“Do you have proof?”
Reluctantly, Darius shook his head. The woman had a very straight, almost uncomfortable stare. “Suspicions. Strong suspicions.”
She sucked in a breath and let it out in a sigh, making her linen-covered bosom heave in a way most men would find intriguing. Darius was not one of them. “Then I cannot tell you of any specific clients. However, I can tell you a young man with a strict allowance and no other means of support can sail close to the wind. A London life is expensive, especially if someone wishes to belong to the best clubs and appear creditably in society. They may run on tick with their tailors, but I understand debts of honor can prove more pressing.”
Darius sharpened his attention. Why hadn’t he thought of it before? He needed to know one more thing before he left. “The matter we discussed on Saturday. Has that been resolved?”
“Sadly, yes,” she said. “The account was closed yesterday. The person came to collect it.”
Bartolini had taken his money, or rather, his master’s money. French money that he was to use to bribe officials and buy information. He was not planning to return to town. From his destination, Dover, Darius had assumed so. So that was their last chance to intercept him and discover his connection. Who had given him the precious list.
Darius had more than a suspicion now. He would visit the clubs. Starting with the largest and most prestigious: White’s.
Darius belonged to a small, cozy club establishment in Pall Mall set above a coffeehouse. Tonight he walked past it and around the corner to the more imposing doorway of White’s.
White’s Club had recently moved into a new property in St. James, opposite the royal palace. The red-brick exterior of St. James’s Palace reared over the nearby neat modern edifices, seeming to frown with disapproval on the center of fashionable dissipation.
Every man of fashion had membership. Darius paused to sign the book and hand his sword, hat, and gloves to the porter behind the counter. Lingering, he noted the recent signatures, and discovered his quarry had signed in last night. He handed a guinea to the porter when he returned and tapped the tip of the pen on the name in question. “Have you seen Mr. Court today? I would like a word with him on a business matter.”
“No, sir, nor likely to, from what I heard.” While the porter didn’t actually bite the guinea, he took his time putting the coin away.
Darius took the hint and handed him another, adding a confiding smile. “Do tell. I have a positive hunger for gossip.”
“Well, my lord, I daresay you can hear it from anybody who was here last night, so it’s not like I’m giving away confidences.” The twang of London echoed around the small outer hall, the arched doorway leading to a far more impressive area beyond. But guests did not generally linger here. Unless they wanted to hear gossip.
The porter tucked his finger under his snowy white wig and scratched his scalp. “Mr. Court was here last night, but if you look back in the book, you’ll see he came here most nights recently. He was a bit, shall we say, merry.”
“Drunk,” said Darius, who had no mind for euphemisms.
“I dare say, my lord. And loud. I wasn’t on duty, mind you, but everybody’s talking about it this morning. Made a scene, he did. Lost a game of piquet with Lord Morningside and then rolled dice with the gentlemen and lost there, too. When they refused to take his notes of hand, he was asked to leave. He preferred not to, so we were forced to put him out. Shouting and yelling, he was.”
“What did he say?”
“Oh, general threats, nothing we’ve not heard before. Like he’d make us pay, and wait until his father got to hear of this. That kind of thing. And he threatened to come back. Friday, he said he was coming, and he’d win it all back and more besides.”
But Court had already sold the list to Bartolini. Did he have more information he’d stolen from his careless father? Probably not, since the general’s staff had started tidying up after him, ensuring nothing sensitive was left in the open. He could only sell the list once.
Darius halted, struck by a sudden thought. Unless he planned to take it back and resell it. Surely he would not be so foolish. He would know Bartolini had a sum of money, and from what Darius had learned, he was desperate enough to try it. But Bartolini would only release the money if Court had more information.
Or if he was dead.
Andrew expected to take the list and the spy and return to London. He wouldn’t know a desperate man was on his way, an unstable character who would do anything to save his reputation. Court’s gambling was out of hand. That was clear. Probably his drinking, too.
Andrew was in danger, and Darius had sent him there.
Chapter 13
Dover was seventy miles from London, two days on the road. A public coach would grind its way down and take three. However, in this private well-sprung vehicle, they need not concern themselves with other people’s timetables.
After a night at an inn where he was treated like a god, Andrew had a taste of true luxury. Sitting in the gently rocking vehicle with a basket of fresh provisions sitting next to him and a hot brick under the metal holder at his feet, he decided this was very much the way he wanted to travel forever.
If it weren’t for the anxiety gnawing at his stomach, he could be perfectly happy.
The carriage swept around a bend and passed a few houses straggled along the road, the beginning of the great port of Dover. Andrew had not visited before, never having found the need to, so he watched with interest. Outlying villas like the ones on the outskirts of London came next, and then the buildings became more closely packed.
The carriage bowled into the town and along the road before the sea. A forest of masts greeted Andrew, their sails furled, pennants flying. The Port of London could not have offered a more varied throng. While a few passersby paused to glance at the vehicle, most ignored it. They could see no crest on the doors, and the footmen were not arrayed in colorful livery. He was nobody of note, and he liked it that way.
The horses took the steep climb into the town easily, better than Andrew would have, he had to admit. A room had been bespoken for him at an inn situated in the High Street. That turned out to be a broad, modern thoroughfare containing a goodly collection of stone houses and shops.
Anticipation of the coming adventure giving him an added impetus, Andrew climbed down the steps when the footman let them down for him and strode into the inn. The same footman, the aptly named Bull, followed hard on his heels. He made no comment, although having a man follow his footsteps would become irksome, if he had to put up with it for more than a few days.