Chapter 29

"I told you to focus on the task at hand, but even I hardly imagined you would be able to spend this much time apart from your new bride." Quixote was leaning against a tree in the center of the park, twirling a cane in one hand. He had a top hat and a flamboyant coat that made him look taller and stronger than he ever had before. Beyond that, a pair of pasted-on mutton chops and spectacles entirely disguised his identity. "I saw her myself, remember? She's a pretty little thing, and pretty little things are not used to being neglected."

Simon pursed his lips together in annoyance, turning to face his informant. "The sooner I finish this business, the sooner I can get back to her."

The truth was, Quixote's words hit too close to home. Simon could imagine how disappointed Bella was to find herself a newly married woman without a husband to show for it. At least, he thought he could imagine it. Bella herself gave him no indication that she was at all perturbed with their current arrangement. She smiled pleasantly at him whenever he announced his absences and greeted his returns with equanimity.

Perhaps she is glad to have some distance from me. That thought, more than anything, kept Simon at arm's length. He did not want to push himself in where he was not wanted.

The evening before, he had played a game of chess with Bella before they both turned into bed. He had beaten her, but not as handily as he had guessed. The game began with him making light conversation and not tending too much to strategy, but halfway through he had to sit up straight and account for the loss of both his knights and half his pawns.

"You have grown lax, Simon," she'd teased, her eyes dancing in the firelight. "I remember when you could beat James in a matter of minutes, and here you are up against the ropes."

"Up against the ropes?" He had raised an eyebrow, soaking in the laughter in her expression and the easy beauty she carried about her like a cloak. "Where did you learn such vulgar boxing metaphors?"

"It is not vulgar," she countered. "It is descriptive."

When he fought his way back to a reluctant checkmate, she had excused herself for bed. He, not at all tired, had feigned exhaustion as well just so he could walk her back to her bedroom door. His bedroom door, once.

She hesitated there, as though waiting for something.

"Good night, Bella." That was all he had been able to manage. The image of her stuck with him still as she had looked in the candlelight; her hair wispy and soft around her face, a half-smile curving her lips, the way her skin looked like marble in the darkness.

The look of expectancy had left her eyes at once, and she nodded politely before disappearing into her room.

Even now, buried in business with Quixote, Simon found himself wondering if he had mis-stepped somehow. He had not wanted to. Some childish part of him thought that if he did everything exactly right, he could win Bella over in the end. If he gave her all her freedom, and never demanded anything more, perhaps she could grow to love him. See? Childish indeed.

"What news have you?" Simon asked his informant.

"I thought you were the one who was tasked with bringing news to me." Quixote raised an eyebrow and, when Simon did not bite, looked mildly annoyed. "Fine, I was the one to arrange this meeting, so I shall be the one to offer you up a helpful tidbit. There is a gentleman by the name of Lord Tindall that Miller would like you to meet with before the week is out. I thought I would do you one better and arrange the meeting… today."

At this, Quixote nodded across the green at a lonely park bench. Upon it sat a middle-aged man in plain clothes, hunched forward as though in defeat.

Simon frowned. "If you have the ability to arrange a meeting, why don't you interrogate him yourself?"

"I'm afraid I have rather a nasty history with Lord Tindall," Quixote said, smiling. "A bit of a personal matter, actually—but I suspect he would see through any disguise I attempted and promptly refuse me any conversation. He needs someone from the Crown—someone he hasn't met before."

"Someone who hasn't cheated him at cards, you mean," Simon said drily.

"I am falsely accused!" Quixote gasped in mock astonishment. "If you must know, it was a matter involving his daughter. He doesn't think me fit for the lass."

"Which doubtless did not keep you from wooing her." Simon sighed. The intelligence community was a wily group indeed, but their morals were often a grey area. "Tell me why you think this man holds the answer to my question."

"Simply put, he was the last person to hold any paper orders about Wickham's assignments. He also was our contact for the hiring of petty informants on the mainland."

"The boy," Simon said, understanding.

"It is possible he knows nothing," Quixote said. "If so, it is bad news for you—more reason to avoid that lovely new bride of yours."

He turned and strode away across the lawn, swirling his cane with all the aplomb of a real gentleman. No one would have guessed he was the same scruffy beggar who had crouched outside Simon's flat only a week earlier.

Simon took a deep breath, steadying himself. He knew better than to rush into interrogations without thinking. It would do no good to frighten the man off, or to reveal exactly how little Simon knew about the situation. He walked over to the park bench and stopped a few paces away, putting a finger to his hat in greeting when Lord Tindall looked up to catch his eye.

Up close, Lord Tindall looked even smaller and more discouraged. Simon could see now that his clothes were well-made, befitting of his station, but there was not a shred of ostentatious style about the man.

He dressed as though he was used to being overlooked in social gatherings. He was not particularly handsome, nor particularly well-built. When he caught Simon's eye, he seemed to shrink back into the park bench, giving the impression that he was even smaller than Simon had originally thought.

"My dear Lord Tindall," Simon said, smoothly coming to take a seat on the bench next to the man, who slid as far as he could to the side. "I am afraid you and I have not had the pleasure of meeting."

"And yet you know my name," Tindall said warily.

"Do you know mine?" Simon answered, letting a casual smile play at his lips. It would play out well for him if Tindall thought Simon was completely at ease.

Tindall shook his head.

"A pity," Simon said, secretly relieved. If this could all be played out without further compromising his identity and the work he did for the Crown, it would be better. "Suffice to say we have a mutual friend." He paused, exaggerating the correction as he continued. "Or… we had a mutual friend."

