard, visually marking doors and windows. “ ’Tis a big hotel. Wish’t it were a mite smaller. Who is this miss we’re watchin’?”

“A Miss Moira MacAllister, though she’s goin’ by the name o’ Mrs. Randolph. She tol’ the innkeeper she was waitin’ on her husband to join her.”

Leeds scratched his chin. “No husband?”

“Nary a one as far as I can see. I think she pretends she’s married to keep men away.”

“Lor’, the people the master consorts with. I think his work fer the Home Office is more than he lets on. Don’t ye think so, Stewart?”

“The master dinna pay either o’ us t’ think,” Stewart said sourly. “He pays us to do.”

“A bit out o’ sorts, are ye?”

“Aye, the master was a bit harsh this evening. He was sure I was fallin’ under the spell of—”

Stewart broke off as a woman passed before a downstairs window. The George had a private general room for the fairer sex, where they could take tea or meet together. “That was her; she’s in the lower sitting room.”

The woman passed the window again, pausing this time to lift the sash and look outside, presumably at the threatening weather. Her dark hair was piled upon her head, contrasting with the creamy whiteness of her skin. The light from a lantern lit her face and showed that her eyes were delicately slanted, her eyebrows tilted to an exotic angle, her nose straight and patrician. But it was her mouth that caught a man’s attention. Something about the curve of her full lips suggested sensual pleasures best not spoken aloud.

“Gor’,” Leeds choked out.

Stewart nodded.

“Sweet gor’.” Leeds breathed again.

Stewart punched Leeds in the shoulder.

“Ow!” Leeds rubbed his arm, looking offended. “What was tha’ fer?”

“Tha’ was to remind ye to keep yerself professional at all times. Mr. Hurst says she’s a seductress, and if she can get ye under her spell—” He scowled. “I think she might be a witch. So watch ye’self and dinna get cocky, or ye’ll come to a great fall.”

Leeds’s eyes had widened and he sent an almost fearful glance at the now empty window. “How do I protect meself from a witch?”

“Dinna let her gaze fall upon ye. But if it do, make certain she dinna think ye’re payin’ her any heed. So long as she dinna think ye’re followin’ her or out to harm her, ye’ll be fine. But if she sees ye—” Stewart shook his head.

Leeds gulped and nodded. “I’ll stay low to the wall, I will.”

“Good. Note who comes to see her, and find out their names and such. If she leaves, follow her, but be discreet. Send word to Mr. Hurst when ye discover her direction.”

“What if she leaves town altogether?”

“She won’t; Mr. Hurst says she’s due to leave tomorrow morning. He’s goin’ to visit her this evenin’, though, so dinna be surprised to see him. In the mornin’ we’ll be travelin’ with Mr. Hurst.”

Leeds brightened. “Where are we goin’?”

“I dinna know, but I’ll be a groom and ye’ll be a footman. Buffon will be comin’, too.”

“That lace-bowed jackanapes?” Leeds sighed. “I suppose there’s no help fer it. How does Mr. Hurst know so much about this woman’s plans?”

“How does he know anythin’? He’s a smart one, he is. One o’ the best. And I’ve a feelin’ that whatever important business Mr. Hurst is upon, this woman might be a big part o’ it. She might be a spy.”

Leeds looked every bit as impressed as Stewart wished. “Och, I’ll no’ leave me post.”

Satisfied he’d done his best to convince Leeds of the importance of their work, Stewart bid him good night and disappeared into the darkness.