The Emperor's Assassin (13 page)

Morton swirled his brandy in his crystal glass. “I'm sure you have, Captain. You at least have served during the wars. It was my lot to chase criminals through the streets of London, and very few of them were even French, let alone agents of Bonaparte.”

Westcott raised a glass to Morton. “I think we understand each other, Mr. Morton. And it seems that we might be of assistance to each other as well.”

“I will tell you honestly that I would be grateful for any help,” Morton admitted. “I'm something out of my depth in this. D'Auvraye's secretary suggested that Madame Desmarches was murdered by Bonapartists. He even provided a list of names of men he thought likely. But what confuses me is that Bonaparte is in chains—figuratively, at least. What could possibly induce his supporters to torture and then murder d'Auvraye's mistress? Could d'Auvraye, in his rather nominal position, be in possession of… state secrets that others would kill to know?”

“Well, there are secrets and there are secrets, aren't there? Of the more trivial kind, he might possess many; of the genuine variety, rather fewer, I would guess.
Certainly someone might think the count knows more than he actually does.”

Westcott caught the attention of a servant and asked for more brandy. He sat back in his comfortable seat; the clubs vied with one another to provide the most luxurious chairs. “I shall have to look into this. At the moment there is nothing I know of d'Auvraye's activities that would justify someone torturing his mistress in hopes of gaining information. However, there are gentlemen, even within the confines of these walls, who might tell me differently. Let me see what can be learned.” He looked over at Morton. “The count's secretary gave you a list?”

Morton retrieved the list from his waistcoat pocket and slid it across the polished table. Westcott unfolded the paper and examined it. A smile crossed his face. He laughed in spite of himself.

“I'm pleased this entertains you,” Morton said.

Westcott could not stop smiling, and Morton, though not sure of the joke, found himself smiling as well.

“Do excuse me, Mr. Morton. It appears to have taken quite a number of Frenchmen to torture and murder this poor woman. How many names are here?”

“Twenty-two.”

“She must have been formidable.” He laughed softly. “Some of the men whose names are recorded here have been dead for not a few years.” Westcott looked up at Morton over the paper. “How did the secretary arrive at this list?”

The memory of Rolles diligently writing at the small desk came back to him, and Morton found his anger beginning to simmer. “Are none of them, then, agents of Bonaparte?”

“Several of them are—or were—suspected of this, yes.” Westcott waved a hand at the list. “But look here: Pierre-Etienne Lalidreaux. We put him in front of a firing squad in Halifax in the year eleven. I'm glad to know he's still suspected in a murder that happened this week!”

Morton tried to smile. “I'm told these royalists have long memories.”

“Yes, yes, I know—‘they've forgotten nothing and have learned nothing. ’ But this is extraordinary even by that standard.”

“I have wondered if Rolles gave me this list to divert my attention from his master.”

“Perhaps so, though when you have the mistress of a prominent royalist subjected to thumbscrews, you can't help but look to the Bonapartists. Let me see,” said Westcott more seriously, and studied the list again. “There are only so many men who could do such a thing. It takes a colder heart than most would realise. You will want to have words with De la Touche, and this man Niceron. They have both been busy in England as recently as last year, and they would apply thumbscrews to an infant if they thought it would further their cause. Mind, much has changed in a year. If not them, perhaps Guillet de la Gevrillière—he'll probably be going under the name William Roberts over here. He passes for an Englishman almost as easily as I pass for French.”

“And where would I find these gentlemen?”

“They move about, never lodging in the same place more than a few days. They are wary and rather ruthless, though they do not like to draw attention to themselves, which keeps their worst inclinations under control. I should add that at this point they are likely desperate and perhaps disillusioned. I wish I could offer
you more assistance, Mr. Morton, but at the moment what we have here is merely a somewhat suspicious murder. If you gain information that indicates with some surety that it was politically motivated and not merely an act of personal revenge… well in that case, please contact me immediately and I will speak with my superiors.”

“Kind of you to give me the time you have, Captain.” Morton placed hands on the arms of his chair as though about to rise. “I realise it is not the function of the Royal Navy to solve murders for the Bow Street Magistrate.”

Westcott raised his hands, as though he'd accidentally offered offence. “I should like nothing more than to assist you in every way, Mr. Morton, but I was ordered by my superior to merely enquire into this matter just to see if it might be of interest. Personally, you may ask anything of me, and if it does not compromise my duties to the Admiralty, I shall do everything in my power to assist. I will certainly ask about to see if I can find more of d'Auvraye's activities here. You may count on that.”

“Very generous of you, Captain Westcott.”

Westcott smiled. “But of course, gentlemen say such things all the time and don't mean them. I rather go against my caste in that regard. I've always been damnably earnest.” A self-deprecating laugh escaped him.

The two men rose, Westcott motioning for Morton to precede him. On the way out they passed Morton's dissolute half-brother, still snoring in his chair, sprawled like many a drunk Morton had seen in less lofty surroundings. He could not help but feel a certain sense of satisfaction at the sight—and a sharp jab of the resentment that never quite went away.