Tindall looked around them in the park, clearly uncomfortable. "I'm not sure I take your meaning, sir. Tell me your name, and perhaps we can start this conversation as men who share common footing."

"You may call me Georges," Simon said, pulling his manservant's name out of thin air.

"Is that your name?"

Simon smiled as though to say, "What do you think?" but gave no further identification. "Our mutual friend died under rather suspicious circumstances, and I am investigating his passing for the sake of the Crown," he explained in an even tone. "I suppose you are familiar with the name Lloyd Wickham?"

The effect on Tindall's face was instantaneous. Simon watched with satisfaction as the other man paled and sucked in his breath sharply. "What of him?" Tindall snapped.

"You were aware that he was killed on the Continent, were you not?" Simon went on.

"I don't see why it is any business of yours." Tindall's face gave away what his words did not. Simon could see, clear as day, that the other man not only knew of Wickham's death—he felt guilty about it. It was a pressure point Simon wasted no time in exploiting.

"It is my business because he was a colleague." Simon let his smile, and all semblance of friendliness, drain from his face. "I am eager to know how it so happens that his papers made their way into your possession and, only a short time later, he is found out by the French."

"I acquired his papers quite legally!" Tindall protested, blushing a fierce red hue. "I was given them in the course of my duties at the administrative offices, and filed them away where they ought to have stayed. I did my work precisely as I was hired to, and I assure you I did not leak any information. I would never do such a thing. I am a loyal Englishman—"

"Please." Simon sighed inwardly. Hasn't he heard the maxim about protesting too much? "Spare me your explanations." Something the man had said stuck with him. "Did you say you filed them away where they ought to have stayed? Where are the papers now?"

Tindall blanched, and dropped his gaze to his hands. "I… I do not know."

"You misplaced them?"

"Not exactly. I know beyond a shadow of a doubt that I put them in the proper folder. I keep all such things in the study at my house, in a room that is locked at all times." Tindall swallowed hard. "But I discovered, after hearing of Wickham's death, that some of the papers were missing."

There was more to the story. Simon could see as much. He thought about pressing the man for more information, but had learned over time that a long stretch of silence can be as convincing in an interrogation as a threat or the right question.

Tindall shifted uncomfortably in his seat, and then blurted, "I did not know of her background at the time."

"Her?"

Having at last opened the floodgates, Tindall was a veritable fount of information. He spoke at a rapid-fire pace, as though his words were trampling each other to make it into the glaring light of day.

"I do not get noticed that often. You may not think it of me, but I can be rather shy and indistinct in social settings." He pulled out a handkerchief, but did not use it. Instead, he twisted it round and round in his lap as though he could wring the truth out of it. "I hardly knew what to do with a woman like her. She came to my house only a week after we met, and I was completely astounded. I haven't had a woman in my home since my late wife passed away, and never one as glamorous as this."

Simon pushed down the questions that tumbled forth. Who? What woman? What connection has she with the papers? Clearly Tindall thought he knew all of this already. If Simon revealed his ignorance, Tindall could very well clam up again and keep the rest of the information to himself.

"I did not make the connection at first." Tindall was near blubbering now, moisture gathering in his tired eyes. "Not until I heard about the boy they found missing. I went to check those papers as well, and realized that a stack of reports from France had been taken from the edge of my desk. Wickham's documents were missing too."

"Any others?" Simon asked in a deadly voice.

"Yes." Tindall named them, and Simon made a mental note of the titles. He would have to get the names to Quixote as soon as possible and pray that the compromised agents would have a chance to escape.

This lapse in judgment on Lord Tindall's part had set the espionage mission in France back significantly. It would take some time to prepare spies to replace those that were killed or removed from duty, and in that time countless pieces of valuable information would be lost.

For now, Lord Tindall had fallen silent.

"This woman you speak of," Simon asked at last. "What was her name?"

Tindall's head snapped up, and a look of surprise flashed into his eyes. "I thought you knew. I thought that was why you came here to speak with me—to chastise me for letting her walk about my estate unattended."

"There will be time enough for chastisement later," Simon said quietly. "For now, it is time for the truth."

"Why, Lady O'Mara—that pretty Frenchwoman who has taken London by storm." Tindall dropped his head into his hands. "I should have known she would not have pursued me for my personality alone. I should have known. She could have any man in the world—why would she have chosen me?"

Simon felt as though his veins had been frozen solid. Amelia. She turned at the center of everything he encountered as of late. She was there meddling with Lord Ramsgate and Bella. She was at every house party, every ball, and claimed every dance.

Here she was at the center of his work, as well. She must have seduced the ignorant Lord Tindall because she knew of his connections to the Crown. She did not go for one of the dashing captains closer to the action—no, that would have been too risky. Tindall carried no risk at all. He would be thrilled to have the attentions of a woman like herself—thrilled enough to let down his guard when she visited and allow her to wander about his home unattended. It was too simple. Simon felt ill.

"I must get the names you mentioned to my superiors at once," he said, standing. "Perhaps we can head off some of the disaster before it strikes."

"And what of me?" Tindall looked small and miserable again, cowering in Simon's shadow.

"Walk with me," Simon said, an idea striking him. "I have a thought for how you might be able to help right your wrongs. It will take some courage on your part, Lord Tindall, and the ability to keep a secret."

Tindall nodded, looking ashamed. "Anything," he agreed.