Revealed (8 page)

“Out with it! Now!”

Marcus frowned, hesitating. On the one hand, it had taken too long to get face-to-face time with the director. On the other, a pair of prying ears was not three feet away. However, time was the most crucial factor, so Marcus squared his shoulders and pitched his voice low, hoping it was too quiet to hear through stone.

“Sir, I have received some information from trusted sources that perhaps an old enemy has found his way to London and is plotting . . .”

“Plotting what?” Unfortunately, Lord Fieldstone’s voice remained at normal pitch.

“I’m not certain, sir.”

“Ah, I see. And who is the old enemy?”

“I hesitate to say, as he’s meant to be dead,” Marcus replied.

“Ah, I see,” Fieldstone repeated. “And who are the informants?”

“A workingman who has been of use in the past. I trust his information.”

Lord Fieldstone set his jaw and took a moment to digest this. Marcus held his breath and knew all too well that he sounded a right blockhead. A street informant tells him a dead man is plotting something dire? And with this, he decided to accost the head of the War Department? Maybe he was boxing at shadows, but his gut, the one thing he never doubted, told him different.

“Worth,” Lord Fieldstone began, as he paced the room as much as his wide form and its limited space would allow, “you did incredible work during the war. Hell, I can name half a dozen times that the Blue Raven was the sole cause of any victory we could claim. But the war is over, twice now. You should be out having fun, dancing; or else, find a young thing and settle down in the country. Getting out of the city might be worthwhile at any rate. Visit your brother’s estate, breathe some country air. Don’t go hunting old ghosts.”

Lord Fieldstone looked up at him with fatherly sincerity, and for a moment, Marcus wished he could take his advice.

“Sir”—Marcus pushed his spectacles back up his nose as he spoke—“my instincts tell me this old ghost is no such thing.”

Fieldstone sighed deeply and resumed his pacing. After a moment, he stopped, turning to Marcus. “I imagine there is some reason you went outside the offices, directly to me with this, not to Sterling or Crawley or any of your collegues.”

“The information I received: I have reason to suspect it was generated inside the Security section.”

That piqued the older man’s interest.

“What is this information you speak of?”

Marcus produced a small scrap of neatly folded paper from his pocket and handed it to Fieldstone, who looked it over for interminable seconds.

“Did you write this list?”

“No, it came into my hands.”

“What makes you think this originated inside the section?” he asked gruffly.

Marcus took a deep breath. “The ink and the paper . . .”

“Neither is distinctive.”

“Yes, but both are the kinds used by the Security section. I know; I stare at them day after day. And do you see this small edge of wax? It’s the same as we use in the offices,” he continued, knowing he sounded ridiculous at best, delusional at worst. It was the thinnest possible evidence, and if it had been someone else, he would have likely been disbelieving as well. “My lord, I have a gut instinct about this. And I trust it.” He drew Fieldstone’s attention to his face. “And so have you.”

Lord Fieldstone exhaled as he looked over the list again, seemingly considering his options. Then, “Your information is spotty, at best, you know.”

“I know it.”

“I cannot sanction any action you would choose to take in this matter, you realize.” He handed the paper back.

“I understand, sir.”

“Do you?” Fieldstone sighed and looked up at Marcus, who stood rigidly at attention. “Worth, if I promise to look into this matter, discreetly, will you fall back and allow me to do the inquiry?”

“For as long as I can, sir.” Marcus replied. “Some of the events on the list—they are set to occur within a matter of weeks.”

“Fair enough.” Fieldstone said, turning to the door. “Now, I’m going back down to the party. In five minutes’ time, I am sending a footman up here to lock this door from the outside. I suggest a good night’s sleep for you, Worth.”

“Yes, sir.”

But by that time, the door had already swung shut behind Fieldstone, allowing Marcus to ease his stance and chance exhaling.

His actions would not be supported. Well, he had guessed that. And the minister of the War Department thought he might do well with a respite at Bedlam. Disappointing, but not wholly unexpected. But Fieldstone himself promised inquiry, and he was not barred from investigation, which was all he needed.

Before he’d taken over the War Department, Fieldstone had been a cracking good investigator. He’d ask the right questions of the right people. And, if something unfortunate should occur to Marcus in the meantime—well, he wholly believed in being prepared. He never operated without a backup in place. Without someone he trusted knowing his intentions.

Unfortunately, in this instance, he had been forced by circumstance to also reveal them to someone he suspected was less than completely trustworthy.

Stalking over to the sarcophagus, he wrenched it open easily, revealing Phillippa Benning lying with her hands crossed over her body, eyes closed tight, newly covered in more dust. She looked almost innocent and, of course, slightly dead. But God bless her, Marcus thought, he could see her listening.

“It’s just me,” he said, his voice a little gruffer than had been intended. “Overhear any good conversations recently?”

Her eyes opened, found his, and locked to them. She stared at him somewhat weirdly, as if she was trying to memorize something. But he couldn’t be bothered to ask what.

“For heaven’s sake, it’s just me. Get up now; we haven’t much time.” He offered a hand, pulling her up and out. “I fear your dress is beyond saving now. We’ll sneak you out the back. And Mrs. Benning, it goes without saying that you would do well to forget what you saw and heard tonight.”

“Why? Because if I tell anyone I’ll be arrested as a French sympathizer?” she said with a queer sort of smile.

An eyebrow went up. “It’s a possibility. But I was warning you against the implications of having to explain how you came across such information. I fear far more people would be interested in how you came to be in that sarcophagus than in what you overheard while inside.”

“Oh,” she said, looking momentarily downcast, her brow furrowing, obviously stumped by the rightness of his assumption. Then she looked up at him with a smile. “Fear not, good sir, I am well willing to forget what I heard. And I could merely hope that you do the same, if you please.”

