The Nobleman and the Spy (23 page)
“I heard Hans-Friedrich and his mistress were felled by food poisoning.” Karl pushed for a little more information about his uncle. “Is that truly the case, or do you suspect foul play? Heaven knows the man has enemies.”
The count shrugged and walked over to the fireplace, then leaned against the mantel and stared at the cold, empty grate. “It appears to be merely spoiled food.
His mistress is already recovering, but Hans is an obese man who has indulged his vices for far too long. It is doubtful he has the strength to recover from this bout of illness.”
“My cousin Gerhard and the rest of the family?” Karl asked.
“Will be well taken care of. I shall make certain of that. With his father"s death, young Gerhard becomes a more important part of our family than ever.”
In his mind, the count already had his brother dead and buried. The lump of lead in Karl"s stomach grew larger and heavier as his suspicions grew ever stronger, but he still couldn"t know for certain his father"s plan extended as far as eliminating the present erbgraf. Karl scoured his mind for a way to subtly extract the truth from him. The man who habitually kept his most mundane plans a secret, even from his own staff, was not about to admit outright to such a diabolical intrigue as filicide.
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Abruptly the count turned away from the fireplace to face him. “We shall leave for home now. England has proven too dangerous for you. I will summon a carriage to take us to the train station, and we will begin the journey this very morning.”
“Run away? Is that the von und zu Neuschlosswold-Binder way?”
“It is when there are assassins on our heels and we need to discover why and how.” Father offered a thin smile, and for just that second, Karl felt that all his wild suspicions were just that. His father was a calculating and sometimes cruel man, but he was not so cold-blooded as to order his own son"s death.
“First the bombing, and now an attack at the train station. It is definitely time for you to quit this country and come home with me.”
At that moment, the hard, leaden weight spread beyond his gut to fill every particle of Karl"s body. His father, one of the cleverest men he knew, had made a huge error. He"d forgotten Karl had not yet informed him of the shooting at the station.
Karl had had years of practice schooling his face into emotions he didn"t feel: polite interest when listening to a dull diplomat, enthusiastic energy when speaking to a newspaper reporter. It was possible now to conceal his horror and politely return his father"s smile.
He had to get his father out of Lord Merridew"s house. The count had tried to have Karl killed there once before, after all.
“I believe you are right, Father. Let us leave immediately. After suffering such traumatic experiences, I find I"m quite homesick.”
The count tugged on the bellpull to summon the butler. He ordered hacks—no need to disturb Lord Merridew"s groom—to carry him and all his entourage, who were also here in Merridew"s home.
“You and I will leave first, I think,” he told Karl.
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Karl felt like he was feeling his way through thick fog as he tried to puzzle out what to do next. He must extract his father from Lord Merridew"s house before he put his uncle in any more danger.
He watched his father speak to the butler, and his ears rang. Karl still felt an unnatural calm, as if he watched from another corner of the room, and he wondered how long it would be until he"d feel a physical response to the truth finally confirmed. His father—dear God, his own father!—planning to kill him.
Despite the odd sensation of shock—or maybe because of it—he could still think clearly, and his mind raced. He wondered if Father was temporarily shelving his plan to eliminate him, or if he"d have his assassins attempt it again during the train journey. Going into the situation with no blinders on, Karl could perhaps not only foil any plot, but expose his father"s part in it as well.
He wondered if Jonathan still waited nearby. Dear God. Karl needed his help if he was to make this work without bloodshed. No doubt the man listened at the door. For a second, his heavy sorrow lifted at the thought of his shadow, his spy silently watching over him.
The things Karl had said to the count about Jonathan were dreadful, yet surely Jonathan would realize he had been acting for his father"s benefit. A pragmatic, logical man, Jonathan would have understood the subterfuge and not have taken those cutting words to heart…wouldn"t he?
The butler had scarcely left to carry out the count"s orders, informing his entourage, who would likely not be pleased at facing another long train journey, when Cohen erupted through the drawing room door.
“Your Excellency, you"ve returned!” He hurried across the room as near to excited as Karl had ever seen the laconic man. “Why did you leave Buckinghamshire?”
“And how did you know where I was?”
Cohen gave him a disgusted look. “I am good at my work, Your Excellency.”
Karl hoped so. “Did you tell anyone?” Like Smelter.
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Now Cohen looked sorrowful. “Did I not just say I was good at my work, Your Excellency? Naturally, no.” He shot a glance at the count, who seemed uninterested in the conversation, before he asked Karl, “May I be so bold as to wonder why you ask? Has something happened to bring you back to London?”
“Not at all. I did not relish hiding like a rabbit in the country. I was shaken up and not thinking clearly when I allowed my uncle to send me away. But I"m here now, and it has all worked out for the best. My father and I are about to depart for home. If you would kindly send a message to the hotel to have the rest of the men meet us at the station, I would greatly appreciate it.”
“Pardon,” the count spoke from his spot at the fireplace. “It"s a good idea to have Cohen return to the hotel rather than send a messenger. We don"t want to alarm anyone unnecessarily.”
Karl stared into Cohen"s shadowed, lugubrious eyes and willed him to listen.
“Yes, all right, Father. And thank you, Cohen. Send word. I need those I can trust around me now more than ever. And there was that man—he called himself Baker—at the hotel.”
Please, Cohen, recall the name Jonathan had registered under
.
“I was to meet him later. I hope he is still there. Please inform him I deeply regret missing him.”
A flicker of something passed over Cohen"s dark eyes, and he inclined his head.
“Very good, sir. I shall inform them at once.”
