The earl seated to his left, a wizard at languages, looked distinguished as usual with his sleek black and silver-shot hair, but something in his demeanour had always put Stephen on edge. Involved in numerous cases on the continent, he was the member Stephen knew the least.
Another earl, to his right, was a leader of the ton and a skilled marksman. He had always reminded Stephen of a bulldog, and the image grew stronger the longer he stared at his blunt features and stubborn eyes. Stephen let his gaze slide away. The earl was a likable fellow of passing cleverness. Of the team he seemed the least suited to intelligence work. Yet Holt included him in most projects.
Continuing to the right was the baron whose features were as inscrutable as usual in his tanned face. The shadows concealed the lower portion of his face, but Stephen would have bet a five o’clock shadow had already appeared, the bane of his valet’s existence. The baron was a good friend and Stephen had always admired him for his ability to mask his emotions, a most useful tool for a spy.
The only other non-titled gentleman, whom Stephen referred to as Mr. Righteous, looked faintly bored with the proceedings, a strange reaction considering the importance of the topic at hand. The man’s pinched features usually looked to be on the verge of shattering but today appeared less brittle than usual.
Stephen wound down his presentation.
"In Paris, are you sure?" The duke looked aggrieved.
Stephen nodded.
"But how would it come to be there?"
"I believe-" Stephen hesitated as he looked at Holt, who was rolling a ring in his right hand, while stroking his chin with his left. The insignia design on the ring was a bird of prey.
Stephen had seen a ring just like it the night before.
"-it was moved two months ago. We still have time to eliminate it," Stephen continued, picking up his line of thought quickly. Dangerous thoughts were racing through his mind.
Discovering Calliope Minton alive, the ring and the spy list, all within a matter of weeks. Stephen didn’t believe in coincidences.
The men in the room continued to ask questions and plan strategy, as other questions circled through Stephen’s head.
The old but clear memory of his mentor’s dying expression came rushing back and he had to fight the need to hurry home. It was imperative he reach his townhouse.
Calliope’s maid bustled into the room. "Is there anything else, miss?"
"No, Betsy, thank you. Have the others left?"
"Yes, miss. The footman, Herbert and I are the last to leave." Betsy was bobbing and shifting her feet back and forth as if the floorboards had turned into hot coals.
"Have a good night, Betsy. "
"You too, miss." Betsy hesitated in the door- way. "Begging your pardon, miss, but I’d like to thank you for giving us the night off. Some of the others might think you’re a tad strange, but I think you’re an angel."
Calliope coughed into her handkerchief to hide her smile. "Thank you, Betsy, that means a lot."
"Good night, miss."
Betsy turned and sprinted down the hall. Her footsteps echoed in the empty house. Calliope smiled in triumph. Stephen owed her a lemon ice. He had been so sure Betsy and Johnson, the driver, had a romance. Calliope had put her money on Herbert.
There were two at least who were going to enjoy their free night. Hopefully Grimmond was having a good time too.
Calliope applied the finishing touches on her makeup. Tonight she and Stephen were attending a small party given by an aging roué.
She looked at the ornate clock on her table. There was still quite a bit of time before Stephen if would arrive. She picked up her sketchbook and started drawing.
A sketch took shape. Thorny rosebushes hemmed in the background. A garden bench faced sideways. A debutante leaned back against the bench, attempting to get away from a foul-breathed old man leaning toward her. A young dandy had one foot on a globe and was pinching the debutante from behind. She knew exactly how the girl felt. Stephen’s laughing presence had saved her on more than one occasion from bloodying a nose.
Some men were more difficult to handle than others. Although she had felt Angelford’s stare frequently in the past few days, he had refrained from approaching her outright. It was as if he had decided to end the cat-and-mouse game they had been playing for weeks. She wasn’t sure why the thought brought a stab of disappointment. Being away from his overpowering presence made it much easier to formulate sketch ideas. She flipped the page and moved her hand absently across the paper.
Calliope checked the clock again. Little time had passed. Why was she so uneasy? She looked at the new page. She was alone in a ballroom and the walls were closing in. Calliope blinked. Where had the notion originated?
