Chapter Five

t wasn't Thursday, but Rafe had found himself at the tavern he and Chris used for their meetings anyway. Chris would be along, he was certain. Even if it wasn't the appointed day.

There at the scarred table at the rear of the tavern, he traced the initials they had carved beneath the very edge so many years ago, concealed from prying eyes—A for Ambrose; C for Chris; R for Rafe. When he had been younger and more idealistic, it had felt like a vow, every bit as solemn as the one he had sworn to king and country.

A fool's promise. Ambrose had betrayed all of them, and he—he had fucked his once-friend's widow. Not like a gentleman or a lover, but like a damned brute. A savage, rutting beast.

He'd made her moan his name, whimper it, scream it, and it had never once held any meaning. She didn't know him. He was a stranger to her.

It hadn't been him she had wanted in her bed. Anyone would have done.

It was never going to be him.

Another whisky down. The tavern served the worst sort of rotgut, and he'd likely be sick as a dog in the morning. The inevitable consequences were still preferable to the guilt. The shame.

"You have it?"

Rafe hadn't even noticed Chris' approach—but then, the tavern was crowded and noisy. And he'd been too busy trying to locate whatever absolution might be found at the bottom of a bottle besides. The tone of Chris' voice and the clipped, properly-enunciated syllables told him that he was hardly the only one aggrieved by the turn of events. Chris was making an effort—reining in his temper right alongside his wretched accent.

"I do." They had never attracted attention here, but it was habit to give a furtive glance around just to be certain. Satisfied that they were unobserved, Rafe slipped the little leather-bound journal from the interior pocket of his coat, and laid it on the table between them. The tavern's dim interior served them well; even Rafe had to squint to read the text carefully inscribed within.

Or…not read it.

"Bloody damned hell." Chris thrust his gloved fingers into the unruly strands of his hair, scratching at his scalp in aggravation. "A cipher."

Worse even than that. It was not, from what Rafe could glean through a cursory examination of the frequencies of the letters upon the page, anything so simple as a Caesar cipher; a simple letter shift or transposition. If it was the sort of cipher he thought it might be, it was unbreakable unless one were in possession of the key.

Which they damned well were not.

A muscle worked in Chris' jaw, and even through his gloves, the blunt edges of his nails carved divots through the aged varnish from the surface of the table. He was working up the nerve, Rafe thought, to voice what both of them were thinking.

They had never been certain. They had taken every precaution, made countless plans, rounded up a good number of the criminal conspirators with whom Ambrose had once associated. But they had never been certain that Ambrose's network of allies had been entirely dismantled.

For that first year after Ambrose's death, Emma had been watched like a hawk. Not only under their protection, but also under surveillance by a discreet cadre of other government agents. Their purpose had been twofold: ensuring her safety and ascertaining whether Rafe and Chris had been truthful in their attestations that Emma had known nothing of Ambrose's criminal dealings, the treasonous activities he'd gone to good lengths to disguise. That she was every bit as innocent of it all as they had claimed.

She had been. Of course she had been. But she had walked the precipice of ruin until at last the Home Office had conceded on the point of her innocence. And because nothing had happened in the interim—no suspicious figures lurking about her home, no burglaries, nor even the slightest suggestion of nefarious activities in her vicinity—Rafe and Chris had assumed that she would be safe. That if there lurked another traitor, another conspirator who had gone undiscovered, surely there would have been some sign of the man in that time.

But they had never been certain of it.

"We'll have to take it to the Home Office," Chris said. "To Sir Roger. He'll know—"

"No." The swift denial drew a narrow-eyed stare from Chris. It was second nature now, to be suspicious, in a way they had never been before Ambrose. In a way they hadn't suspected they might have to be. "No. Sir Roger didn't know Ambrose any better than we did, in the end. He'll not be able to break the cipher. We keep this between us for now. The fewer eyes upon it, the better." He didn't have to mention that neither of them wanted Emma to come beneath such strict scrutiny again, to be thrust once more beneath suspicion. It had been difficult enough to weather the first time around.

