“Nicholas Langdon.”
“Imagine, a gentleman being attacked in the streets of London. What is this country coming to, I ask you? A crying shame, it is. If my son were here, he’d help you look for the brigands, but I sent him on an errand not ten minutes ago.”
Nicholas smiled at the man’s good-natured fussing. “It would be fruitless to try to catch my assailants now. I must see to my business. Good day, Mr. Brewer. And thank you again.”
“Most readily, most readily. I shall keep a sharp eye out for those blighters, you can be sure!”
Nicholas went on his way, but his stomach sank at the thought of having to tell McDowell at the War Office that he had lost the diary. If only Beechum had told him how important the book was. But the only thing he had said was, “Give this to Garrison Greenfield at the Horse Guards . . . Whitehall, London.” Those were his last words. After he’d handed Nicholas the diary, he had slipped into unconsciousness and died a few hours later.
When Nicholas reached the War Office, his shoulder still burned ferociously and his head throbbed. But he forced himself to concentrate on his task. This had now become a more serious matter than he had imagined.
He was taken to McDowell’s office, where the young man, near Nicholas’s age, stood and greeted him. Philip McDowell had always been an amiable, but not overly talkative, gentleman. He had sharp blue eyes, which Nicholas remembered, and a trim, reddish-brown beard, which was new.
“Thank you for seeing me,” Nicholas began, “but I am sorry to say, I have bad news.” He swallowed and took a breath. “I was attacked on the way here. I was bringing you a diary given to me by Richard Beechum just after I was wounded in the Peninsula. Two men stole the diary out of my coat pocket.” He quickly added, “But I copied the entire diary, and the copy is at my father’s house in Mayfair.”
Both men had remained standing, and now McDowell stared hard at Nicholas. “This is serious indeed. Did you see your assailants’ faces?”
“I saw one man’s face, but he was not familiar to me. They wore handkerchiefs over their faces. Both had brown hair, and one of them had green eyes.”
“If they weren’t after your money and only stole the diary, they must have known already of the diary’s existence.”
“Exactly,” Nicholas agreed. “I am afraid I mentioned the diary to a friend at a party I attended two nights ago.”
“Whose party? What friend?” McDowell seemed to lean toward him, his expression intense.
“At the time, I was completely unaware the diary contained anything out of the ordinary or was anything other than a man’s war diary. Beechum, the man who gave me the book, was a stranger to me. We met in the infirmary, as we had both just been wounded. His injuries were more serious than mine, and he asked me to take the diary to a man named Garrison Greenfield. I assumed he was a relative or friend. Beechum was barely able to talk, so I did not question him further. Then he died.”
“I understand.” McDowell nodded for him to go on.
“I have been convalescing at home for the past two months, and my first entry back in society was two nights ago at a small party at Mr. Robert Wilhern’s home in Grosvenor Square. I mentioned to Mr. Hugh Edgerton that I had an errand, to deliver a diary that was given to me by Lieutenant Richard Beechum to a Mr. Garrison Greenfield. Had I any inkling that the diary contained sensitive or important information, I certainly never would have mentioned it, even to an old school chum like Edgerton.” Nicholas felt his face grow warm as he realized what a blunder he had made . . . a potentially serious blunder.
“Hugh Edgerton, you said?” McDowell grabbed a sheet of paper and quickly wrote the name down. “Is he involved with anything underhanded or suspicious that you know of?”
“No.”
“Who else heard you speak of the diary? Did you say exactly where you planned to take the diary?”
Nicholas thought back to the party. “I did not say where I planned to take it. I only mentioned the name Garrison Greenfield. I asked Edgerton if he knew him, since I thought he reacted oddly when I said the name. At the time, I thought little of it. As for who else might have heard, I believe Mr. Wilhern heard me.” He thought some more, trying to see in his mind’s eye the men who had been standing around him. “There were some others who had possibly been close enough to hear but weren’t part of the conversation. Mr. Anthony Youngblood, Mr. Geoffrey Thigpen, and Mr. Daniel Dinklage. Other than those three, plus Wilhern and Edgerton, I don’t believe anyone else could have heard me mention the diary. However, it’s impossible to say for certain. People were milling about. It was a party.”
McDowell was occupied in writing down the names.