Malcolm inclined his head n
oncommittally. “Chifley also babbled about some woman being in the lane when he rushed out—he, too, assumed she was some doxy assisting the other gang. However”—he waited until his tone brought Henry’s cold gaze back to his face—“if it was the same woman I saw last night, she’s no doxy. She’s of the ton. I can’t put a name to her, but I’ve definitely seen her about this Season.”
Henry’s eyes narrowed; Malcolm could almost hear the thoughts chasing themselves through his brain.
Then Henry’s jaw set. “Go out into the ton—it’s the height of the Season, balls and parties aplenty, and you have the entrée everywhere. Find out who this lady is.” Henry’s eyes grew colder; they gleamed like ice. “Don’t approach her—not in any ballroom. Learn her name, and then we can arrange a private meeting to ask her who she’s working with. I’m sure we’ll be able to convince her to tell us all.”
Henry was clearly relishing the prospect. Malcolm was rather less sure of tangling in any way with the man he’d glimpsed in the alley.
He waited. When Henry said no more, absorbed in considering some scene Malcolm had no real wish to see, he dutifully inclined his head. “I’ll start quartering the ton tonight.”
Henry came to himself, glowered, then nodded curtly and reopened the dispatch box. “Tell me the instant you learn who she is.”
“He’s coming here?” Tristan raised his brows high. “Well, well—he is keen.”
Phoebe considered the look on Tristan’s face, then Christian’s; guessing what she was thinking, Deverell explained, “Our ex-commander is very much a law unto himself.”
“Whoever his self may be.” Gervase caught Phoebe’s eye. “He goes by the name of Dalziel, but that isn’t his true name. What his real name is and why he’s kept it a secret is a mystery we’re collectively determined to solve.”
Christian and Tristan had arrived early; Gervase hadn’t bothered going out. The three had been waiting in the library, relaxed in armchairs with glasses of brandy in hand, when Deverell had ushered Phoebe into the room.
The others had come to their feet with alacrity; they’d beamed and lined up to be introduced. No hint of censure regarding Deverell’s cavalier dismissal of their no-female-except-in-the-front-parlor rule had surfaced, not even via a look. Once they’d all settled again, Phoebe in the armchair at the focal point of the room with a glass of the finest amontillado in her hand, the others flanking her in a rough circle, Deverell had found himself glad that there were still ten minutes to the hour, leaving him time to reassure Phoebe over Dalziel.
“Some weeks ago, we learned his real first name was Royce,” Christian said, “but unfortunately that doesn’t get us far. We’re not sure if it’s his first first name, or his third or even fourth—or even a formal given name at all, come to that.”
“We did learn that Lady Osbaldestone and at least two of the other grande dames know him in his real guise.” Deverell picked up the tale. “But although we tried our best to interrogate—and when that didn’t work, wheedle, trap, or in any other way coerce the information from—said ladies, we learned nothing beyond that they also know the reason he keeps his identity a secret.”
“So,” Tristan said, “beyond the name he actually goes by, he remains as big a mystery as ever.”
Phoebe smiled. “I imagine that’s one mystery none of you can let be.”
They all paused, considered, then shook their heads.
“He knows all our secrets,” Gervase said. “Only fair we should know his. Apropos of that”—he looked at Deverell—“is there any specific connection between your game and his obsession? Is that why he’s so eager?”
“Highly unlikely,” Deverell said. He’d already given Phoebe a potted history of Dalziel’s last traitor. “I think the reason for his interest is more that he’s frustrated and restless with no enemy to sink his teeth into, so he’s perfectly happy to turn his attention to my game, and sink his teeth into my enemy instead.”
The others chuckled.
Christian nodded. “Yes, I can imagine that.”
“One thing that did occur to me,” Deverell said, “was that if we needed further proof that whatever he did during the war he didn’t spend the entire time behind his desk, his present reaction provides it. If he’d been nothing more than a pen-pusher, he wouldn’t be feeling inactivity pinching now.”
The other three nodded sagely.
In the distance, they heard a peremptory knock fall on the front door.
At the same instant, the clock on the mantelpiece chimed the hour.
Phoebe waited, eyes on the door. When it opened, and the club’s majordomo bowed the visitor in, she fully expected to be somewhat disappointed; after all the talk of mystery and menace, she didn’t truly believe their ex-commander could live up to the picture they’d painted.
One glance told her she’d been wrong.
He was more—much more—than they’d led her to believe.
She watched the other four rise and go forward to meet him, to shake his hand and exchange greetings. She didn’t bother listening to their words beyond registering that although his voice was like theirs, deep and well-modulated, his tone always held an edge—a warning that words and tone could slice; more than the others, he used his voice as a weapon.
Outwardly, he was superficially one with the others—immaculately turned out in coat, waistcoat, breeches and boots, with a perfectly tied cravat; his hair was dark—sable brown—while his features bore the unmistakable stamp of their shared Norman ancestors.