Ten years had passed, without incident. But the doubt he'd had over whether they had proved successful in routing Ambrose's conspirators had never quite abated. It had remained a dim, nagging uncertainty there at the back of his mind.

Emma was safe—only so long as they had, in fact, caught all of Ambrose's co-conspirators. Only so long as she never mentioned the journal to anyone else, even in passing. Only so long as they could find a way to reveal its contents themselves, before anyone else learned of it.

Neither of them had known Ambrose anywhere near as well as they had thought. But then, Ambrose had concealed his true nature for years. He'd been so damned careful around them, but—

"She was his wife," he heard himself saying. "It's…possible she knows something." Something she didn't even realize she knew. A word, a phrase. A favorite book or a Bible passage. A childhood pet or a school chum. A preferred meal or dessert, a flower, a scent—anything might be the key.

There was a chance, however slight, that Ambrose had not guarded it quite so closely with Emma. She would not, after all, have known what to do with the information even if she did have it.

"You want to go back to her," Chris said, and there was an edge of a snarl in the tone of his voice, menace in the way he flexed his fingers, cracking his knuckles as he did so. "Did you do it? Did you—"

"Yes." One word, and one word only, and Chris' chair scraped back as he rose to his feet, his fist flashing out in a clean strike that might've broken Rafe's jaw had there been just a little more force behind it. Probably it would leave the devil of a bruise anyway.

"You always wanted her for yourself," Chris said in a seething whisper. "She wants to see you again. And that's the only damned reason you're still alive."

No; he had always loved her. But he didn't think the distinction mattered much in this moment to Chris, who had turned away, shoving through the crowd of patrons on his way out. This time they had been noted.

They were going to have to find a new tavern.

∞∞∞

Sir Roger Banfield was an affable fellow, the sort that put one in the mind of a kindly old man. With plump cheeks, a plumper frame, a neatly-trimmed beard and mustache, and dark, bespectacled eyes that tended to crinkle about the corners as if he were always on the verge of a laugh, there was little about his manner and appearance that would suggest a master spy.

Except, perhaps, his proficiency in chess.

"What on earth has happened to your face?" Sir Roger asked as he moved his knight, neatly capturing one of Rafe's pawns.

"Nothing of concern," Rafe said, though he knew the bruise that marred his jaw must look dreadful. "Chris prefers to express himself with his fists. A minor disagreement, over and done with." He moved to reposition his bishop; the only safe move he could see at present.

"I see. Careful, you're going to lose that rook," Sir Roger warned, though there was a note of delight in his voice as he made his move and ceded the turn to Rafe.

He was going to lose his rook, Rafe knew, but he had been destined to lose it either way. Furthermore, he was going to lose his king—though not for a few more moves yet. Sir Roger had laid a trap for him and expertly maneuvered him into it. Now there was a bishop open for the taking; a tempting move. But to take it would leave his queen unguarded.

Blast. It was too late for regrets, too late to unspring the trap into which he'd blundered at least five moves ago. He'd lost the game already. It was merely a matter of how many more moves would elapse before his king was felled. He took Sir Roger's bishop.

Sir Roger chuckled as he snapped up Rafe's rook in return, and from there the game devolved into a full assault against Rafe's meager defenses. He had the sense that Sir Roger was enjoying himself a touch too much, taking pieces just because he could when the game itself might have been won moves ago.

"You're a fine player," Sir Roger said as he took Rafe's king at last, holding the piece in his hand like a medal he'd won. "One of the finest of my acquaintance."

"Not so fine as you, however." In all the years they had known one another, Rafe had yet to win a game against the man. Probably Sir Roger had not met the man whom he could not best in exercises of strategy. He had an ineffable aptitude for such things, which had made him amongst the most valuable resources within the Home Office.

"Ah, well, I've decades more experience than you have. Perhaps in another thirty years, you might give me a true challenge. Another game?" Sir Roger asked, as he began to replace the pieces upon the board between them.

"Thank you, no. I can stomach only so much defeat in one day," Rafe sighed.

