Chapter Twelve

Rafe had been working on the journal for some hours already by the time Chris arrived, though still it had resisted his efforts. The day had waned into night already, and he had hoped to be back at Emma's before now, but a conversation was in order beforehand. "You came round the back?" Rafe inquired.

"I did. Got yer note. Can't say I were well pleased with ‘ow it arrived," Chris said, a scowl etched into his features. "The boy must've stomped straight through every puddle betwixt ‘ere and mine. Said ‘e'd been pickpocketed on the way, and was right pleased o' it."

"You weren't followed?" Rafe asked, flexing his fingers to relieve the cramping of his hand.

"Naw," Chris said. "Would've noticed."

Rafe rubbed at his aching eyes and sighed. "Damn."

Chris lifted his brows. "Ye want us followed?"

"No," Rafe said. "Of course not." But it was just further confirmation of what he had already learned. "I was followed home from Emma's this morning," he said. "I suspect my presence was noted, and whoever was responsible for breaking into her home sent someone after me as well. You've sent men to keep watch?"

A brisk nod. "The best I could get," Chris said. "If there's someone lurking about, they'll nab ‘im."

"Good," Rafe said, massaging his temples. "You know as well as I that a burglary so soon after the ball cannot be a coincidence."

"Didn't think it were," Chris said. "But to make a try for it so soon—"

"Desperation," Rafe said. "A rush job, no finesse, no subtlety to it. Whoever it was hoped to be in and out and to disguise their target with a simple robbery." And it might have worked, had he not lain hands upon the journal first.

"They'll try again," Chris said, in a low voice, and his gloved fingers clenched on his knees.

"Yes," Rafe said. "That's what I'm counting on." Set a trap and see who walks into it. "I sent Dannyboy with two notes this morning," he said. "One was for you. The other was for my inconvenient shadow. I was careful; I didn't let on that I knew he was there. Instead, I used Dannyboy to divert suspicion. I gave him a note, told him to make a production of having it on his person, in his pocket. To let himself be relieved of it did the man attempt to take it from him."

"Your shadow took the bait."

"He did," Rafe said. "He did—and he did not reappear at my home. Nor yours, it would seem."

"What was in the note, then?" Chris asked. "The one that got pinched?"

"A deflection, of a sort," Rafe said. "I addressed it to you. I wrote that I hadn't found the journal at Emma's."

Chris scrubbed a hand across his face. "Christ. You told your shadow of the journal?"

"Notably, I told him that I do not have it," Rafe said. "But the fact that he hasn't returned—and that you haven't been followed—has yielded more information than I expected." Rafe tunneled his fingers through his hair. "Whoever is behind this," he said, "must be with the Home Office."

Chris went utterly still and silent, his features freezing in shock. "Who?" he asked. "How?"

"I've no idea," Rafe said. "Not yet, anyway. But just think of it, Chris—my leaving Emma's house this morning might've been a curiosity, but it ought not to have been suspicious. There was no reason to have me followed."

"But ye were followed."

"Yes. And at the behest of someone with an interest in the journal." He watched the information settle in, the realization—they had always been so careful, the three of them. They had been matched together particularly because of their differences; they had shared no common friends, they had moved in different circles. Even their friends and family had not had the slightest idea of their involvement with one another. The true nature of their association had been known only to the Home Office, and they had been careful to meet secretly, only in places they would not attract notice.

Slowly, Chris said, "The note would ‘ave been meaningless if ‘e weren't in search o' the journal, and ye'd still ‘ave a shadow otherwise. And only someone from the Home Office would suspect ye o' having it."

"Just so. As it is, I have redirected the man, given him bad information he's got no reason to believe is anything but legitimate." That information would steer him straight into the trap that had been set for him, and keep the journal safe in its present location, free of the risk of burglary. "Best to let him—and whoever hired him—think that the journal is still hidden away at Emma's. We need time, still, to decipher it. It'll be safe here, so long as they believe it is elsewhere." So long as they were convinced that he didn't have it.

