“Third door on the left, Colonel.”
Richard nodded, familiar. “He is alone?”
“He is.”
Richard drew in a fortifying breath. “Very well, then.” Few were the people in Richard’s life who possessed the authority to dress him down, but Padgett was one of them. Why Richard required such treatment, he had no notion, but the tone of his summons suggested he must.
He went down the hallway on quiet feet, then knocked softly. There was no need for more. Padgett had the hearing of a bat.
“Enter.”
Trying not to feel like an errant schoolboy called into the headmaster’s office, Richard went in.
Padgett looked up from the papers scattered about his large desk. “Fitzwilliam. Sit.”
Richard closed the door and crossed to the upholstered chair. He wasn’t lulled by the chair’s addition to the room. In his years of reporting to Padgett, Richard had never been able to find rhyme nor reason in when he was asked to sit and when he must remain standing.
“It is good to see that you were where you reported you would be, for once,” Padgett added.
Richard paused in the act of sitting, then, with a frown, resumed his descent into the plush chair. “I beg your pardon, sir?”
“I assume you were at the Cross and Beam, as your last report said you would be, or young Edwards would not have been able to locate you.”
“I was.” Richard studied the compact, painfully tidy man across the desk from him. “But why the, ‘for once?’”
Padgett tapped a closed file. “Did it not occur to you that Mrs. Younge would include your doings in her weekly reports? I donot know which disappoints me more, your neglect of your duty or your lack of subtlety in executing that neglect.”
Richard shook his head. “I honestly have no notion of what you speak, sir.” A quick search through his brain and he added, “I believe Mrs. Younge is my cousin Georgiana’s chaperone?”
“She is.” Padgett watched him through narrowed eyes. “She is also one of ours. You are aware that we do not like to leave the members of England’s most elite houses unprotected?”
“I am perfectly aware, but I still have no notion what Mrs. Younge has to do with me improperly executing my duty.” Did the woman have something to do with the French spy ring? But how? “Is Georgiana not in Ramsgate?”
“You know very well that she is.” Padgett tapped his folder again. “Mrs. Younge has dutifully reported your presence there these past four weeks. One, or even two, trips to Ramsgate would not trouble me. Your mission does not require you to be constantly in London and the man you pretend to be may be expected to travel, but you have featured in nearly every day of Mrs. Younge’s weekly reports on Miss Darcy’s wellbeing. That is unacceptable, Fitzwilliam.”
“I agree, it would be, except that I have not left London in months.”
Padgett stared at him.
Richard stared back.
Padgett’s eyes narrowed further, into dire slits of anger. “Do you expect me to believe that Mrs. Younge, Mr. Darcy, and Miss Darcy have all been fooled by someone pretending to be you? I find that quite impossible to accept.”
Richard did as well. “I have not met Mrs. Younge,” he said, his mind sorting through possibilities. “And I do not believe Darcy has yet gone to Ramsgate. Georgiana is there on her own.” With Mrs. Younge.
Padgett plucked a bell from his desk and rang it. Almost immediately, the door opened to a serious-looking young man. “Bring me the last four weeks of reports on Mr. Fitzwilliam Darcy.”
“Yes, sir.” The man pulled the door closed.
Padgett turned back to Richard. “That still leaves Miss Darcy. Do you feel someone could portray you in a convincing enough manner to fool your cousin?”
Richard shook his head. “I cannot see how.” He only saw his young cousin, over whom he was a co-guardian with Darcy, perhaps once every six months, but she’d known him for the entirety of her fifteen years. Could Mrs. Younge be lying? But to what end?
Unmoving, Padgett continued to regard Richard across the desk, his stony silence calculated to unnerve. Familiar with the gambit, Richard kept his frame relaxed while his mind pored through possibilities.
Finally, a knock broke the tableau. The man who’d stuck his head into the room reappeared to hand Padgett a file. He didn’t even glance at Richard.
Opening the file, Padgett skimmed, rapidly flipping pages. Richard tried not to fidget. If Padgett truly thought Richard had been in Ramsgate, because Mrs. Younge was reporting as much, something was exceedingly wrong. Either someone was convincingly portraying him, or Mrs. Younge was lying. Richard wasn’t certain which would be worse.