"Ah, well," Sir Roger said. "If you've not the stomach to entertain me further, do tell me—have you anything to report?"

"Not much. Kerrich is engaged in an affair with Strafton's eldest daughter"—which, while ill-advised, was somewhat less nefarious than the crime of which he had been suspected—"and from what I have been able to discern, Bathurst's only crime is dodging creditors. He hasn't got the blunt to pay for those Hessians he's so damned proud of."

Sir Roger's mustache twitched over his lips. "Pity that your particular talents have been wasted upon things better suited to the scandal sheets than to true intrigue. If only I had gotten you a few years earlier. What a wonder you would have been in the wars."

He'd been a soldier on the peninsula, for just a few months—and it was there that Sir Roger had found him, and had recruited him for the Home Office instead. He'd been an agent of the Crown ever since. "Have you never tired of it all?" he asked. "I confess, I am eager to be done with it."

"Never," Sir Roger chortled. "Keeps my mind sharp, you know." He notched his king back into place and sat back with a sigh. "I do wish I could keep you a little longer," he said.

Rafe felt his jaw tense as he bit back an annoyed rejoinder. If he had had his way, he would've left service years ago. But he hadn't. Sir Roger had made certain of it. He might owe Sir Roger his gratitude for the loyalty he had given to Emma in the wake of Ambrose's death and the lengths to which he had gone to help them extricate her from the situation in which Ambrose had left her, but it had not come without a cost. For that reason alone, he felt just a little less guilty for keeping a secret of such magnitude from him.

∞∞∞

"You will be attending our ball, will you not?"

Emma paused, teacup halfway to her lips, as she belatedly realized that the inquiry had been directed to her. Three pairs of eyes had settled upon her, awaiting a response.

"Oh," she said to Lydia. "Oh, yes. Of course." Had she failed to respond to the invitation? The ball wasn't for another three weeks at least, but she had never been so careless as to let an invitation go unanswered.

"My goodness, Emma," Phoebe chided gently. "You've been woolgathering for the last half hour at least."

Had she? She'd been certain she'd made all the right noises, had nodded along when it had been required of her. She'd gone through two cups of tea and perhaps three or four sugar biscuits. There was a ritual, a rhythm, to their weekly teas, and Emma had long since learned it by heart. So it had been a simple thing to slip off into her own mind, and to let Lydia, Phoebe, and Diana carry the conversation for her in the meantime.

"I do beg your pardon," she said. "I suppose I simply have a great deal on my mind."

"Of course," Diana said, her face lined in sympathy. "And who could blame you. Ten years, now, is it not?"

What? Oh—since she'd been widowed, Diana meant to imply. The taste of shame settled upon her tongue, and she took a sip of tea, which failed to exorcise it. Of course, a good and decent widow would have reason to be distracted at this time of year, so close to the anniversary of her husband's death.

But she wasn't a good and decent widow. She hadn't been thinking of Ambrose at all. She had been thinking of the lingering soreness between her thighs, of the enduring pinkness that the rasp of Rafe's stubble had left upon her breasts, her throat.

Of course I am going to catch you.

"Yes," she said, hoping she had not gone as scarlet as she felt certain she must have done. "Ten years."

Diana rubbed one hand over her midsection; an absent motion she had recently acquired, no doubt due to the babe she carried. "Have you never given any thought to—"

"No. Never." She didn't blame Diana for her curiosity. Emma had been widowed even before she and Diana had become friends, and Diana had never known Ambrose. They had bonded at the Ton events they had attended, both of them left largely to their own devices, albeit for different reasons. But Emma was five years Diana's senior, married and widowed before Diana had even had her come-out in society.

"But you were widowed so young," Lydia said. "It's such a shame."

No; the shame was in having wasted three years of her life loving a man ever so much more than he had ever cared for her. Having wasted another decade in mourning, burying herself in her own grief when she might have lived instead. "I promise you, I am quite content as I am." A lie, but only a very small one.