“I’ll forget yours, if you forget mine?”

“Seems fair, reasonable. Polite, even.”

He had just reached for the door handle, but her words made him turn and smile. “Do you see? That was simple enough. I told you the best way to assure my silence—”

“Was what?”

“Why, to ask me, politely.”

Three minutes later, at about the same time one of Lord Fieldstone’s footmen arrived at the library door to find it not only ajar but with a long trail of dust leading from it down the corridor, Phillippa found herself bundled quickly into a hired hack at the back gate of the Fieldstones’ garden. But suddenly it didn’t matter to her that her dress and her hair were an awful mess or that the hack was not her own soft, velvet-upholstered carriage. She was still too stunned by the very idea, the implications of what she had overheard.

Was it true?

Could it be possible?

Was unassuming, unnoticeable, surprisingly affable Marcus Worth . . . the Blue Raven?

H
IS exploits were legendary: During the war, the papers had been crammed with details of his heroics. His prowess. His renown. He was rumored to have “removed” as many French from power as the guillotine had some twenty years before. And his cunning, his guile, unmatched. It was said he could slip into a bedchamber and steal a wife’s jewelry and her virtue all without waking her husband.

He was the Blue Raven.

The most infamous spy in all of England.

Generally, infamy is a negative in the career of a spy, but luckily, anonymity was preserved in that no living soul knew who laid claim to the sobriquet.

Until now, that is.

Phillippa could keep her countenance, she told herself several times over the course of the morning. (For indeed it was morning, having been sent home the night before and fallen asleep at an unprecedentedly early hour, she, therefore, was awake in similar fashion. Her maid nearly died of shock.) Yes, she was well able to hold her tongue. She could keep a secret as safe as a tomb. And did so.

For a whole hour.

Luckily, for herself as well as others, her chosen confidant was sworn to secrecy.

“Could he be? Is it even possible?” she whispered.

Bitsy, her Pomeranian secret keeper, didn’t react much to Phillippa’s question. He seemed far more interested in the breakfast ham.

Phillippa obligingly fed him a piece under the breakfast room table and was rewarded by a sympathetic nuzzle. Bitsy was wearing the rubies today. Phillippa thought them less impressive than the sapphires, but as Bitsy wasn’t to leave the house today (sadly, he could not stay away from the Warwicks’ déclassé basset hound when it was in heat), it was permissible if he dressed down.

Only occasionally did Phillippa regret naming her male dog Bitsy, but to be fair, she had been unaware of his gender until it made itself clear, and by then, Bitsy was already becoming more of a Bitsy by the moment. He seemed to really respond to the jewelry.

After that brief interlude of pet fashion, Phillippa’s mind returned to the subject at hand. If Marcus Worth was the Blue Raven, it would be nearly impossible to prove. The Blue Raven moved like mist, it was said, and was nearly as difficult to take hold of. However, it would be relatively easy to disprove, would it not? Simply fix the location of Mr. Worth when it was known the Blue Raven was elsewhere. He had been involved in the war, she knew that much.

“But then again, so was just about every young man not lucky enough to be firstborn or sermon-minded,” she said, receiving a quizzical look from Bitsy. “If we can place his regiment in, say, Spain, when it was known the Blue Raven was in Paris, why, that could be very damning evidence against!”

“What could be damning evidence?” came a voice from the doorway of the breakfast room.

Phillippa turned to find her inattentive companion, Mrs. Tottendale, garbed in a dressing gown and looking all the blearier from the night’s festivities.

Mrs. Tottendale was a dear friend of Phillippa’s mother, who, when Alistair died so suddenly, had been happy to stay with Phillippa when her mother could not. The Viscountess Care had pressing social obligations that the death of a son-in-law could not abate. Phillippa understood.

And Totty had been a great comfort to Phillippa. Totty, in turn, found her lodgings (and the well-stocked cellar) in Benning House to be very comfortable, so she simply never left. Phillippa was glad of it. She knew it was invigorating for Totty to have found a new purpose in life as her companion after suffering the disappointments of a son and husband who both died too young. And much like Bitsy, Totty needed Phillippa as much as Phillippa needed her. Totty was harmless, and she was delightful in her way.

Just not in the mornings.

“Good God child, what makes you so bright at this hour? No, Leighton, no toast, just the tea and a tomato juice, if you would be so good.” Mrs. Tottendale seated herself opposite Phillippa, and visibly winced when she looked at her. “Child, can’t you do something about your hair?”

“My hair?” Phillippa questioned, arched voice and eyebrow.

“It’s far too shiny. The reflection is hurting my eyes. Oh, thank you, Leighton.” Once the requested fluids were placed down, Leighton, a man of such high thought and morals that his nose was perpetually stuck at an upward forty-five-degree angle, was quelled by one small look into wheeling over the sideboard tray to Mrs. Tottendale’s elbow. This was established routine.

After selecting her chosen decanter and pouring a decidedly liberal amount of liquor into her tomato juice, Mrs. Tottendale kicked back her morning constitutional and addressed her young hostess.

“You were saying something about evidence?”

“Well, I—”

“And where did you get off to last evening? I was halfway to the Norriches’ card party before I realized you were not with me.”

“I had a headache—decided to call it an evening and left from the Fieldstone affair.”

“The Fieldstones! So early! Not even Lady Draye’s?”

Phillippa shook her head and was once more thankful for lack of chaperonage. Before she was married, Phillippa’s mother would have been apoplectic had Phillippa left a party early, ruining a dress with dust in the process. Now, her mother was off somewhere with a Spanish Count, and Phillippa’s mistakes were hers to make.