Karl released his pent-up breath as Cohen exited the room. He felt as if he were walking a tightrope that swayed over a fathomless gorge. One wrong step, and he would plunge into the abyss.
He strolled to the door and looked out as if he watched after Cohen. No sign of Jonathan in the hall.
Get the message, Jonathan. I need you.
His father said, “I hope you"ll be ready to go. Perhaps you should wash up before we leave. You are a mess.” The count sounded so much like usual, Karl The Nobleman and the Spy
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squeezed the kid gloves he held tight. He had to drive off the doubt. He must take action.
* * *
Think. Think. Stop feeling for a few bloody minutes. Cease the useless emotion.
Think.
And when he did, he suddenly saw the pieces were not right. The way Karl had stood in that room, so tense, practically shaking. And then there"d been the stories he"d told of how his father treated him. What had Gilley said about their relationship? Oil and water. Their manner with each other had been polite, but…
Reese drew in a shaky breath that might have been a sob. Emotion had come flooding back, but not all of it was pain.
“Mr. Reed!” Running footsteps and a voice shouting one of his invented names brought Jonathan whirling around.
Karl"s man, Cohen, was jogging toward him down the pavement, drawing curious glances from passersby. Children with their nanny, a maid with a shopping basket on her arm, a gentleman climbing into his carriage, all stared at the tall, dark-garbed man galloping along like an undertaker run amok.
He arrived in front of Reese, breathless. “Mr. Reed, I believe the erbgraf requires your help. I"m not certain exactly what is wrong, but he and the count are leaving immediately for Neuschlosswold, and His Excellency may yet be in danger.
He said something about Mr. Baker, and I know that he meant you. It would be good if you can return to the house. I must go to the hotel, though I am not happy with this order.”
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It was the most Cohen had spoken to him since they"d met. His suspicious, narrow-eyed regard was gone, and he seemed to accept Reese as a confederate, another man loyal to Karl von Binder.
Karl was in danger. And… “It"s his father, the count.” The words were out of Reese"s mouth before he knew he was going to say them, and it was only as he spoke that he saw the truth with crystal clarity.
“What? What is this rubbish?” Cohen asked, but then he simply stood and looked at Reese. “Tell me what you think,” Cohen ordered.
“All right. But I"ve got to go back.” They began to walk to Lord Merridew"s house. Reese wanted to run, but that might attract attention. And surely the count wouldn"t pull out a knife and—
“Herr Reed? You were saying?”
“I believe the erbgraf suspects his father of concocting the plot to kill both him and Merridew. And now his German uncle too, apparently. You"ve heard about the food poisoning? The erbgraf believed it was intentional.”
Cohen nodded. “I thought it odd, but such things do happen.” He stared at the lamppost ahead of them as if it held important secrets. Reese could almost see the cogs turning in his head as he assimilated the fact that his employer, the count, might be a killer.
“Herr Cohen, we must keep closer to Karl than ever and prevent this from happening.”
Cohen glanced at him. “Then where were you going?”
“I…I misunderstood the situation.”
They walked faster. Jonathan ticked through his possible courses of action with the ease of long experience. This was his job. It was what he did best.
Calculate possible scenarios and figure out ways to prevent—or instigate—a situation.
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“I will continue to observe from a distance,” Reese said. “You stay close to him.
Don"t leave him alone with anyone for a moment.”
“I"ve been told to gather the rest of the erbgraf"s entourage for the return journey to Neuschlosswold, but I"ll send a messenger boy to do it.”
“Dr. Smelter was one of the conspirators,” Reese informed him, and in a few brief words told him what had happened on the train back from Buckinghamshire and in the station.
“Ach, it is der Graf. The count. His own son. How many do you think are part of this plot? It would help to know what we are up against.” Cohen"s German accent grew stronger, the only indicator of any nervousness he might feel. Jonathan appreciated that he didn"t question the story. Evidently now that he"d decided to trust Karl"s faith in Jonathan, Cohen was embracing him completely.
“Perhaps only Smelter and one other confederate, but maybe more. Have you a firearm?”
“Several,” Cohen answered with the glimmer of a smile on his wide, thin lips.
“And yes, I know how to use them.”
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Karl needed a weapon. He wished he hadn"t surrendered Smelter"s pistol to Jonathan. He could use it now.
Since Karl had no bags to pack, as all his things were still at the hotel, he had nothing to do but wait for everyone else to be ready to leave—and to brood over the fact that his father wanted him dead.
And to try to guess what form the next attack might take. Another blatant attempt on his life would be ridiculous now. But the world was full of casual accidents waiting to happen. He might take deathly ill with food poisoning or clumsily fall from a fast-moving train as it crossed a bridge. There were many ways he could be eliminated, sooner or later if that was the course his father had set.
Karl knew from experience that once the count put his mind to something, it was as good as accomplished.
Lord Merridew"s voice boomed from the next room, and Karl wanted to curse.
His uncle had returned home too early. If Karl had to take action against his father, or if his father moved against him, he"d rather there were no witnesses.
His father"s shoulders went back, and his chin lifted. Karl knew the sign of impatience and suspected the count also wished Lord Merridew had stayed away from home longer.
The door opened, and Uncle Arthur, all enthusiastic smiles, entered the room.
“My dear count.”
Karl long suspected his uncle took a perverse pleasure in annoying his father.
The count despised an overenthusiastic manner. It didn"t make him outwardly uncomfortable—nothing did—but anyone who knew him well could see that his The Nobleman and the Spy
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customary stiffness turned rigid when faced with an outpouring of affection. From boyhood up, Karl had done his best to quench his widest smiles in his father"s presence. Uncle Arthur, on the other hand, seemed to save his most rapturous effusions for the count.