"Frankly, I'm envious," Phoebe said. "I do wish I could simply decide to have done with the marriage mart. But Mama is convinced that the upcoming Season will be my moment of triumph." A long, low sigh followed, accompanied by the wry twist of her mouth as she selected another biscuit. "Do tell me you've left off as many bachelors as possible from your guest list," she implored of Lydia. "I'm not certain I could put it past Mama not to offer me up to anyone available."

"Well," Lydia said, her voice taking on a note of sympathy. "There's bound to be a few, to be sure. We could hardly snub those who are in town presently. But already we've received so many acceptances, I imagine it will be quite a crush. Probably you'll have no trouble avoiding them."

"Oh," Diana said, "That reminds me—will Rafe be in attendance?"

Emma choked upon a sip of tea, suddenly awash with panic.

"I don't believe so," Lydia said, oblivious to Emma's sudden disquiet. "At least, he hasn't replied. But then, that's not so very unusual. I've not known him to attend such things when it is possible to avoid them."

Diana made a tiny sound of aggravation. "Blast. I swear, my brother—"

Of course. Emma fairly wilted with relief, the rest of the conversation turning to noise as her pounding pulse began at last to quiet. Of course—Diana's brother. The middle one, whom Emma had never had occasion to meet.

Rafe. It wasn't so very uncommon a name. Perhaps it wasn't even his name, but only a moniker he'd adopted so that she would have something by which to address him.

The conversation moved on, and Emma found herself feeling faintly guilty. They had shared secrets between them, the four of them, for years now. A sisterhood that Emma had long cherished. She had been a trusted confidant when Diana had made the decision—however ruinous it might have turned out for her, had anyone else learned of it—to track down her missing fiancé. She had been among the first to know when Lydia had become pregnant with her son. She had been among the few to hold Phoebe's own secret—that she was doing her level best to avoid marriage, however much her mama might try to wrangle her into it.

But her own secret she kept. What would they say of her, if they learned that she had taken a lover? That she had taken a stranger to her bed, and had found herself discontented with a single night of passion? That she had, in fact, sent a message round to Kit almost immediately to ask the man to return?

Probably well done, if she had to guess.

But she wasn't going to tell them. Not yet, at least. Not just yet.

∞∞∞

A scratch at the door of Rafe's study. "Enter," he called.

His housekeeper, Mrs. Morris, cracked the door open. "Message for you, sir," she said, in a dour tone.

A small scuffle ensued in the hall, and a young, annoyance-inflected voice screeched, "Oi! Don't you pinch me! I'll give it to ‘im m'self!"

Rafe's brows lifted in surprise. "Mrs. Morris, have you got a child out there?"

"Says he was sent round with a note," Mrs. Morris said flatly. "I've told him to give it over, but he won't—"

"I got to get paid, don't I?" A small boot slipped through the crack in the door; a sorry specimen of one at least, with laces gone nearly to rot and water-stained leather that attested to a great deal of time spent out of doors in London's notoriously soggy weather. "I was promised a shillin'!"

"Not by Lord Rafe," Mrs. Morris said severely. "You ought to have gotten it from your employer."

"Ain't my employer," the boy spat. "Lemme go, you old bat!"

The boy was going to get his ears boxed at this rate. Rafe rubbed the bridge of his nose and sighed, "Let him in, Mrs. Morris. The sooner he's done with his business, the sooner he'll depart."

A brief pause in the skirmish, and Mrs. Morris sighed, "If you're certain, sir." She released her death-grip on the door handle and the door slammed open to crack against the wall as the boy burst inside, a scrap of paper clutched tightly in one fist.

He was perhaps ten years old on the upper end, and a scruffy young lad indeed. His hair was a few inches too long and looked like it hadn't seen the business end of a comb in at least a month, if not longer. His shirt was too big for him—probably someone else's cast-off—and his trousers had holes in the knees. There was a long swipe of dirt down his right cheek, which Rafe suspected had been there a few days at least. But then, the likelihood of this scrappy lad's family owning a mirror was low.

If he had a family to speak of.

"I'll handle the boy, Mrs. Morris," Rafe said. "He'll be on his way presently."

