Chapter 10

C onsidering the volume of brandy he had drunk the night before, Rupert was feeling remarkably sprightly. But, of course, that was why Sir Henry had recruited him—because he could imbibe incredible amounts of alcohol without becoming foxed and because he remembered deuced near every word someone told him.

His target had been Mr. Ulysses F. Humphrey, one of the suspects Sir Henry had asked him to keep an eye on. Chap owned a big sugar cane plantation on Antigua run by slaves—not the sort of fellow Rupert would normally choose to chum around with, but this wouldn’t be the first time he’d had to feign a liking for a rotten egg. All part of the job and whatnot.

After dinner, some of the men had retreated to Lord Helmsley’s study. Rupert had put on his usual show—draining his glass, matching everyone at the table drink for drink, slurring his words and acting a lot more groggified than he actually was. After about an hour of this performance, he had collapsed into the chair next to Humphrey and poured them both a double.

“So, Humpy,” he began, then frowned, staring across the room. “That’s not right. It’s Humpo… Humplee… Say, you don’t mind if I call you Humpy, do you?”

Humphrey, who was already several cups into it, had laughed. “Not at all, Dupree. Not at all.”

This was Sir Henry’s number one rule for success as a spy: you had to be the last person anyone would ever suspect. And the dumber and drunker Rupert acted, the less likely it was to occur to anyone that maybe they shouldn’t go spilling their deepest, darkest secrets.

Rupert and his new mate “Humpy” had drunk another half a bottle, by which time Humphrey had related his whole life story. By the time he got around to his decision to buy the plantation in Antigua, Rupert had the opening he needed.

“I say!” he exclaimed, trying to look alarmed on Humphrey’s behalf. “It’s not awkward for you, being here with”—he dropped his voice low and cut his eyes to Baxter, who was sitting across the room—“ you know .”

“Who, Baxter?” Humphrey slurred. “What makes you s-say that?”

“Well, isn’t he what you call one of those abominable… No, not abominable… aboriginal…” Rupert shook his head. “That’s not it either. Ab… Ab… abracadabra?” He peered at Humphrey, crossing his eyes ever so slightly. “What’s the term again?”

“Abolitionists,” Humphrey supplied.

“Abolitionists!” Rupert said, pumping his fist so hard he lilted to the side. “That’s the one. I mean, if Baxter has his way, he’d cleave you from your living with one fell stroke.” He shook his head as if in sympathy. “ Deuced unsporting of him.”

Humphrey laughed. “I don’t waste one minute worrying about that. It’ll never happen.”

“You don’t think?” Rupert asked, refilling their glasses.

“Not a chance.” At this point, Humphrey launched into a bunch of drivel about white people being ‘the superior race’ and black people being ‘brutes’ with ‘inferior minds.’

Bollocks. Rupert had friends who were black, and they were a darn sight more intelligent than he was.

But even if Humphrey were right, it wouldn’t matter. There were more important things than being clever, and just because you weren’t clever didn’t mean you deserved to be treated like rubbish.

Rupert should know. He wasn’t clever, after all. But at least he wasn’t a terrible person, like Ulysses F. Humphrey.

Not that Rupert said any of this. He had a job to do. So, he made surprised noises as if Humphrey were enlightening him to something other than the fact that he was a toad, and when it was clear Humphrey wasn’t going to say anything new, Rupert made a great show of yawning and sliding halfway off his chair. Humphrey called for a pair of footmen to carry him up to his rooms, and Rupert was rid of him at last.

Now, as he jogged down the stairs to get some breakfast, he reviewed everything Humphrey had said last night. Not that Rupert ever cleared someone from suspicion unless the evidence was ironclad.

But he very much doubted that Humphrey was the assassin. He didn’t seem to consider Baxter a threat. Of course, Humphrey might have been lying about that.

But Rupert had got him as drunk as a wheelbarrow. And when a fellow was that drunk, he tended to say what he really meant, whether it was good, bad, or ugly.

The next order of business was to look in on the Baxters. Rupert hadn’t bothered to inform them that he was an agent. He’d learned the hard way that no one ever believed him. And really, why would they? Rupert Dupree, one of the stupidest fellows in all of England, a special operative for the Home Office? The very notion was preposterous. More than one person had suggested he was having delusions of grandeur.

Still, he needed to identify the other agent for the Home Office. In extreme circumstances, Rupert would scratch out a note for Sir Henry himself. But given the abysmal state of his handwriting, he usually worked with a partner who would take care of reporting back to headquarters. Much better all-around that way, and Sir Henry had said he would be sending someone.

Now, Rupert just needed to find them.

Peeking inside the breakfast room, Rupert saw that the Baxters weren’t there. He cheerfully asked the footman posted in the hall if they’d been down to breakfast yet and was informed that both Mr. and Mrs. Baxter had stepped outside for a turn about the gardens.

