Chapter One
June, 1810
Colonel Richard Fitzwilliam slumped on a stool before the counter at one of London’s public houses, nursing an ale over a lunch of what the proprietor assured him was steak pie. The establishment in which he sat was not fine. Nor was it disreputable. Mostly, the low-ceilinged, heavily beamed room was middling. As was Richard’s garb and the accent he employed this evening. For, in service of King and Country, he was not away across the sea fighting in the regulars as everyone believed, but rather carrying out his duty in a more clandestine manner right here in London. A role he usually enjoyed but which, of late, had begun to wear somewhat.
This particular evening, he awaited an opportunity to stage a ‘chance meeting’ with a warehouse manager who worked for B.B.B. Shipping & Co. Someone within B.B.B. Shipping & Co. was not simply smuggling in French goods, something the Crown often ignored, but smuggling out English secrets, which could not be. Richard was tasked with learning who, and which members of B.B.B. Shipping & Co. were culpable.
As he pushed back his plate, a young man took the stool beside him. Richard sighed. The man’s middling coat, not flashy or fine but sturdy and well made, the simple knot in his cravat, which implied he had no valet to tie it for him but still wished to appear a gentleman, even his shoes, worn but shined, all echoed the tactics Richard employed to appear quite average.
Shifting to regard his new tablemate, Richard asked, “What does Padgett want?” He kept his voice soft, knowing that the general din of the public house would swallow up his words.
The fellow, over a decade Richard’s junior, blinked in surprise. “How did you know Gen—” He broke off with a grimace. “That is, that Padgett sent me?”
“For one thing, your shoes are too worn.”
“I was told to wear worn-out shoes.” Pique colored the young man’s voice. “Our instructor said new shoes do not fit the role of a moderately successful London merchant, so I bought these off an older fellow with feet about my size.”
“I imagine you did.” Richard tried not to let his amusement show. He’d been new to this game once too. He also didn’t further embarrass the other man by reminding him to speak more softly. Richard’s target had yet to arrive for his daily helping of definitely-not-steak, and no one was paying them any heed. “Which is why those shoes look nearly as old as your, what, twenty years? You must have had quite the nickname, with feet that size when you were barely out of strings.”
The fellow frowned down at his shoes.
“What message do you have for me?” Richard prodded.
“Only that Gener—Er, that is, Padgett wants to see you.”
“Now?” Worry stirred in Richard. Padgett knew he was close to cracking this case. He wouldn’t call Richard in without a good reason.
“He said, ah, yesterday?”
“Is that a question or a statement?”
“It is what he said, sir, and he sounded angry when he said it.”
Nodding, Richard stood. “Seeing as I am already late, I had best be off.” After a moment’s thought, he knocked back the remainder of his ale. For a middling sort of place, they served good drink, and Richard might require the fortification if General Padgett were in one of his moods.
“Do you want me to take over for you, sir?”
Richard stifled his inclination to decline. No one of interest drank or dined around them, and the youth could obviously usesome experience. “I want a description of the garb of everyone in this place, right down to their shoes, on my desk by tomorrow morning. Do I make myself clear?”
Wide-eyed, the man nodded.
“And do not call me sir in a place like this,” Richard added, not quite able to hide his annoyance. What were they teaching new recruits these days?
“Yes, ah…that is…” The still-seated youth floundered.
Richard sighed. “A simple yes will suffice.”
“Yes, sir.”
With a shake of his head, Richard scooped his hat off the counter, making certain not to depart with any alacrity. No one, fortunately, had been near enough to listen in on them, not over the din of the room, but he never knew who might be watching. He’d long ago learned to mitigate the purposeful stride of an officer.
Outside the pub, he donned his hat and permitted a grin. How long would it take the lad to realize that Richard hadn’t asked for his name and didn’t even have a desk? Richard worked in the field, not in General Padgett’s secret headquarters.
Hat tugged low, Richard strode London’s streets, occasionally whistling. He made a show of going through the market as if seeking something, all the while checking about him. No one appeared to follow him. No one showed him any undue interest. Whatever had Padgett worked up enough to send that novice out to find him didn’t appear to have anything to do with Richard’s current assignment.
Nearly an hour later, he entered the firm of Watson, Hastings, and Vane, both a functional establishment and a front for Padgett’s work. The clerk there looked up, his expression blank, as if he did not recognize either the middling level merchant Richard played or Colonel Richard Fitzwilliam, second son to the Earl of Matlock.
“Harold,” Richard greeted. “I have been summoned.”