A floorboard creaked. She whipped around, but no one was there. The silence of the house stretched. It was just the house settling, nothing else. Funny how one became so sensitive to noise. The Dalys’ house was always teaming with sound. From the younger boys bounding from room to room to the ragamuffin dog scurrying about, someone or something was always raising a fuss.
Stephen’s servants usually bustled about, but now the house felt watchful. Calliope shifted in her seat. She would convince Stephen to stay in his room down the hall tonight.
Maybe she should get a spot of tea to calm her nerves. She smiled. Tonight she could brew her own tea without receiving raised eyebrows and darting glances from the servants. Grimmond had nearly had apoplexy the first time she’d fetched her own drink.
Poor Grimmond had been uncomfortable leaving the townhouse. Calliope had almost needed to resort to pushing him out the door and latching it behind him. She had finally hinted he could check on how things were faring at Stephen’s primary residence. Grimmond had never complained about his interim role, but she knew he worried about Stephen.
She couldn’t wait to find out from Stephen how much bullying Grimmond had done in the few hours he’d been back.
The rest of the staff thought her a trifle odd; Betsy’s well-intentioned appreciation had confirmed Calliope’s suspicions. Giving them the night off had only increased their perception of her as peculiar. Peculiar, maybe, but every one of them, bar Grimmond, had disappeared as soon as their shift was complete.
The servants’ perceived notions of hierarchy excluded her from joining them. She had scoffed at how the nobility treated their servants. Yet her servants had not allowed her to treat them any differently. She poked her pen into the inkwell. She’d redouble her efforts to win the servants over. She wasn’t part of the nobility; the servants would eventually relate to her.
She sighed. She missed the camaraderie of the active theater atmosphere. But loneliness could be kept at bay. The endless parties and ideas were what she had wanted. And they were what she had received.
Calliope looked down at her paper. The walls had gotten closer and there were faces in the windows.
Tea. Go get some tea, you ninny .
The floorboard in her room creaked again, and suddenly the kitchen seemed a long way off.
Calliope gathered her remaining courage and descended the stairs to brew a cup and wait for Stephen.
* * *
The man gazed at the slim shaft of light coming from the townhouse window. The little filly was probably getting ready for a big night out. He spat on the sidewalk, and a snarl curved his lips. Fancy men and their fancy pieces. He had no use for the first, but the latter might make a fun bit of sport when this assignment was over. A wicked gleam lit his eyes. A fun bit, indeed.
Footsteps interrupted his thoughts. A young lad ran up the path toward the house. The man pulled out a baton and held still. The lad moved just past his hiding spot. Thunk. The boy crumpled lifelessly to the ground. The man stepped over the slight body and rifled through the boy’s pockets.
Picking up an envelope, he ripped it open and scanned the contents.
Cal , leave the house immediately. Take the carriage to the Dalys'. I will explain when I reach you.
Stephen
Good, the man thought. Very good. He looked up at the weak but steady stream of light from the window. No rush here. Nothing to tip the gal off. He could take his time dealing with Chalmers and finish here later. He rifled through the rest of the boy’s clothes, pocketing some loose bills and a most likely stolen pocket watch, and then he lifted the inert body and melted into the shadows.
* * *
Stephen backed against the cold railing. He was outnumbered. The rotten stench of the Thames drifted up to the bridge, but couldn’t quite mask the odor of the ruffians surrounding him.
They rushed him, and he managed to lodge a few damaging blows before the sheer number of hands beat him to the ground. Then their feet took over. He felt a heavy object hit the back of his skull and the ground became fuzzy.
"Enough." A tall man advanced to the front. His voice was low and masked like his face and hair. He was obviously in charge.
The attackers backed away, and Stephen gasped for air. He hauled himself up against the bridge railing. The pain in his head was excruciating and his chest seared. His insides felt like collapsed dominoes.
Stephen searched the small, blurred crowd and found no help, only bloodlust.
"Where is the ring?" The tall man asked.
Stephen reached behind him and felt the other side of the railing. He grunted in pain. "Go to hell, traitor."
"Too bad that’s your attitude, Chalmers. I believe we could have done business together had you been willing to be more cooperative. However, under the circumstances…" The man shrugged, and the gesture confirmed his identity. Stephen had spoken with him no more than five hours earlier.