Rupert headed for a parlor with a nice view out the back of the castle. He spotted Mrs. Baxter easily enough, as she was pacing back and forth just outside his window. She was wringing her hands, and her face was a portrait of misery, which made Rupert wonder if something of a distressing nature had occurred.

Just then, Mr. Baxter came jogging into the scene. Unlike his wife, who looked distraught, Mr. Baxter merely looked annoyed. Rupert watched him grab his wife’s arm and try to drag her inside the house.

From across the garden, a woman’s voice shouted, “Look out! Above you! Move back, move back!”

Rupert sprinted for the door. As he flung it open, there was a heavy thump, and a spray of snow flew into the air. Rupert saw that it was a large carved stone of the same sort from which the castle was built. From the look of things, it had fallen from above, and it had only missed the Baxters by about two feet.

Clarissa Weatherby came sprinting down the stairs from the covered walkway that led to the orangery. She seized Mrs. Baxter’s elbow. “Get inside. Hurry!”

That got Rupert’s attention. He would’ve expected her to say, “Good heavens, what was that?” and perhaps fly into a panic, as Mrs. Baxter was doing.

But, unless Rupert was very much mistaken, the assassination attempt had not come as a surprise.

Clarissa Weatherby had been expecting it.

Rupert wondered if she was the agent Sir Henry had dispatched.

It made a certain amount of sense. Rupert had never worked with a female agent before. But Clarissa was terribly clever, and she had an undaunted quality about her. Rupert could only imagine that she was fantastic at her job.

Speaking of the job at hand, Rupert hurried over. “I say, did that stone just fall?”

“It did!” Mrs. Baxter cried. “Someone is trying to kill us!”

“Now, darling,” her husband said, sounding annoyed, “don’t be irrational. It was probably just a bit of loose masonry.”

Rupert didn’t know if Baxter really believed that, or if he was just making an excuse because he didn’t realize that Rupert worked for the Home Office.

Clarissa took charge. “Mr. Baxter, please escort your wife inside. I will check the roof and see what might have occurred.”

Now Rupert was sure Clarissa was his partner on this mission. Because there was no earthly reason for a guest at a house party to go up on the castle’s roof to evaluate its structural integrity. A guest would have alerted Lord Helmsley, who would have sent a servant up to have a look.

“I’ll go with you,” Rupert offered. She was his partner, even if she didn’t know it yet, and he obviously couldn’t let her go up on the roof to confront the murderer alone.

“Thank you, Mr. Dupree, but that will not be necessary,” she said crisply, already striding toward the back door.

“I insist,” he said, dogging her steps.

“There is no reason for you to go up on the roof.”

He snorted. “I have about as much reason to inspect the roof as you do.”

She peered over her shoulder at him, eyes narrow and flinty.

“Listen, Clarissa—”

She jerked to a halt. “What did you just call me?”

“Sorry. Miss Weatherby.”

“Now, Mr. Dupree, if you will excuse me—”

Rupert grabbed her elbow. “You’re heading the wrong way, you know.”

She glanced about, startled. “I’m… what?”

He steered her toward the northwest corner of the house, as the servants’ stairs back there were the only ones that went all the way to the roof. “See? You need me. I’ve been coming here for years, after all.”

She bristled but didn’t protest, although he could tell that it irked her.

He opened the door to the correct stairway and held it for her. “Thank you, Mr. Dupree.” She stepped in front of him, blocking his way. “I can handle things from here.”

“Not a chance,” he said cheerfully, slipping under her arm and taking the stairs two at a time. He wanted to be in front. The murderer might still be up there and, in the event that they had a gun, he didn’t like the idea of Clarissa being the first one through the door.

Clarissa ran after him, staying right on his heels. “Why are you so determined to accompany me, anyway?”

He slowed. He probably ought to tell her that he was working for Sir Henry, too. The operation would be easier if they could coordinate. “Because I’m—”

“Oh!” A startled cry came from the landing above them. Rupert glanced up and saw a maid bearing an armful of clean sheets. “I’m sorry, sir, miss. I didn’t realize, er…”

Naturally, the maid would be surprised to find two invited guests using the servants’ stairs. “Don’t mind us,” he said to the maid, stepping to the side. “We’ll be out of your way in a trice.”

Once the maid had passed, Rupert resumed his progress up the stairs. He took the steps two at a time, but Clarissa ran so she could keep up. “What were you going to say? About why you’re bound and determined to go with me to the roof?”

“Because I’m also—”

“Mr. Dupree?” Rupert glanced over to see James, one of the de Roos family’s footmen, silhouetted in the doorway to the second-floor corridor.

Son of a biscuit , these stairs weren’t nearly as private as Rupert had hoped. Probably not the best place to have a conversation about his top-secret mission for the Home Office and whatnot.