"Christ, what a mess," Chris snarled. "Any progress wiv it, then?"

"Nothing. You're welcome to have a look yourself." Rafe grabbed up the journal to pass it along, and beneath the pinch of his thumb, he felt—something upon the page. He rubbed the pad of his thumb across the spot, just there at the very bottom of the page. Nearly invisible, except when the book was held slanted—there was the slightest sheen there, as if the fibers of the paper had been…compacted, somehow.

"Give it ‘ere, then," Chris said impatiently, holding out his hand.

"One moment," Rafe muttered. Christ, how had he missed this? "I have…something." Rifling through the drawer of his desk, he withdrew a pencil. Slowly, carefully, he shaded the area with the side of the point, using only the lightest pressure to color just the unaltered surface, leaving the depression within unshaded.

Chris drew a sharp breath. "What is it?"

"A number. One hundred twenty-seven." Scored there, likely, with the inkless nib of a pen. Invisible, unless one knew to look.

"What the ‘ell does it mean?"

"Haven't the faintest." Rafe turned a page, let his fingertips graze the surface, carefully searching, searching—there. Another light pass of the pencil. "And here. Fifty-six."

"Lord Jesus." Chris rubbed at his face with both hands, sinking back in his chair. "There's one for every entry?"

"I'd imagine so." Which was damned troubling.

"It's not the key, then."

"No," Rafe said. "It's the key to the bloody key." The numbers must correspond to something, something to remind Ambrose of how to decipher a particular entry. And each number was different, no doubt representing a new key for each and every damned entry. There wasn't one key to unlock the journal—there were likely dozens of them.

They were worse off even than they had already known themselves to be.

∞∞∞

It was well past midnight when Rafe arrived at Emma's, as he'd promised. He hadn't noticed any of Chris' men skulking about, but there were at least four suitable vantage points that would also provide sufficient concealment. It was possible—likely, even—that he was being observed now, by both friend and foe.

Slowly and deliberately, as if he knew no haste, had no reason to suspect he might be under observation, he slipped the key to the terrace door from his pocket and unlocked the door. He was, after all, an invited guest.

The house was dark, but he knew the way well enough. Emma's bedchamber overlooked the terrace, and the curtains had been pulled tightly closed—no doubt the thought of someone, anyone, watching her from without had goaded her into it. There was just the faintest flicker of light from beneath her door, and he pushed it open to a room gone dark but for the dying glow of embers in the hearth.

Her bed was shrouded in shadow, and from within it he could see little more than the drape of one arm across the empty pillow beside her. Asleep already—but then he had been late. Still, he had promised he would come, and so he sat down beside her, brushing back a disheveled tendril of her bright hair from where it obscured her face.

She jerked awake violently at the touch, a ragged gasp bursting from her lips.

"Easy," he said. "You're safe. It's only me."

"Rafe." She breathed his name like a prayer, relaxing all at once. Perhaps she had fallen asleep in the waiting, but it had not been an easy one. Not peaceful, not restorative. Probably she had been plagued with all manner of nasty thoughts and restless dreams. "I'm sorry," she said, in a sleep-roughened whisper. "I didn't intend to fall asleep. The day has worn on me."

He didn't doubt it. "Has it?" he asked, as he unknotted his cravat. "Tell me of it, then."

There was the whisper of her breath across the surface of her pillow. She pursed her lips, her lashes flickering over her eyes. "You didn't come for conversation," she said. "Nor to hear me natter on about my day. I shouldn't like to bore you with such things."

"You never bore me." He pulled his shirt off over his head and tossed it aside. "May I be frank?" he asked as he unbuttoned the fall of his trousers.

"Of course."

