Jack summoned a smile and thanked the girl, her parents, and escort. Relieved, the parents ushered the small group away.
Alton looked down at Jack. “Should we search?”
Jack grimaced. “For what?” Slowly, assisted by Clarice, he stood. “Whoever it was is indistinguishable from the majority of male guests.”
“If he’s even still present,” Clarice said.
Jack glanced at her. “Oh, he’ll be here. Leaving, doing even that much to draw attention to himself, let alone cutting short his evening’s entertainment, isn’t his style. Especially now he knows that our last chance of identifying him”—he glanced back at the clearing where the garden’s attendants were dealing with the dead body—“just died.”
At Jack’s insistence, Clarice took him back to the Bastion Club.
“Gasthorpe knows how to contact Pringle, and he know
s more about stab wounds than any doctor in London.”
She did as he asked and kept the emotions bubbling inside her carefully suppressed. For the moment. At least until the doctor had pronounced Jack fit enough to withstand them.
At the club, she swallowed her protests, respected their rules, and agreed to wait in the parlor.
Gasthorpe whisked Jack away; noting the majordomo’s unruffled efficiency, Clarice surmised he was used to dealing with peers sporting stab wounds and the like. She humphed and paced the parlor. Dr. Pringle arrived, a sharp-featured gentleman who bowed and assured her that Jack had the constitution of an ox. He also promised to stop by on his way out and inform her of his opinion of Jack’s injury.
Mollified, she sat; when a footman appeared with a tea tray, she was absurdly grateful. She sent her compliments to Gasthorpe and settled to wait.
Upstairs, Jack winced as Pringle probed the wound.
“Clean as a whistle.” Pringle opened his bag and rummaged for bandages. “One benefit of dealing with professional killers.”
Used to Pringle’s graveyard humor, Jack merely grunted. He gripped the edge of the table against which he was leaning and kept his lips shut as Pringle rebathed the wound, smeared it with some unguent, then laid gauze across it before bandaging him up. The bandage had to wind over his shoulder and across his chest, but Pringle was experienced enough to leave him room to move reasonably freely.
Pringle was tying off the bandage when the door opened, and Dalziel walked in. Jack let his surprise show; like him, Dalziel was in evening dress.
Dalziel closed the door behind him, nodded to Pringle, then studied Jack. “There’s a story flashing around the clubs of a gentleman rescuing a fair damsel in a dark walk at the Vauxhall Gala, then the villain being shot dead.” Dalziel raised his brows. “I take it that was you?”
Jack grimaced. “Yes to the first, but I don’t know who shot him.” Concisely, he recounted the events of the last hours. “So in terms of appearance, the last traitor could be you or I. The other detail you can add to his file is that he’s high enough in society to garner vouchers to a Royal Gala. The watch at the gates was strict, entry by voucher only. Our ex-courier-cum-informer couldn’t have got in without one.”
Dalziel nodded. “Duly noted. As to our late friend…” His voice hardened. “I can confirm that he was a Pole, known to have a secret loyalty to Napoleon’s cause. Curtiss and the Admiralty have been watching him for years, but he’s never shown any interest in military secrets, nor has he been traveling. He’s been in London since ’08. Unfortunately, I only learned all that this evening.”
Jack blinked. “So if he had lived, you would have been speaking with him tomorrow morning.”
Dalzeil nodded. “On that you could have safely staked your estate.”
“So he had to die tonight.”
“Indeed. That, I assume, is why he was summoned to the Gala.”
“A place in which he would have imagined he was safe.”
After a moment’s pause, Dalziel mumured, “I fear, like many others, he underestimated his master.”
There was a quality in Dalziel’s voice that made Jack shiver. Even Pringle blinked.
Dalziel shifted, and the sense of menace dissolved. He looked at Jack, then smiled, and turned for the door. “If I were you, Warnefleet, I’d retire to the country forthwith. After this latest act of heroism, you’re going to be at the top of the young ladies’ lists.” At the door, Dalziel looked back, smiled cynically, and saluted him. “And for once, their mothers will agree.”
Jack blinked, stared, then closed his eyes and groaned.
Clarice had heard someone arrive, then heard him leave, but it wasn’t Jack. She couldn’t summon enough interest to look out.
She’d finished her cup of tea and was starting to drum her fingers on the chair arm when she heard two sets of footsteps descending the stairs. A moment later the door opened. Pringle entered, Jack followed.