James’s expression was solicitous. “Did you get turned around, sir?”

Rupert decided it was best not to answer that question. “James, I’m glad you’re here. Rosalind Baxter just had a tremendous fright. Go and fetch Lady Helmsley and bring her to the back gardens post-haste.”

James snapped to attention. “Right away, sir!”

While he was busy with James, Clarissa managed to slip around him. Rupert ran to catch up.

Once she noticed him on her heels, she cast him a ferocious scowl. “Why do you not head to the back gardens as well? I’m sure you would be a great comfort to Lady Helmsley.”

“Because I am”—Rupert cut himself off as another startled maid came down the stairs—“a gentleman,” he improvised, “and a gentleman would not allow you to walk into a dangerous situation alone.”

She tossed her head. “It’s just a roof, Mr. Dupree. Not particularly dangerous.”

“Not under normal circumstances, no. But it’s bound to be icy up there, and it appears it might be a bit crumbly, too. I’m afraid you’ll just have to tolerate my company.”

She huffed but did not argue.

They had reached the top of the corner tower that concealed the door to the roof. Putting on a burst of speed, Rupert passed Clarissa on the outside, ignoring her cries of protest.

As he pulled open the door, he made a point of squaring off his shoulders so she couldn’t slip around him, but there was no need. The roof, which was wide and flat, was deserted.

But there were footprints in the snow, quite a lot of them. And wouldn’t you know it, they led to the stretch of wall just above where the Baxters had been standing when that rock came down.

He let down his guard as soon as he saw the murderer wasn’t about, and Clarissa seized the opportunity to slip under his arm. She followed the path of the footprints to the stretch of wall from which the rock had fallen, trampling much of the evidence in the process.

Rupert managed to find a few of the original footprints a little way off to the side. He bent over to inspect them. They were smaller than he’d been expecting. He pressed his own booted foot into the snow next to one, then removed it. The assassin’s footprints were a good inch shorter than his own, and narrower as well. He would guess they belonged to a small man or perhaps a woman.

Shaking himself, he hurried over to the crenelated wall Clarissa was inspecting. “Find anything over here?”

Her eyes shot to him, wary. “Nothing much. I don’t see any missing stones. Do you?”

Rupert did not. He did, however, notice a nice, thick stripe on top of the battlements where the snow had been scraped clear. It was obviously the spot where someone had pushed the stone over the edge. Leaning forward, he saw that, sure enough, the stone had settled just below.

“It looks like someone pushed it from here.”

“Pushed it?” Clarissa gave a forced laugh. “Good heavens, why would someone do that?”

Oh, right—he hadn’t told her yet. “There’s no need to pretend. You see, I’m—”

“Miss Weatherby?”

Rupert turned and saw Lord Helmsley standing in the doorway to the servants’ stairs, blinking at the bright sunlight reflecting off the snow.

“I happened upon Mr. and Mrs. Baxter,” the earl explained. His eyes widened as he noticed Rupert’s presence. “They said there had been an, uh… an accident.”

“An accident,” Clarissa said. “Precisely. It looks like you have some repairs planned, my lord?” She gestured to a stack of cut grey stones neatly stacked in the corner.

“Ah—yes. Yes, we do.”

Clarissa hugged her arms across her chest. “It would appear that the mason left one of the stones stacked perilously close to the edge.”

Between the fresh set of footprints leading from the stack of stones to the wall and the fact that all the stones were covered in a thick layer of snow save for one spot on top, where a stone had clearly been removed, even Rupert wasn’t dim enough to fall for that story.

But he hadn’t told Lord Helmsley the real reason he was attending his house party, nor was he prepared to. Rupert therefore shook his head. “That was deuced careless of him, wasn’t it?”

“It certainly was!” Clarissa agreed a little too ardently. “But I do not see any more stones stacked in a similar fashion, so I think we can conclude that the danger has passed.”

“Good to know.” Lord Helmsley peered at Rupert as if wanting to make sure he had fallen for this whopper.

Rupert made a point of smiling vacantly across the roof.

The earl nodded. “Come, Miss Weatherby, let us go and reassure Mr. and Mrs. Baxter on that account.”

“I’m sure they’ll appreciate that,” Rupert said. “Well, I suppose I’ll go and have some breakfast.”

“An excellent idea!” Clarissa cried. “Please, don’t let us delay your meal.”

Rupert let them make their escape. He would find a chance to have a little chat with Clarissa at the first opportunity, and they could coordinate their activities.

On the one hand, it would be nice to have a partner, especially a clever thing like Clarissa.

On the other hand, it appeared that danger had followed the Baxters to Helmsley Castle, making their task significantly more challenging.

His thoughts aswirl, Rupert trotted down the stairs.