"You're exhausted," he said flatly. "You've got shadows beneath your eyes, and you look in imminent danger of nodding off again." Probably she would do at any moment—only she'd sleep more comfortably with him present than she had alone. "I came because you asked it of me, and no other reason. I have no expectations of you." He hadn't any right to them, besides. What time and attention she granted to him was a gift. With one hand he drew up the counterpane and slid beneath the covers beside her. "Turn over," he instructed, "and tell me about your day. Until you fall asleep."

She muffled a yawn in her palm, but did as he had bid, shuffling toward the center of the bed and collapsing back in a puff of silky white sheets and flounces of velvet counterpane. As he climbed into bed behind her, Emma settled back against his chest with a sigh as if his very presence comforted her. "All right," she said "But first tell me…have you spoken with Kit?"

"I have." He draped his arm over her waist, and she laid her hand atop his. "He's placed men outside overnight for your peace of mind. You can sleep soundly, Emma. There is nothing for you to worry over." Rafe comforted himself that it was not a lie, exactly—it was just that he and Chris were entirely capable of doing the worrying on her behalf. Their burden, and none of her own. Just as Ambrose's activities had been none of her responsibility, this was not her problem to solve.

The last of the tension slipped from her spine. "Thank you," she said. "Probably you must think me very foolish."

"Cautious," he corrected, sliding his arm beneath her head. "Not foolish. You had a busy day, I take it?"

A slow nod. She turned her cheek against his arm with a sleepy little sound. "Robert is struggling with his Latin declensions," she said. "Nora has outgrown her shoes, and Colin has torn a hole in his coat. Amelia and Anna have gotten into some sort of feud and are presently not speaking with one another. Henry has acquired a dreadful cough, though the doctor says it is only a cold."

"Good lord. You keep all of that in your head?"

"I have a great deal of help," she said. "Nannies and governesses. Tutors for the more scholarly boys who might benefit from a university education. Josiah's interview for admittance to Oxford is coming up. He's frightened out of his wits, poor dear."

"Is there any reason to expect he will do poorly?"

A small shake of her head. "He's brilliant," she said. "Possibly the most brilliant boy I've ever had. I've never had a boy refused, and I don't expect him to be the first. But he is fretting about it something awful." She laced her fingers through his. "This is quite nice," she said. "I have always gone to bed alone. It never would have occurred to me just to—to talk like this."

Because she'd had a damned fool for a husband, a man who had not appreciated her.

Her breaths were slowing, evening in the cadence of approaching sleep. "Dannyboy came for breakfast again," she said.

"Did he?" Rafe asked. "I didn't send him." Perhaps the boy had misunderstood what he had meant when he'd told him to get it.

"He likes bacon and eggs," she said. "But I think—I think he likes the company more. I'm of the impression that he isn't much in the company of other children." A brief hesitation. "Perhaps you could convince him that he would benefit from a proper education," she suggested. "Say a few hours each week?"

Probably, he thought, she had begun to think of the boy as one of her own. "He'll balk," he warned her. "I'll send him, but you may find he causes chaos for you."

"All children cause chaos in their own way," she said wearily. "I'm accustomed to it." Another yawn, and he felt her lashes flutter against his arm. "Thank you," she whispered. "For coming."

"I'm sorry I was so late," he said. But he doubted she had heard—she had already fallen asleep.

∞∞∞

Sometime in the night, Rafe woke to the sound of a soft scratch upon the door. The sort of noise intended only for him, he thought—it hadn't disturbed Emma, who slept soundly still, her cheek pillowed in the cup of her hand.

The fire had long since withered to ash, and in the clinging darkness Rafe slid out of bed and pulled on his trousers, carefully creeping toward where he knew the door to be. His fingertips grazed the cool bronze of the handle, and he eased the door open.

Only faint drifts of moonlight pierced the hallway from the window at the end of the hall, but it was still enough to reveal Chris standing there, his hands tucked into his pockets as he waited in silence. Probably he'd picked a lock to get inside.