The boy thrust out his chin in a pugnacious manner, which Rafe assumed meant that the boy didn't intend to go anywhere before he had gotten his promised shilling. But Mrs. Morris knew it for the polite dismissal it was, and she closed the door as she left.

"What's your name?" Rafe asked as he pushed himself up from his chair.

The child blinked incongruously large brown eyes behind the mop of his bangs. "What's it to ye?"

"I prefer to know with whom I am doing business," Rafe said. He dug in his pocket for his coin purse and withdrew a shiny silver half-crown. The boy's eyes locked upon the coin—more than double what he'd been promised. "So I'll need your name and the name of whomever has sent you to me."

"Dannyboy," the boy said at once. "S'what my mum calls me. Dunno the man what gave me the note. ‘E was dressed like a toff, but ‘e didn't talk much like one."

Chris, then, no doubt. Probably he'd decided to keep his distance for a time, and had sent the boy with a note in lieu of a visit.

"The coin for the note," Rafe said, holding the coin out, pinched between his finger and his thumb.

Quick as the strike of a snake, the boy snatched the coin from between his fingers and pitched the note—crumpled into a ball—onto Rafe's desk. Even in the peaks and valleys wrought from the pressure of the boy's fingers, Rafe recognized Chris' spiky, inelegant scrawl.

From the fierce clench of the boy's hand around the coin, Rafe supposed he considered the half-crown to be a small fortune. He had a mum—or said he had—but if the woman let her son wander about the streets of London as ragged as he was, then it was a near certainty that the family as a whole was in dire straits.

Satisfied with his payment, Dannyboy shoved the coin into the pocket of his trousers and turned for the door. "Fanks, guv," he said, stretching his grimy hand for the door handle. "Gonna eat well enough tonight, I reckon."

From the set of the skinny shoulders beneath the bagginess of his shirt, Rafe supposed it had been at least a few days, perhaps more, since he'd been able to do so. "Are you in need of work, Dannyboy?" he asked.

The boy paused, retracting his hand. His dark brows scrunched down over his eyes, suspicion drawing his mouth into a pinch. "What sort of work?"

"A few errands," Rafe said. "Perhaps carrying a note from time to time. I'll pay you well for your troubles." Perhaps he'd send the boy round to Emma. She had a way about her with children. She'd better be able to ascertain the boy's circumstances, and would be well-positioned to step in on his behalf if she deemed it necessary. "Could you find the toff who gave you that note again?"

"I can find anyone in London," Dannyboy said, his nose tipped superciliously into the air. "Penny post would be cheaper, though."

"Penny post goes through more hands than I'd like," Rafe said. "You didn't let Mrs. Morris take the note from you. That tells me you can be trusted to carry correspondence." He let his gaze slide toward the crumpled little ball on his desk. "I'd prefer it if mine arrived in better condition than that, however. And, more importantly, unread."

"Can't read," Dannyboy said succinctly.

Rafe had suspected as much, but it served his purposes better that the boy couldn't—at least at present. "Good," he said. "Come back every morning, then. If I've a job for you, I'll give it to you then."

"And if not?"

"Then I'll instruct Mrs. Morris to give you a shilling and send you on your way. And you'll have a half-crown for each day's errands on those days when I've got work for you." It was more than the lad would earn working in a factory, and for easier work. But children—especially those that looked like street children—often went unnoticed on the streets of London, and Rafe would gladly pay a premium to ensure his messages were afforded a certain degree of privacy. "And you'll tell me at once," Rafe added, "if anyone intercepts you or questions you about my business."

"For a half-crown a day," Dannyboy said, "I'll kick ‘em straight in the bollocks for ye." With an impish grin, the boy slipped out the door and thundered down the stairs, and Rafe snatched the note off the desk, pressing the crumples out as he opened it, the prickly, sharp letters blooming across the scrap of paper. The message that Chris had deemed important enough to send to him through a courier, however young and ill-equipped for such a thing.

Midnight. Monday.

So. It seemed they both knew their duty, then. But it was his own soul that would be the worse for it.