Peregrine's answer shook the lawyer's careful control. "Good God," Slade gasped, "what you are suggesting is unbelievable."
"Unbelievable, perhaps, but not impossible," Peregrine murmured. "The fact that it is unbelievable would be Weldon's best protection. While I have no evidence, my instincts tell me that if you look in the directions I have indicated, you will discover something. I rely on you to find the needle in the haystack, Benjamin, and to do it with the utmost discretion."
The lawyer nodded, still stunned. "If it is there, I swear that I shall find it."
Peregrine sipped his tea, satisfied. A vital thread was about to be spun in the web forming around Sir Charles Weldon.
* * *
The unpredictable English weather had cooperated to make Lady Sara's party a success, and the colorful dresses of the female guests were like flowers strewn across the sunlit garden of Haddonfield House. Food, drink, and conversation, mankind's basic entertainment, were all plentiful. As voices and laughter rang through the summer-scented air, footmen circulated among the guests with trays of drinks and gentle strains of music emanated from an invisible chamber quartet.
Having just arrived, Peregrine and Lord Ross stood at the edge of the garden, their height giving them an advantage in viewing the guests. As the Englishman made low-voiced comments about what could be expected of the event, Peregrine listened with only half an ear. Though his face was calm, internally he vibrated with anticipation. Today, after twenty-five years of waiting, he would meet his enemy face-to-face.
Narrowing his eyes against the sun, Ross said, "I don't see Weldon yet, but he will certainly be here before the afternoon is over. Will you recognize him?"
"I will recognize him," Peregrine said softly. Even in the darkest circle of hell, he would know Weldon. There was a slight chance that the recognition would be mutual, though Peregrine had been only a boy of ten at their last meeting. The possibility added a savory dash of uncertainty to the upcoming encounter.
Revenge would be less satisfying if Weldon were an unknowing victim. But that would not happen, for eventually the Englishman would realize that he was prey and would strike back. The final battle would be fierce, for Weldon was on his own turf, with vast resources at his command.
If by some freak chance Weldon managed to destroy his stalker, he would still die himself at the hands of an assassin activated by Peregrine's death. Not a sportsmanlike action, but Peregrine had little use for the English concept of sportsmanship, which was a luxury for men who were not in danger of losing anything of real importance. No matter what happened, Weldon would die, after what he valued most had been taken from him. The only major variable was whether Peregrine himself would survive, and that was not a vital question.
Ross's voice interrupted his musings. "Are you ready to be introduced to some of your fellow guests?"
Peregrine gave him a lazy smile. "You cannot imagine how much irony there is in the fact that I am here in London, about to be plunged into the heart of respectable English society."
"You make yourself sound like a dagger," Ross said dryly. "Perhaps I can't fully appreciate the nuances, but I see that you find the situation vastly amusing."
"Indeed," Peregrine murmured. Glancing across the crowd, he asked, "Which of the lovely ladies is my hostess?"
"Look for the most beautiful blonde." Ross scanned the crowd, then nodded in the right direction when he found her. "There's Sara, under the tree on the far side of the garden, the one talking to the little girl."
Just as Peregrine's gaze located the woman, a plump man bustled up to Lord Ross. As his friend turned to the newcomer, Peregrine studied Lady Sara St. James. At first glance she was a disappointment, for he would have guessed that Weldon would choose a wife of stunning beauty as well as noble birth. Perhaps there were no eligible duke's daughters who were also beautiful.
Ross's cousin was rather small, slim, and simply dressed in a cream-colored gown. Her hair was pulled back over her ears into a demure knot on her neck, and was of a shade Peregrine considered too dark to be called blond. In spite of her cousin's description, she was definitely not a woman to bring a roomful of men to awed attention.
Lady Sara had her arm around the shoulders of a pretty flaxen-haired girl of ten or eleven years. The child glowed with the pleasure of attending an adult party. Turning her face up, she said something that caused the older woman to laugh and give the girl a gentle push toward the refreshment table.
As the child danced off, Lady Sara stepped from under the tree into the sunshine, her face still lit with laughter. And when she did, Peregrine caught his breath, suddenly transfixed.