There was only one reason he could think of which would have brought Chris here at this time of night. "They've caught someone, your men," Rafe said, his voice pitched low.

Chris gave a short, sharp nod, and pitched his voice low, even and precisely enunciated. "An hour ago. Just outside, upon the terrace. Did Em hear it?"

The man hadn't successfully breached the house, then. Good. "No," he said. And he'd heard nothing either, so the scuffle—if there had been one—had been quick and quiet. "They brought him to you?"

"At once. Got him tied and locked up tight. Came to tell you as soon as they brought him to me." Chris lifted one hand to scratch at the back of his neck. "It was Jenkins," he said quietly.

Rafe felt his jaw go slack, a queer dizziness floating through his head, threatening to pitch him off balance. "Jenkins," he said, and felt his stomach sink with a kind of leaden resignation. "That means—"

Another nod, tighter. Jenkins was a Home Office asset—of a sort. Not practiced enough, nor genial enough, nor even subtle enough to have much value as a spy. But another blunt instrument to be wielded from time to time, as necessary, when subtlety was not a firm requirement. The sort of man who had few scruples, still less intelligence, and more than a little cruelty lurking within him not so very deep down. Hands already dirtied beyond salvaging to keep others clean. Not the sort of man the Home Office would ever claim, but one they used from time to time nonetheless.

The sort of man that Sir Roger used from time to time. Rafe's superior—and Chris'. And once, Ambrose's as well.

"We don't know," Chris said, and there was a sort of fragile futility in his voice. "We don't know it's him." As if by saying the words, he could make them true. As if he were grappling desperately for one tiny thread of hope that might negate the wretched reality of it all.

"No," Rafe corrected. "We have no proof that it's him." Because there was a damned difference, and it was a crucial one. "Jenkins won't talk." Not because he was loyal, but because he took jobs indiscriminately. He was not the sort to ask questions, who had ever wondered why he had been asked to do a particular thing. He cared only for the payment he received in kind.

There was every possibility—every likelihood—that he did not even know who had hired him out. He was accustomed, as it were, to receiving sealed orders from clerks within the Home Office. There would be no telling who had handed them off.

They had blundered into a deadly game of chess against Sir Roger, and they had just swept a piece from the board. Only a pawn, he thought, but the loss would certainly be noted. There was no telling how many more might wait in the shadows. There would be another move, and another, in increasing aggression, as was Sir Roger's wont.

Unless—

"Had he anything on him?" Rafe asked. "When your men took him?"

"A knife," Chris said, "and a purse. Twenty quid, or thereabouts."

Jenkins had been bought cheaply, though to a man of his status, it might have seemed a fortune. "Likely an advance payment," Rafe said. "Do you think you can get his home address out of him?"

Chris shrugged. "Probably. With the right encouragement."

A couple of broken fingers, then. Perhaps so much as a ruined kneecap. Rafe found that he did not have pity to spare for the man, who had thought nothing of invading Emma's home and had brought with him a weapon to do so. "Have your men ransack the place. Make it look like he's left in a hurry."

"Like he's done a runner," Chris said slowly. "Taken the money and run off with it?"

It was an inelegant solution, but the only one available at present. No doubt Sir Roger would be suspicious, but at least he would have no way to be certain that his man had been intercepted. No way of knowing what, exactly, Rafe and Chris might know of it.

And that very uncertainty would lend itself to yet more desperation, and desperation would feed into recklessness. Sir Roger had already made mistakes, thinking himself secure after ten years of safety.

"Jenkins will need to be taken care of," Rafe said. "Confined, perhaps, if you've somewhere sufficiently secure and remote." If only to sell the story that the man had fled into the night, never to return.

Chris scoffed. "The bastard had the gall to come to Em's house with a knife upon his person. He'll get what he deserves, and that's not confinement in a cozy cell." His voice dropped to a sinister snarl as he turned to leave. "Pity it'd attract too much attention were he to be found floating in the Thames. But there's other rivers in England."