As Morton stood on St. James's Street, where he had parted with Geoffrey Westcott, the sight of the Honorable Robert Richardson, fresh from the gaming room and insensible from drink, would not leave his mind. The young buck's demeanour had not been suggestive of a successful night at the tables.

When he was certain Westcott was out of sight, Morton went back into the club, greeting the footman who had just seen them out.

“Sir?” the man asked, for Morton had both the manner and dress of a gentleman, if not the property.

“I believe I left my snuffbox on our table.”

“I'll have someone fetch it—”

But Morton slipped by the man with a smile, trusting that Westcott's standing would grant him a brief immunity from exclusion. “No need to trouble yourself. I know right where it is.”

Morton had spent many hours talking to servants in his capacity as a Runner—not that men and women in service were more larcenous than those in other occupations, but they always knew more of the functioning of a house than the people who employed them. As such, their knowledge was invaluable. Perhaps Morton's own history made him particularly suited to dealing with the servants, but no matter how it was explained, he had a touch with them, whether it was through flattery, his apparent respect for their work, or by bribery and “persuasion.”

The servant he required was quickly found—the keeper of the gambling book.

“Do you wish to make a wager?” the man asked, eyeing Morton, who was certainly not a member, at least
not one who frequented the club with regularity. He was, however, too polite to simply ask, for fear of giving offence. A nearby door swung open, and the clatter of Hazard dice echoed hollowly.

“Not today,” Morton said jovially. “I don't feel that lucky.” Morton was quickly sizing the man up, wondering which approach would prove most profitable. “I'm curious about a wager, though.”

The man raised an eyebrow, and Morton quickly went on.

“To be perfectly honest, I'm worried about the degree of indebtedness of my… cousin. Though, of course, he'd be mortified to know I'd enquired.” Morton leaned close and spoke quietly, slipping the man some silver as he did so. “I might arrange to eliminate his debt for him, if I could.”

“Excuse me, sir, but I'm uncertain to whom we refer.”

“Lord Robert, son of Viscount Richardson.”

“Ah.” The man offered a relieved smile. “No need, sir, for he has no debt.”

Morton noticed the servant who had let him in hurrying past, clearly looking for someone. The Runner shifted a little, putting the servant to whom he spoke between himself and the door. “Why, you surprise me!” Morton said, and then quietly: “His debt was but recently substantial—or so I was informed by Lady Caroline.” Morton reached into his pocket for more silver.

“Yes, but it was paid in full two days past.”

“That
is
good news!” Morton responded. “I can't tell you what relief you have provided for my worries. I can hardly thank you enough. Odd, though—the viscount is travelling. But of course it was some other, was it not? Some other who paid down Robbie's debt?”

The man was beginning to look uncomfortable, as
the cost of the information quickly rose. The footman passed again.

Encouraging nods, and what Morton hoped was a reassuring smile. The servant hesitated. The footman spotted Morton and set off across the room toward him.

Morton thrust his remaining coins into the man's hand.

“Mr. Wilfred Stokes, sir.”

“Of course it was!” Morton said with relief. “Who loves Robbie more than I, I ask you? Wilfred Stokes.” Then, conspiratorially: “But never a word of this. I won't have Robbie know I even enquired.”

The man nodded.

Morton managed only a few steps before he was intercepted by the footman.

“Ah, thank goodness,” the Runner said as the man caught him. “I'm completely turned around.”

“This way, sir. Did you find what you were looking for?”

Morton patted a pocket. “Indeed. I found it and more.”

Out on St. James's again, it occurred to Morton that there was another source of information on the French expatriate community that he had not yet consulted. And this gentleman was too close at hand to ignore.

L
ucy Hammond stood in line trying to ignore the itch that tormented her right knee. Miss Cork, her teacher, was looking elsewhere, and Lucy began to inch her hand down her thigh, but she sprang back to attention when her teacher turned back toward the little muster of students.

They were on the Plymouth Hoe again, gazing out over the sound toward a ship of the line anchored there. Of course, Lucy had been up close to this very ship. Too close, by her estimation. She was not really interested in seeing it again, but she'd never looked through a field glass and was anxious to give it a go.

The brass instrument was mounted on some kind of tall stand, so that the girls had to stand on a wooden crate to reach it. The young first lieutenant, who Lucy noticed was sweet on Miss Cork, stood by protectively, clearly a bit apprehensive about the fate of his glass.

Lucy thought he was a fair-looking cove, but then she'd seen such men in the Otter House, and they were anything but fair. She closed her eyes a moment at the
thought. The Otter was the place Mr. Morton and Mrs. Malibrant had rescued her from. It was gone now, burned down, but before that it had been a nanny-ken—to put it more bluntly, a brothel. A brothel that specialised in little girls of Lucy's age.